Giving up poor support.

I talked to Beth, briefly, for the  first time in a couple of weeks.  I told her how I had broken down in front of my boss before my week off, and he had asked me to establish a safety contract. She said Oh! A ha ha ha ha!

What the fuck is funny about that? I feel like she doesn’t take depression seriously, she doesn’t take me seriously, and much as I get lonely or appreciate having long-standing relationships, it’s just not worth talking to her anymore.

“Life’s just hard” is not the problem

I’m feeling kind of stressed.  I tried to do some work today and I couldn’t really concentrate. I just really couldn’t focus, there’s no other way to put it. Tomorrow is the memorial service for my friend who died, and I’m meeting a mutual friend  before for coffee, so we can go together.  So that’s pretty much going to take up the day, then Tuesday is ketamine and the psychiatrist appointment.  So now we’re into Wednesday before I really get a chance to take a crack at some work, and I’m feeling worried about it. Knowing that I don’t have any time off, that there’s only EI, it’s making me really really stressed about my ability to keep working just because I know that safety net isn’t there.

I tried talking to Beth,  about how I didn’t feel like there been anything worth living for since January, and it seems stupid to live three more months for a concert, and if Chester Bennington killed himself then what hope is there for me? Somehow Beth turned it into “life is hard! Life’s just hard for everyone!” and didn’t seem to hear what I was saying at all. Which shouldn’t surprise me, because I know that’s the kind of thing she says, but she’s also somebody who will lend a listening ear on short notice, so it’s kind of a beggars can’t be choosers thing.

Yes, I know everybody has to get up and go to work every day and pay our bills and do our chores and then a lot of life is a grind. And that everybody else has also done this since January. But not everybody else is in the headspace where they feel like nothing at all has been enjoyable, and it’s all been a waste of time, and they would’ve been better off dying in January. My depression isn’t just the result of some kind of fucked up expectation that I have that life is easy peasy.

I sent her a couple snippets from brochures about depression and ketamine, emphasizing how it’s pretty much reserved for severe depression that’s treatment resistant but I don’t think it will do any good. It’s so frustrating. How can I have failed to get anything across about being depressed for fucksakes?


I read this today:

And it made me wish that people I’ve known had that decency. One gal who I’ve known for over a decade became married and successful… we were hanging out less often, and I was clear about how I was unemployed and depressed and everything else, but made a real effort to try and be perky and take an interest in her life and ask about things she mentioned previously when we got together. At one point I straight up said that I appreciated her getting together with me, because I’ve been really isolated. She said that she wasn’t really sure whether to reach out or not when she know I’ve been depressed, and I said that I would always appreciate the effort.

We went for coffee last spring and she said that she’d like to get together again (i.e. Have time to get together again) around the end of the summer, so would get in touch with me in August. August came and went. This April came and went. I sent her an email a couple of weeks ago with a workshop notice I had received from a mailing list, and a quick note saying that I thought she might be interested in this, and hoped she was doing well.

Nothing. Nada. Now it’s been three weeks, I think, and then she didn’t even reply saying thanks for sending this my way, I’m super busy but nice to hear from you, or anything. So I pretty obviously have to chop her off the friends list. Or the acquaintances list, which is probably more accurate.

I’m trying to feel OK with it. I realize that it’s more a thing of familiarity than us having been super close. I have re-connected with a friend from University, who I haven’t seen in a decade, and we’ve had several two or three our phone date or the time just flies and there’s no problem finding things to talk about and I laugh so hard I think I’m going to pee myself. Time with the ghosting acquaintance didn’t feel like that, so it should be easier to let it go, but I still feel vaguely hurt about it.

Then there’s my friend who would rather do drugs than being my friend. I’ve known her for literally over 20 years. And yes, I used to get high all the time when I was in my early 20s. And heck, lately I’ve been getting high more and it seems to be good for my mental health. So it’s not like I have any judgement against that. It’s just that sometime ago, I had messaged her to see if she wanted to get together, when I was visiting the town she lives in and staying with my parents. I asked her if she wanted to go out for coffee, because even if I didn’t partake I didn’t want to get hot boxed and have to go back to my parents house with my clothes reeking of pot smoke. She pretty much straight up said no, that she wanted to go home and get high and that I was welcome to come over, but she wasn’t going to go out somewhere that didn’t involve sitting home and getting high to see me.

