Poison

March 6 2010

Waves of it. As soon as I wake up, after the bad dreams, knocking me back down again. The numb dumb kind of depression may swallow up days and dreams and hope and thoughts and leave a wasteland in their place, but it has at least a kind of peace to it. Not like this. This is hideous, skin-crawling badness, this is horror, this is impossible to bear.

People say that since I'm still managing to do x and y things can't be that bad. What they don't understand is the strength of my sense of moral obligation. I will honour my commitments until the day I truly can't, and that will be the day I die.

Everyone is fed up with me. I can feel it, and I agree with it. I am fed up with me too. There is nowhere to turn that doesn't reflect back my self-disgust and sense of shame. Any thought or move I might make towards help is shown to be evidence of my evil nature, impossible and wrong.

I feel trapped, walled in, boxed in. At the same time I feel far out and far away, far from the normal realms of experience, distant from the rest of humanity, beyond reach or touch or hope.