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Down in Vancouver

January 12, 2018

Jan 2.

@Mr. Canada’s in Vancouver

I’m having yet another bad depression episode. Mr. Canada is in the kitchen trying to cheer me up. I don’t want to look up at him. He’s cooking and dancing and being silly, hoping to make me laugh. I don’t want to laugh. It hurts to be alive. I don’t know how to be around him like this. I’m just trying not to cry.

Last night I lay in his bed facing the wall fantasizing that I would die during the night like maybe my heart might explode or an intruder would come in and shoot me in the head and twice in the chest for good measure. With one of those long silencers like in the movies. And that would be that. I imagined all the consequences, which would be very different than if I killed myself. I mean the absence would be the same, but it would seen differently by my friends and family.

Mr. C could handle it, I think. He’s told me about losing one of his best friends in a combat zone, (I forget where), his body turning into pink mist by a land mine, he said. And he carried on. He would, of course be a suspect of the assination but ballistics would prove him innocent. As for everyone else, I would just be gone. Murdered or died in my sleep. Nothing anyone could do about it. No one to blame. I mean except the assassin.

They would survive, right? Shawn would move to Atlanta and Mr. K would take care of him. And he’s all nice now. He’s chill and kind now. I wonder if he wonders how I am. I wonder how he would feel if he found out that he was right. Would he feel justified? Would he feel any sense of justice knowing that everything he thought all those years, that I was lazy, untalented, undisciplined, lacking ambition and an overall complete disappointment and failure….a burden…….was right on the nose? And he turned out to be successful. Six figures. New girlfriend; a successful, wealthy girlfriend with a big apartment. They went to Paris.


Mr. K went to Paris.

I just need permission to go away, you know. I need the consequences to be removed. Lori. She’s so strong and so amazing but she’s also fragile and emotional. It’s not that I think she needs me too much. It’s that the loss of her mom would be traumatic. Then again, I survived the loss of my mom.


Sigh. Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything. I can’t do anything. As often as I imagine my life ending, the consequences to my children remain my primary reason for not giving up just yet.

Besides, most people who suffer from depression think about these things too. It’s not as alarming as it seems.


But I’m just so fucking tired of it all. Tired of the disappointments. (I got turned down for a job that was perfect for me.) I’m tired of feeling lost. I’m tired of the crippling thoughts that invade my mind, relentlessly dragging me into the rabbit hole. I’m tired of the heavy sadness that seems to take up more and more of my life. I’m beginning to think that despair is the baseline of my existence and feeling happy or normal is the aberration. I think I might forget what it feels like, to be ok. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of protecting everyone around me. Of hiding what’s really going on in my head. Of putting up a good front and being what I think everyone needs me to be. I’m terrified of telling anyone what’s really going on inside. Because they can’t do anything about it. Nobody can fix me.

I just need a break. I need something good to happen. I feel like I’ve lost my dignity. I want to be strong and independent. I want to be successful. I want to pay my bills.

Instead, I feel like life is a college class that I thought I would excel in, but I’m failing. And I want to drop it so I don’t have to face the F that’s coming to me.


At the same time, there’s the guilt. I feel guilty for even feeling this way. I feel guilty when I see a homeless person pushing a cart down the street and the tent cities under the bridges. I have friends and family and a place to live and a boyfriend who’s ready and willing to take me in. There’s always someone worse. I should be grateful.

I don’t know why I’m like this. I don’t know why I can’t make something of myself.

I wish I was someone else.



From → Rantings

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