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