Missing the smallest things.

I’m so fucking lonely. I left work early, by an hour and a half, because there was a thunderstorm coming and I just couldn’t think.

I told my psychiatrist that it’s been hard to shower, which is always kind of a little sign for me that shit is hitting the bricks, and that it’s hard to concentrate at work.

He is on vacation for the next two weeks, as is my family, so it would be the perfect fucking time to commit suicide except that I’m not suicidal. I don’t think I have anything to live for, but I’m not in the headspace where I can just off myself.

I didn’t take my meds last night or this morning, and I’m so tempted to just stop taking them until I feel shitty enough to do it, but I’m pretty sure that would lead to withdrawal symptoms and totally stopping functioning at work faster than I would actually arrive at the end game, and then I just will have fucked everything up.

I’m basically waiting until this winter, when I really think that I’m going to get depressed again, and I’m going to get depressed enough to do it. Certainly lonely enough to do it.

It’s now been 3 1/2 years since I’ve had a significant other. Or anything beyond a first and last quick coffee date with a handshake or a quick A-frame hug at the end. I’ve booked a professional cuddler for four months from now, if I actually managed to make a trip 4 months from now. It’s barely 4 months since I got out of the hospital, and I can’t imagine another four full months until I have something to look forward to. And then after those two days, then what?

I imagine what kind of conversations people in the other apartments in my building are having. Just “hi, how was your day?” Or asking by text if they could pick up milk on the way home from work. Or just sitting on the couch and cuddling. I miss that so badly it’s making me tear up to think about it.

My entire human contact is going to work in the morning, and I say good morning, and my officemates say how are you and I say fine, how are you? And they say fine. And then at the end of the day they pack up their stuff and say see you tomorrow, and I say OK, have a good night! And then I come home. Alone. To an empty house. An empty couch. An empty bed.

There’s no real reason to have hopes that that will change. All of my Facebook friends and acquaintances and people at work too, who had broken up with or divorced their partners have found new partners now. Like, solid new partners and have been married for years, or moved in together, or are buying a house together. I literally don’t know anyone who’s been alone for four years by choice.

If there something about me that makes me unattractive or unlikable, I can’t change it now. I see women who are fatter than me, poorer than me, less educated than me, it doesn’t matter.

I mean, I have the occasional coffee or a phone date or Skype date with an old friend where I actually feel like a human, and somebody recognizes that I exist, but then on the day-to-day I just feel, I don’t know, like I’d be better off dead.

So then I come around to how I don’t want to live another four months like this. I certainly can’t live another four decades like this. So if I’m sad enough to think about stopping taking my medication so that I can be sad enough to actually do it, does that mean I am actually suicidal even though I’m not suicidal enough to commit suicide?

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