Dear Diary or Whatever

I sought the help of another doctor. She couldn't help. She tried. Mostly she ended up trying to help me find someone else who might help. One of them said that,  on top of everything else,  I'm probably depressed. A stranger who has never met me has made this diagnosis based just on my medical history. Not on my actual files or treatments,  but just based on what I told the other doctor.

I fight tooth and nail not to be depressed. I'd rather be angry. And yeah,  I know that's fighting chemistry,  but I don't care. It's fight or die. So I stick with angry. I'll complain adamantly about a broken smoke detector. Am I Ms. Fire Safety?  No. But it's a problem,  and one that I might be able to fix. I can't fix my own body. I can't seem to find a doctor or a drug to improve my quality of life. But I can raise hell over a smoke detector.

Dear Diary or Whatever... I did something dumb today. Just after six pm,  I took my meds. My alarm had gone off,  so as soon as I could get to them,  I did them. I didn't think it through. I was like a robot. I did it with less thought than flicking off a light switch.
I didn't eat first.
And then I had to take my mom to run errands. And I quickly paid for not having food in my stomach. Oh God,  I paid. I wanted to run into traffic. I wanted to bury myself in a snow bank. But,  most of all,  I wanted to go back to sleep. I wasn't tired. But it hurt. It hurt so much. It took me an hour to eat 6 pieces of sushi, once I finally was able to sit and eat,  which was 3 hours later. I forced myself to stay up for another hour. Okay,  45 minutes. I couldn't take it anymore. I passed out.

I didn't think. I failed to plan. I know the consequences and have no one to blame but myself. And I had to write this somewhere. I don't know why.

I'm glad I don't hang out with any mind readers. They'd hear me screaming in my head. They'd know the truth.

I'm not depressed. I'm angry and I'm in pain. And I've lost nearly all hope that it'll be okay,  or better,  or not worse.

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