I wish I felt well.
I wish I felt like my life was worth living. Right now, as I sit in my car, I do not.
I am 30 weeks pregnant and feel alone. All my projects have gone nowhere and are worth nothing. This is what it feels like again to not be medicated and living with my actual brain.
I fucking hate it. I hate myself and I miss my drugs. If I wasn't so worried what it would do to baby Eddie, I'd go home right now and take five Lexapro to kick start feeling better again.
I touched up my fanfiction and couldn't stop fiddling. Suddenly my character was an abuse victim, like me. Suddenly he had self-harm scars and died in his lover's arms. And then I kept writing. I wrote a full-length, contemporary novel of their story in three weeks. I've been fiddling with it for two months. I hate it. It's awful. Nobody likes it. But why are they still banging on the door in my head if I'm no good at telling their story?
Writing is yet another thing I am no good at. I don't even know why I try to be creative anymore. I used to think I was a woman of many talents. Now, I'm just a loser jack-of-all-trades who knows a little bit about a lot of shit nobody cares about.
So I sit in my car, trying to breathe through my stuffed nose, and pound my temples for day 4 of this neverending migraine. I filled out paperwork for a new therapist yesterday. That first appointment can't come fast enough.
I'm a burden on those I love, and myself. I'm not suicidal and never have been.
But I get it. I see why Mom did what she did.
I could never do it. I'm not brave enough. But I wish my brain would shut up long enough so I could give up these projects for a while instead of being left feeling like I have a million half-baked projects and no direction.
I'm a mess.
I wish I felt well.