So, okayyy I guess… then she moved, to a city that I could potentially have a connecting flight in for the Depeche Mode concert. So I messaged her again, and said that I was going to have a layover in her town in a couple of months. She replied saying “is that so?” And nothing else. No chitchat about how hey maybe we could cross paths no, no talk about how that’s great but the airport is really far from her, nothing. So yeah.

It kind of all comes down to, am I loveable? If I am, why the hell can’t I find a boyfriend, or why don’t my parents love me? Or why can’t I make new loyal friends? Why are the only friends I have ones that I made 15 years ago? And why do “friends” do this ghosting shit instead of being genuine?

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?

So tired. Weary.

I missed work Monday because of a migraine then agreed to do a little side project yesterday (I’d like to have some spare dollars so I can get massage therapy and wait to be reimbursed in the insurance company’s sweet time) so that’s two days of work to make up over the weekend. It’s just this horrible cycle of always playing catch-up, and then I’m not balanced and not relaxed, which just makes it harder.

It takes so much time to go to the doctor/ RMT/ therapist/ neurologist/ psychiatrist/ hospital/ pharmacy and work and have migraines. I just don’t see myself as able to keep up a full-time job for much longer because I’m weary on a soul level.

Wednesday I went to work, booked a doctor appointment with my GP for 5:15 to try and get a referral to a dermatologist because my acne is worse than it was when I was a teen. I had to wait around for a half an hour which I spent washing my make up off so he could see the severity of the situation. When he came into the room, he said he was so sorry to hear that I was having such trouble with my depression. It totally dis-combobulated me. I was all ready to play the part of his patient who hadn’t seen him in months, and was coming in for a referral for my hormonal skin, no big deal. I don’t know if he looks up people’s electronic medical records before he sees them or if the receptionist does that as part of the chart or what. And I get that it makes sense, but it just totally changed the tone of things.

So he basically diagnosed me with bad skin due to stress. I’m breaking out on my face, and on my cheeks and joy line instead of my t-zone where I used to. Then I have huge patches of itchy dry eczema of the come and go on my hands and chest. So he prescribed me some kind of antibacterial cream from my face and a stronger steroid for the eczema, and I didn’t really have the presence of mind to push for referrals so I asked him to write me a prescription for migraine drugs, while he was at it, and said I would be back if it didn’t work. Then I went to the drugstore. And waited half an hour for it to be filled. Then the pharmacist said my total was 120 something dollars, and I just about had a heart attack because I just given them my new health benefits information with the card that I just got that day, which was supposed to give me 100% coverage. So the pharmacist figured that the plan wanted me to get generics, and they didn’t have two of the medications so I’m gonna have to go back to get them tomorrow, and so it was like 8 o’clock by the time I got home so I microwaved a bowl of peas and checked my email and went to bed.

Yesterday was the side job, so I had to get up super early so that I could catch the bus to go downtown to be on time, and I did, and I worked all day, and then I tried to finish all the paperwork at the end of the day but I was too burnt out. So I stopped working at 6:30, and went and caught a bus, but the transfer I needed was only running once an hour so I ended up walking most of the way home and didn’t get home until eight, just like the night before.

Today my skin just looks fucking awful, because I put Differin and the antibiotic cream on it which was obviously not a good idea, so I still have the bad complexion I had before, as well as a couple of dry red patches of skin that makeup just wouldn’t stick to. It was just sliding off and pilling and making my face looks super patchy. It’s like the worst make up day I’ve ever had. So then I started getting anxious that I couldn’t get my face into any kind of shape to go to work, which just made me get shaky and sweaty. So I went to work, stopped at the parking office to be told that it was too late to make any changes for this month, and didn’t actually arrive to the office until 10:30.

I had an appointment to see the hospital chaplain at 1, so I only got a couple of hours of work in before I had to leave. I wept at him for an hour and a half. I didn’t think I was that sad, but I started crying practically as soon as I saw it down. I guess it just takes so much energy to hold everything in and put on a good show at work that I’m not really in touch with stuff during the day.

So it was 3 o’clock by the time I got back to work, and I still had five hours to put in. It was just so shitty. I was totally unproductive and I felt just bleary and puffy and teary-eyed and tired. I managed to get a second wind a little bit toward the end, but I didn’t really put in a full days work. So I got home it shortly after 8, opened a can of tuna, and that brings us to now. I’ve been out of the house for basically 12 hours a day for one reason or another, and by the time I drag myself home i’m tired. There’s nothing in the fridge, except ketchup, so I have to go to the bank, then grocery shopping and back to the pharmacy, and I need gas, and I’m going to have to do some laundry before next week, and meanwhile I have to work two days out of this weekend, and probably have a migraine as well. It’s just so fucking exhausting, doing it all myself, and the cried out, wrung out, puffy eyed feeling doesn’t go away with a cup of coffee or even a Dexedrine.

