I keep putting myself into contests that I can't win. I see it now. I am setting myself up for failure. And then I sulk in it. But what I am really trying to do, is to see if my paranoia is real. If my depression is justified. To see if I have the right to be depressed.
I was tasked with finding myself a new desk for my new office. I picked out a very nice, hard wood desk and sent the quote to my boss. She called and asked if I "was serious". I think that I work pretty hard here, and my skills are valuable. And I have been at the company for going on seven years. But I was quickly put in my place. And at the time I was already in that place of worthlessness. It didn't even seem to hurt. I was so detached, it all rolled over me.
This morning was your day off. And I knew you would spend the morning in bed with your toys. I want so bad to be the one to satisfy you. And maybe it's foolish of me to think that I can't satisfy you or that you don't want it. So I offered myself to you for a lunchtime date. You declined, and told me that you had some housework to do which I knew was bullshit. But hell, look at me. I am a mess. I wouldn't want to have sex with me either. And so I told you that in a text. And you invited me out for a noontime date. But I get it. It's because you feel bad for me now. Because I have tried to initiate sex with you for days, and you have declined. Not because you want me there. I am just a pity fuck. But I need you so badly right now that I will accept this pitiful offer. Is that wrong?
Yesterday I drove to the post office and bought a postcard with some change from my car. I wrote an excerpt from my blog onto it, and then I mailed it to a website where it will be anonymously displayed. It thought it would feel good doing it. Because I felt like I was letting go of that haunting thought in my brain. But I felt sick writing it and doodling on it. It was a long walk to the mailbox. And when I dropped it in, nothing changed. I expected that I would feel better. But it just worsened my mood.
I barely ate yesterday. I put food into my mouth and it tastes rotten and I just want to spit it out. I slowly ate a few pieces of pizza last night because I felt like I had to. I had to look normal to my family, and my body was getting weak. This morning I stepped onto the scale and could see that I had lost another five pounds. The fat continues to roll away, and I am not sorry about that. But even my face seems narrower all of a sudden and I don't know what I am becoming. This morning I took a trip up six flights of stairs. Because I feel like I am wasting away, and I don't want to be one of those people that collapse out of dehydration and starvation. It was a test. And while it was a hard trip up those stairs, I did it. I was fine. And it was even a little easier than in months past thanks to that weight I shed.
Yesterday I called my doctor to make sure that I still have an appointment for next week. Maybe I should have moved it up. Because I feel like I am dire need of some sort of antidepressant, ASAP. Although, my paranoia doesn't want me to take the meds. If this is reality, what good am I really doing by taking happy pills? I'm still the same person. Nothing changes. My brain just stops sending me signals to remind me of what I am and what I have become. And then every fleeting moment of bliss will be followed by my brain asking, "am I only enjoying myself because of the medication"?
And now it's lunchtime. And I feel like I should be eating something, even though I have no desire to. I obviously need food. My body is weak, and my brain is starting to malfunction (does someone have a radio on?). Maybe I should get a case of that stuff that old people take so that their skin doesn't fall off and their bones don't shatter.
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