this bitter pill is just what you deserve
I said, "fuck this, I'm going to fight it the only way I know how." Well, perhaps its not the only way, but it's the best of my available options, the lesser-of-several-evils.
And then, I wonder, "what is wrong with all this again?" I have to question. My old notebooks are filled with reminders, places where I've written, clear as a handwriting tutorial, "This is the answer. Just stick with it." So few, so few reminders of why this isn't the answer, this can't be.
It works for me because I've never learned the lesson, the moral of the story. Slow and steady has never worked for me. I consume myself in short efforts. They are all I can muster. And somehow the shortest, most effective effort of all is opening a bottle of little brown capsules. There are days when I can't make it, when I remember why I shouldn't, but the days I do are filled with sunshine. That small and feeble gesturei s expanded, or perhaps time shortened, that I might preserve my momentary determination through hours, days, or weeks.
Try explaining to a counselor why this puts me in a slightly better place, by definition. Try explaining to a psychiatrist that, no, my anxiety level drops, at least with the first dose, because my brain is too busy to worry. Try explaining to anyone who doesn't understand that if only I could live my life this way, I could be happy.
Try explaining to myself that I'm not really just being self-destructive.
And then, I wonder, "what is wrong with all this again?" I have to question. My old notebooks are filled with reminders, places where I've written, clear as a handwriting tutorial, "This is the answer. Just stick with it." So few, so few reminders of why this isn't the answer, this can't be.
It works for me because I've never learned the lesson, the moral of the story. Slow and steady has never worked for me. I consume myself in short efforts. They are all I can muster. And somehow the shortest, most effective effort of all is opening a bottle of little brown capsules. There are days when I can't make it, when I remember why I shouldn't, but the days I do are filled with sunshine. That small and feeble gesturei s expanded, or perhaps time shortened, that I might preserve my momentary determination through hours, days, or weeks.
Try explaining to a counselor why this puts me in a slightly better place, by definition. Try explaining to a psychiatrist that, no, my anxiety level drops, at least with the first dose, because my brain is too busy to worry. Try explaining to anyone who doesn't understand that if only I could live my life this way, I could be happy.
Try explaining to myself that I'm not really just being self-destructive.