I started taking my meds again. Actually, Andrea and I made a deal. I was incredibly suicidal for a few days, and had an active plan. The deal was I either start taking them or she was taking my to the hospital. I agreed to take them for a week to see if I felt any better.
Truthfully? I'm not actively suicidal like I was, which I guess was the goal. But am I any happier? no. I pretty much live in a state of unhappy depression all of the time. Except when I smoke weed. Which I'm doing now. But it's all a fake escape. It's not real. The weed floods my brain with feel good chemicals. The prescriptions just do it slower. It's fake. But fake is, I guess, what everyone wants. Fake is easier. Fake is less worrisome.
Andrea asked if I had considered applying for disability again. I can remember that I was denied, but couldn't remember why. Apparently it was because I was trying ECT, and that would probably help so I wasn't seen as being that disabled. Some good ECT did. Just made me forget all the important things, and made me stupider. Here's the thing though. If I apply and am approved for CPP, then I can't work anymore. Which means staying home. I can't do the at home thing anymore. I suck at it. I don't enjoy it. I feel guilty all the time because I'm not even half the homemaker Andrea is. I need to work, otherwise I will sit at home on the couch and do nothing all day. However, I am nowhere near stable enough to hold down a full time job. I know this about myself. (The fact that right now I have to get one because we desperately need the money is so daunting). I'll end up being fired, or in the hospital, or something. I'm not reliable. I'm not motivated.
I'm essentially useless.
I can't stay home. I can't go to work. I can't do anything. I honestly don't know what the point in me being alive is. I try not to think about this fact too often because it's enough all on it's own to push me over the proverbial (or not so proverbial) edge. I don't know what to do with myself. I wish I had a purpose. I wish I was capable of being good at something. I wish I wish I wish. Truth is, wishing gets you no where, it's the doing that gets you places, and I can't do anything.
I applied for a total of like 16 jobs. Had a few interviews. Got none of them. Save for one that I got a training shift at and then decided I was too above it. That was a stupid move. Even a crappy minimum wage bussing job is better than no job at all.
I'm a failure. I'm failing at working. Failing at being a homemaker. Failing at being a mom. Failing at being a wife. Failing at pretty much everything. The only times I feel good are when it's inorganically induced.
I hate that I'm too much of a coward to do anything about it right now.