I’m in so much pain. Mom’s in the room. Her trying to cheer me up is bumfucking ineffectual.

She says it’s improving.

How does that make me feel better. She’s wrong.

I can’t do anything and the depression is so bad that I’m IN PAIN. Don’t you get it? I hurt! For no reason!

This is insane.

Medicine is shit. No one cane help me and I judge them for it.

I’m surprised, or I was at first, that doctors couldn’t help me. I thought they would just prescribe me an SSRI. But that gave me panic attacks. We haven’t tried a small dose yet. But we’re trying a small dose of depakote, a bipolar medication.

One pill = a month.

So yeah. Speedy process.

I write poetry. Why can’t I make friends through that?

And I should be careful. I’m expecting perfect, deep connections right off the bat. Relationships grow. They aren’t instantaneous. I haven’t been in any so long, I forgot that.

I just hate my mom for being so naive about all this.

And the doctors for being incapable.

And the greater public for not being friends with me.

I realize some of these words don’t make sense.

But do I have to write a legal contract out every time I post something?

Ugh.

Nothing to do. Again. Nothing but being hyper-aware of my pain and suffering, for another good 16 hours.

Yeahp. Wakefulness.

Magnificent.

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