I know in my head that most people that have this level of migraine consistently aren’t holding down a job at all, let alone working full-time, and I know how much time it takes for me to try and manage having a physical and mental illness, but still have this vague feeling that I ought to be able to pull things together somehow, there’s no point just stumbling through the days like this.

Ugh, I made Monday worse.

I was having a hard time getting up and out this morning (with no group in the afternoon to serve as a deadline) and ended up rolling in to work at 11, standing in the coffeeshop buying a scone because I hadn’t even managed a protein shake. I should have showered before I went to work and was in jeans that were too big and a top that was WAY too big and polyester to boot. Anyway my boss came in to the coffeeshop as I was in line; that was fun.

I felt just blechy and sticky and gross the whole day, and wished that I’d had a fucking shower and looked harder for something to wear. You know when you just feel… ugh?

So when I came home I showered and then threw in some laundry so I’d have something to wear tomorrow (I still have no pants that aren’t too big, or too small, but at least they’ll be clean and baggy) and changed the sheets on the bed.

That was fucking gross as I hadn’t changed them since being discharged from the hospital in mid-February. Like beyond college bachelor gross. I just thought, what the fuck difference does it make? And then I couldn’t muster up the effort to do it, so whatever.  Now I have clean sheets AND clean laundry, which I guess is an advantage of having a shorter day (minus group).  So yay me, I guess.

I’m going to buy some greens powder to dump into my shakes because eating is just not going to happen, at least it hasn’t in the past 6 weeks so it’s no use imagining that I’ll suddenly start. I might as well plan as if I am not going to be able to cook a bunch of stuff, and my skin is horrible at the moment – I have forgotten to take my antibiotics, cheated with a face wipe before bed, and basically had protein powder, coffee, and milk exclusively – so maybe eating a more well-rounded smoothie will help.

I feel immensely sad and lonely in a way that I don’t know if I can get anyone who isn’t a professional, or who hasn’t had their own struggle with mental health, to understand. I actually looked up the professional cuddler that I had seen last summer (yes, I know, it sounds super sketch) because I thought the hell if it does cost $90 an hour; I’m going to go insane if I can’t feel close to someone.  And the guy has stopped doing it; he is not on the website anymore. So I can’t get a cuddle for love or money?  Dammit.

I’m resolved not to share as deeply with Beth anymore, and I know I’ve said this before, but I’ve felt resolved for a solid week now. I talked to her last week and she had an instant answer for everything – I shouldn’t focus on myself, I’ll have to let such-and-so go, I should pray harder, there was nothing where she was able to say “I hear that you feel really sad about this. Could I suggest…?”  Which makes me value my training, because I damn well know how to sit with someone in their pain and validate their feelings and help them to feel heard and apparently that does NOT come naturally.

But again, as I don’t have a ton of “outlets”, deciding to cut Beth off means that again I’m largely leaving myself to the realm of professionals and I wonder wtf is wrong with me that I can’t find a partner in real life to walk beside me with this shit? Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I can’t change it.  I’m going to suggest at my psychiatrist appointment tomorrow that I just stop taking the antidepressants and we plan to try out MAOIs because I’m crying all the time anyway, how much worse can it get?

I need something to live for.

I’m lonely as fuck. I’m straight up scared that no one will ever love me again. It’s been three years, and I haven’t gotten as much as a second date.  We did an exercise in group a few days ago about how balanced our lives were, and I got all teary because it asked about whether we get hugs or physical affection, and no, I don’t. No.  I could certainly go and pay the professional cuddler to hug me, but…

I don’t understand why when there are people less attractive than me and less healthy than me and they’ve got themselves relationships… why do people tell me that I should be happy being all by myself first and only then do I get a crack at another person? If you had to be perfect by yourself first, I think a lot of the people in relationships would have to be single.

and it’s just loneliness on a really basic simple level that I can’t seem to get across to healthcare providers. It’s chatting about like what looks like it might be good and what looks like marketing bullshit in the grocery store. It’s having someone to text to say that you’re leaving work and on your way home. It’s having someone to give you an ice pack when you have a migraine.   It’s not necessarily the sex with fireworks and the dramatic stuff that you might think of about relationships.

