I just don't want to feel like this anymore.
I'd say "I'm not myself right now," except that I can't even remember who I am, or was. My personality seems to have been swallowed up in this thick, stagnant pool of negative emotion. I don't even have the energy to put myself down. I'm utterly depleted of any desire to be, or to do, anything. I am forcing myself to write this entry because it was suggested I do so by the nice lady on the suicide hotline. She told me to write about all the things that are contributing to my mood. I'd have told her to go to hell, but journaling has helped me in the past, so I am giving it a shot.
I got sick on Tuesday. It's Saturday now. As far as my mind is concerned, though, I have always been sick, and I will never get better. I will feel like this until I die. It makes dying not seem so bad. It has little to do with the flu symptoms themselves, it's the extreme depression and anxiety that has taken hold in the meantime. For two days I have been either teetering on the cusp of a panic attack or drowning in depression. It feels like I've been giving a Dementor a blowjob.
Matt took me to the hospital on Thursday after I'd suffered extreme body aches for 2 days and developed a painful, racking cough. My fever fluctuated between 100-102, which is saying something, because I'm normally a cool 97.6. It was determined (by use of an extremely uncomfortable nasal swab) that I'd contracted Influenza B, the only "B" they'd seen all season. Whee, I'm special. I got a flu only humans, ferrets and seals can contract.
They had mentioned the possibility of pneumonia in the ER, but I'd refused the chest X-ray because I couldn't afford it. They didn't push, so they must not have had a strong suspicion, but I couldn't get that out of my head. I kept thinking about how both of my grandparents had wasted away in hospital beds with chest tubes and oxygen masks. It became a downward-spiral of paranoia that grew to include my convincing myself I'd OD'd on cough syrup and had to keep myself awake so I wouldn't die.
There are several exacerbating factors here. First, nobody wants to hang out with someone who's contagious, and of course, being alone makes my depression worse. Second, I can't smoke. That might sound like a good thing, but going off nicotine cold-turkey in the midst of another crisis isn't a brilliant idea. Third, wildly fluctuating sleep patterns and irregular eating habits aren't doing me any favors.
So the festering boil of all the emotions I've been stuffing for the last eight months or so finally decided to burst. Why did I ever leave Kent? It seemed like a good idea at the time. Why did I take a job I knew I wouldn't be able to keep? It seemed like a good idea at the time. I moved in with JD and Dawn, and I love them, but they want their own space as a couple now, so it was time for me to move out. I suppose I'm done pretending it doesn't hurt. I had always imagined it would be me and JD having a life together, but in the end, he stayed with the girl who could provide for him. I can still barely provide for myself, so there was no way in hell we were going to end up together.
But as much as it hurts, I miss them. I went from living with good friends I know well to living with a friend I hadn't talked to in 10 years and his other housemate. Frankly, Matt's housemate makes me really nervous. I don't like being alone in the house with that guy.
And then there was Seattle. It was supposed to be an amazingly fun birthday extravaganza, and I was going to meet the love of my life and live happily ever after. Instead, I was sick for much of the trip with a throat infection, and "happily ever after" turned out to be nothing but fucking smoke and mirrors. It's my own fault, of course. I never should have tried to intervene with magic. So I deserved what I got. It doesn't mean it hurts any less, or leaves any smaller a wound.
Right now I am directionless and out of ideas, and my bronchi are full of phlegm. Right now, I am having a hard time seeing the good in life. The lady on the phone said that's because my brain is depleted of neurotransmitters because of all the stress and infection. I think it's just because my life sucks a lot right now, and there really isn't much for it.
I got sick on Tuesday. It's Saturday now. As far as my mind is concerned, though, I have always been sick, and I will never get better. I will feel like this until I die. It makes dying not seem so bad. It has little to do with the flu symptoms themselves, it's the extreme depression and anxiety that has taken hold in the meantime. For two days I have been either teetering on the cusp of a panic attack or drowning in depression. It feels like I've been giving a Dementor a blowjob.
Matt took me to the hospital on Thursday after I'd suffered extreme body aches for 2 days and developed a painful, racking cough. My fever fluctuated between 100-102, which is saying something, because I'm normally a cool 97.6. It was determined (by use of an extremely uncomfortable nasal swab) that I'd contracted Influenza B, the only "B" they'd seen all season. Whee, I'm special. I got a flu only humans, ferrets and seals can contract.
They had mentioned the possibility of pneumonia in the ER, but I'd refused the chest X-ray because I couldn't afford it. They didn't push, so they must not have had a strong suspicion, but I couldn't get that out of my head. I kept thinking about how both of my grandparents had wasted away in hospital beds with chest tubes and oxygen masks. It became a downward-spiral of paranoia that grew to include my convincing myself I'd OD'd on cough syrup and had to keep myself awake so I wouldn't die.
There are several exacerbating factors here. First, nobody wants to hang out with someone who's contagious, and of course, being alone makes my depression worse. Second, I can't smoke. That might sound like a good thing, but going off nicotine cold-turkey in the midst of another crisis isn't a brilliant idea. Third, wildly fluctuating sleep patterns and irregular eating habits aren't doing me any favors.
So the festering boil of all the emotions I've been stuffing for the last eight months or so finally decided to burst. Why did I ever leave Kent? It seemed like a good idea at the time. Why did I take a job I knew I wouldn't be able to keep? It seemed like a good idea at the time. I moved in with JD and Dawn, and I love them, but they want their own space as a couple now, so it was time for me to move out. I suppose I'm done pretending it doesn't hurt. I had always imagined it would be me and JD having a life together, but in the end, he stayed with the girl who could provide for him. I can still barely provide for myself, so there was no way in hell we were going to end up together.
But as much as it hurts, I miss them. I went from living with good friends I know well to living with a friend I hadn't talked to in 10 years and his other housemate. Frankly, Matt's housemate makes me really nervous. I don't like being alone in the house with that guy.
And then there was Seattle. It was supposed to be an amazingly fun birthday extravaganza, and I was going to meet the love of my life and live happily ever after. Instead, I was sick for much of the trip with a throat infection, and "happily ever after" turned out to be nothing but fucking smoke and mirrors. It's my own fault, of course. I never should have tried to intervene with magic. So I deserved what I got. It doesn't mean it hurts any less, or leaves any smaller a wound.
Right now I am directionless and out of ideas, and my bronchi are full of phlegm. Right now, I am having a hard time seeing the good in life. The lady on the phone said that's because my brain is depleted of neurotransmitters because of all the stress and infection. I think it's just because my life sucks a lot right now, and there really isn't much for it.