Britney

I find myself disappointed in things that should make me want to live. I’m unappreciative of my girlfriend, of conversations with people who I often find comfort in, of the fact that I finally have a therapist. My guardian tells me that being angry at myself for feelings I can’t control will only worsen the depression that I try to suffocate with fluoxetine and weekly trips to the hospital. This is true, but my acknowledgement of this does me no good. I still feel too anxious to sit for a full class period or do homework, too sad to talk to my girlfriend or get out of bed to make a cup of coffee. I try to pull myself out of these episodes of wanting to melt into my bedsheets and never speak to anyone again, but they always seem to come back, and stronger each time. My thought process is as muddled as my emotions. ♦