My job isn’t important enouvh, and it doesn’t pay enough, for it to be a reason to live.

So starting tomorrow I’m going to microdose on mushrooms. We’ll see how that goes.



Flat out, but uplifted.

I’ve had a migraine all day, which fucked over my plans for going into work, to make up for last Monday which I missed due to a migraine. So I’m going to have to go in tomorrow, and I had plans to see a friend in person so that really sucks.

On the bright side, I managed to connect with a long distance friend today and we talked for two hours.  Oh my God, I feel so much better, not awesome, but I connected with somebody and they heard me and I feel validated.

I don’t know how I’m going to manage just my tasks of daily living, because it took me two hours to work up the energy to have a shower and now I’m going to sleep. I need to do laundry, do dishes, change my sheets, and I don’t know how I’ll fit it all in.

I seem sad? I am sad.

I  cried all through yesterday’s outpatient group. The content wasn’t even sad, we were just talking about having balance in our lives, but I just sat there and had tears dripping down my face the entire time. I cried on the bus on the way to work too actually.

I  left a voicemail with the nurse who is my primary therapist last night, asking if I could see her to talk about what would happen when the group ended. She called me back today, and said that she had had a cancellation so I could go see her at 2:30 if I wanted to. So I basically left right then and there and hopped on the bus.

When I got there I pretty much started crying again right away, and she was said that she was glad to be able to see me that day because I seem so sad.  And yes, I am sad. Depeche Mode’s album came out today, and I think I’ve listened to each song about 10 times, and they’re fantastic. But there’s six or seven months before their concerts. I can’t get over thinking how in the hospital I started counting down 31 days to the album release. And now it’s released, and it’s been the longest 31 fucking days ever. I just get up and drag myself to work and back,  and I feel like the tears are right at the top of my throat all the fucking time.

I’m sure my boss thinks everything is dandy. I had a meeting with someone today that I had to cancel on in January, for work, and he asked me if I was going to take a vacation. How the fuck would I pay for vacation? I don’t have any fucking benefits. I get paid a percentage in lieu of vacation time,  but I still haven’t gotten my employment insurance from five fucking weeks ago because I’m waiting for them to process the doctor’s note that I sent them.  Anyway, I’m probably the poorest person at work. Everybody else has a partner, and either has a house or goes on vacations or what have you. So I’m sure people don’t think that I’m living paycheque to paycheque it because it just doesn’t occur to them, because that’s not where they’re at.

I’m most worried about the group ending because I’m pretty much crying every fucking day at work now. By the end of the day I’ve just run out of the ability to hold out, and so I just sit there and work with tears running down my face. Not, like, ragged breath sobbing, just sitting there crying.  And that’s fine for now, when I take off for three hours in the middle of the day to go to group, so the end of my day is after everyone has gone home. I don’t know how I’ll cope with full workdays, if I start heading my limited the middle of the afternoon.

On the way back to work from my appointment with the nurse, it actually occurred to me that I don’t have to wait any fucking six or seven months for a Depeche Mode concert. If I can’t stand to be here anymore, I don’t have to be. I know what I need to do. That thought made me happier than anything else has in weeks. I’m not trapped, and I don’t have to deal with the dread I feel at the thought of living six or seven more months.  Yep, suicide is back on the table. The nurse talked to me about going back into the hospital, and whether I would be able to turn myself in at Emergency instead of being certified, and I know honestly I wouldn’t, because I didn’t want to be saved in January.  She said why not, because I might as well go back into the hospital if I have nothing to lose, which seems like a good argument but I just don’t feel that’s where I will be at.

It’s as if I’m using the Pomodoro method except on my life instead of on chores. Instead of saying the chores are too overwhelming, so I’m just going to do 20 minutes of dishes and then quit. I’m thinking that I’ll just keep going for N number of days, and if I don’t feel better by that time I’m gonna fucking be out of here.

So then I got home tonight. And checked my email. There was one from this guy on Match.  Match, that I signed up for like the last fucking June when I didn’t feel like killing myself. and then my mood was so in the toilet that I totally forgot to cancel the auto renewal. And it renewed for six more months. So I reactivated my profile when I got out of the hospital. What could it hurt?

So, one guy reached out to me. Good looking, older than me but not too old, has a good job, and his saying that he maybe wanted to have kids was the only thing that was at all off-putting on his profile. So he invited me for coffee two weeks ago,  and there wasn’t really any problem with keeping the conversation going or anything. He messaged me right afterward saying  it was nice to meet me, and then he’s been messaging me every day since.  Nothing big, just a hi how are you, here’s what I’m up to kind of thing. So today, with the weekend upon us, I thought I’d see what was what.   So I replied to his latest message and said that I’d like to get together again when he has some free time.

