Yesterday, I tried to convince myself of my worthlessness. I almost did, too. Instead, I cried for a pathetic, 66-year-old who does not know why she lives. The "D" word enters my mind more often.
The episode yesterday began with a phone call to go eat out. I said no. The snow and single digit temperature helped determine my answer. After I hung up the phone, the doubt, loathing and fear began. I felt guilt because I said no. I wondered if I would ever get another invitation. Instead of burrowing into the covers and taking a nap, I worked myself into a soggy mess.
I know I need help and hope I can find me in the process.
This waiting a month for a face-to-face visit with, yes, a helper, and oh, here try these pills, seems inexcusable in our country. But that scenario plays out across the U.S. far too often. Cases of mental illness far outnumber psychiatrists. Doctors throw pills at patients while trying to keep up with more than they can help.
In two weeks, with some help, I will try to find me.
Miss you, Dude.
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