deza | (no subject)

I am... not doing so very well.

The rug was pulled out from under my feet yesterday. I've told myself for years now that I'm ok, I've got it together, I can get through anything. Yesterday I found out that I'm mentally messed up enough to count as disabled on just that.

Well, that explains my writing, at least.

This has thrown me for a serious loop. I'm not ok. I'm not completely sane. I'm not even coping so well. Going through even a fraction of my past left me crying for hours afterward. Today, I'm emotionally spent. I've been crying off an on again, but for the most part I just feel dead inside. Andrew's tried to cheer me up, but his brand of morbid humor's been missing the mark on this. A for effort, though.

Gods, now I sound like the original Emo.

The psychologist asked if I'm suicidal. I said no, because suicide would keep my family from getting as much of a death benefit. I'm alive, but not for the right reasons.

This post brought to you be the letters W, A, and H.

Hopefully I'll be back to my normal self soon.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If this is normal, I'm scared. Really. I know I'm at a low, even for me, and it's intimidating that the only thing that keeps me from downing the nearly-full bottle of Ambien is not being quite selfish enough to hurt my kids that way. I'm pretty sure in the long run it would be a blessing for my husband, not to be burdened with me any more.

Please don't think like that. Everybody needs a hand sometimes, it's nothing you have to feel bad about. When I was going through chemo my eleven-year-old daughter had to take care of me and her two-year-old brother. It isn't something I would have wished on her either, but we all made it through. You will too.