When I got home, there was a message waiting for me saying that he had to be honest that he didn’t think that we were the best match, and he was sorry if that hurt. So I replied saying thanks for letting me know, best of luck, and deactivated my profile.

And now I’m sitting here wondering, why the fuck have you been messaging me every day for two weeks,  if you didn’t fucking like me. And how the fuck can you decide if you like somebody in the course of one or two hours? I’ve had a few first dates now, and I don’t think that I feel I could make up my mind about any of the guys without meeting a few times. Like, they’d have to be a real creep or really ugly  for me to say no, there’s no potential here at all, full stop.

So what the fuck is wrong with me? I haven’t mentioned this to my psychiatrist, or to the nurse, because I knew that they’d be like oh I shouldn’t be thinking about dating, I should wait on that till I’m healthier, etc. etc. And I actually didn’t really think that I was going to get a relationship out of it,  although that was a tiny spark of idiotic hope in the back of my mind. All I hoped was that I could get a fucking second date. Just so that I would know that I could. I’ve been single for more than three years now. I haven’t got a second date, I haven’t even gotten a kiss, for THREE YEARS, and I have no fucking idea why.  Am I a lot uglier than I thought I am? Or a lot less likable? It doesn’t really matter, because whatever it is, I can’t fucking change it now.

So now I’m really hurting. And I feel like a fucking idiot for letting my hopes build up at all, but it seemed to me that when he messaged me saying it was nice to meet me and kept messaging me every day for two weeks, that  “sorry we’re not a good match” was not where it was going. Why don’t you just say nice to meet you, lots of luck in your search, and leave it at that?

Now I’m back to, I could literally die for some cuddling. And I’m too sad and too broke to go pay the professional cuddler just to have some human contact. I can barely even dictate this blog post through the tears. If overdosing was an effective and reliable method, I’d fucking kill myself tonight. But it’s not, and I don’t even think I have a single sleeping pill,  and I don’t think I get to have an actual conversation with any actual person until next Wednesday, when I get 20 minutes with my psychiatrist.  Maybe I should skip the appointment and just speed things up, because this hurts too much. I can’t fucking take it anymore.


Before and after “the incident.”

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist this morning. He was trying to find out if I’d had any kind of human contact, and somehow it got onto my relationship with Beth and I made a comment in passing that they had really been there for me ever since That Summer.

“What summer?” he asked. I said I was sure that I would’ve told him about this early on, and he started riffling through my file and saying that he didn’t think so. So I explained my creepy boss and my parents’ orders to not rock the boat and not say anything (really not to lose the job no matter what) and that three weeks later there had been a guy who is in his mid 40s and how the RCMP told me he had a record of 4 other women in Canada, even though he was American. Then I said “so I was a virgin… And then I wasn’t.” My psychiatrist exclaimed “You were raped??” Yes, I said, wondering what else I could have possibly meant.

He flipped through my file some more and then said that I had told him I’ve never been sexually abused. I said that I thought sexual abuse and sexual assault were different (that’s why I would have said no to that specific question), and that I’d thought he had known all along. He said that he was abusive and sexual, so it was sexual abuse. I said that I thought sexual abuse was like being molested by somebody who had access to you but but it’s not like I got this definition from the literature or had a really well-thought-out model in my head.

Anyway he acted like it was some kind of big revelation which I guess to him it was, but to me it’s old news. He kept saying stuff like how he was glad I told him, and how that must’ve been a really violent introduction to sexuality, and I said I’ve done a lot of work with my old (retired) counsellor about it, because I didn’t even used to be able to say the word ‘rape.’ I told him straight up that the worst part was that I now know that the only reason that hasn’t happened again is that I haven’t been near a guy who wants to do it. I fought as hard as I could, and got really bruised up for my troubles, but there’s no way that I, in any kind of shape, can counter the upper body strength of a man.

So then he said oh, he gets how I feel vulnerable, and why being alone is such a big deal to me, and he was all outraged that they didn’t make a big court case out of it. Yeah go look up some statistics on the number of cases that go to trial. Or the number of convictions relative to the number of police reports. Or the number of estimated attacks compared to the number of women that actually report it to the police. The numbers are pretty dismal. Anyway, he said that we have to talk more about it and that he was glad I told him (again) and I just sort of felt like it’s not really even something I can connect with here in the present; I dissociated during the attack, and then started drinking, smoking, cutting, and being bulimic for the rest of the summer and then got into drugs the year after that.

