When I said in an earlier post that I had reached the end of my journey, that may have been an exaggeration. I’m still alive, despite the pain that brings, so I still have plenty to discover about myself.
I may not like myself, or my situation, but that doesn’t mean I get to look away from myself. I don’t really know what I’m trying to say. All I know is that I can’t run away from myself. There’s no guarantee that I’ll get better by doing this. But at the very least, I want to know why I am this way. Haywire chemicals and damaged cells can’t explain away everything. Or maybe I’m just afraid of the answer really being that simple.
Now that I’m back to posting there will be some changes. I don’t think I can keep writing about the things that intrigue me. Or maybe there will still be some posts like that, I can’t be sure. Instead, I think it is far more important to keep an objective-as-possible record of my psyche.
I have come to the end of my journey. That does not mean I have accomplished some great feat, it means I have given up. I have tried for so long to look for some ray of hope to bask in; something, anything, to keep me alive. I gave up that search.
In the six years since my breakdown I have fallen deeper and deeper into this hole called mental illness. The anxiety, the depression, the paranoia, none of it has dissipated. In fact, it has gotten worse. The medicines they give me don’t work; the therapist I see repeats the same pointless bullshit every visit. My family expects me to move on as if nothing were the matter. The doctors just glance over me, no encouragement.
I have no hope for my future and I have finally started accepting that simple, unavoidable fact. There is nothing for me here. There is nothing for me anywhere.
This is not a suicide note or a cry for help. I have every intention of living. I’ll just be living side by side with this unerring nothingness to guide me.