It’s as if he thought that I was too fucked up for the history that I had given him, and now he was like oh the pieces all fit together and it all makes sense now. He suggested that I tell the EAP counsellor about it too, and I sort of said that we were basically just focussing on making it from day to day. I don’t know, I’d already been in his office crying for 15 minutes before it came up so it’s hard to tell if I was upset about talking about that specifically or just the whole thing.

I also told him how Depeche Mode were going on tour again in the fall, and how they’re coming to a city much closer than they had on the previous tour (which I had a ticket for and didn’t go because I was laid off because of depression.) or the tour before, where I made a little trip out of it and stayed a few days to explore the city and met up with some fans from the Depeche Mode message board and have been in touch with the one gal ever since. “We are damaged people, drawn together by subtleties that we are not aware of” as DM lyrics put it. Instant connection.

Anyway, I don’t have anyone to go see them with which made me just fucking bawl. I assumed I was going to have to go somewhere again and now instead of being happy that they’re close by I am upset. I reminded the psychiatrist how I cried and cried in the hospital about missing Leonard Cohen in concert because I didn’t have anyone to go with, and now he’s dead. The psychiatrist said that it was OK to do things alone, and sometimes he went to the movies alone, but either way it was obviously pretty important to me and I better make it happen. I’ve gone to other concerts alone. I don’t fucking like it. So now I might buy tickets for another city just because I know another Depeche Mode fan there and won’t have to go by myself.

I’ve been crying every day at work at the end of the day and really just feeling like crap. Tonight I had a drink and a piece of hash truffle the minute I got in the door, and I’m sure I can make it to the weekend of the 17th when Depeche Mode’s new album is released. The concert, however, is over 200 days away. and I don’t know. I seriously just don’t know if I’ll be able to hang on that long. It’s always seem to me like before a birthday is an ideal time to die, and once my plans were thwarted in January and I was hospitalized till mid February, it seems reasonable to wait till mid-March. But waiting another seven months is something else.

I’ve been crying every day at the end of work, and sometimes on the bus, and then when I get home, and I just don’t think there’s anything here (in the world) for me. I can’t live seven months for one three hour concert. And then when that’s done I can just wait and work for three or four years for another album or another concert. And that’s the only thing that I can control, is buying albums and going to concerts. I can’t control my migraines, I can’t control losing jobs over migraines or depression. I can’t make other people love me or show up when I need them, and this is like when Beth said that her husband had thought they should come up and spend some time with me. In the moment on the phone I responded with how that would be great anytime, and then I sent them an email saying actually asking them to, explaining that would be really awesome and really helpful because it’s going to suck going back to my apartment alone with all the suicide equipment there. And they didn’t come. There was some reason they couldn’t come the week I asked, and then their son came to visit for a week from another province, and they just sort of haven’t mentioned it again.

I realized that I put up with the creepy boss and serving guys at tables beers literally the day after I’d been raped as a young waitress so that I would never be put in that position again. I never wanted to be put in a position where guys were going to do things to my body without my consent because I couldn’t afford to quit, or I didn’t have anywhere safe to go, or whatever. No, I needed to make sure that I was going to be able to make a living. Never have to call on people like my parents.

I went on a bit of a rant in the psychiatrists office, actually, saying I’d really like to know where the line would’ve been for my parents. If I’m getting felt up over my clothes that’s totally acceptable as long as I’m making my five bucks an hour. Plus tips for being friendly and flirty with the tables of guys with their beers. So what if my boss had felt me up under my clothes, would I be allowed to quit then? Or rubbed up on me with his body? It’s not like my parents said that I should quit  if he did anything worse. They said very clearly not to say anything about it and not to rock the boat. So fuck them, for all time. I got felt up for my $5 an hour and got raped for free.

And now, after going through SO MUCH to put myself through school, I’m underemployed, poor, and had to sell myself out for this job yet again. I just… this isn’t fucking sustainable. I’m going to die by suicide. The question is just when. Things have just gone too far to be redeemed. I can’t go back in time to change anything, and where I am represents trying my best. My very best. And if that’s not good enough to satisfy God or anyone else it’s really too bad. But I don’t see any reason to hope for the future when I don’t expect to perform better than my best in the future