Ever since I started therapy, I've been a recluse.
Well, it might have started sooner. I've been depressed for a long time now. After all, that was what motivated me to get into therapy.
These weekly sessions stir up a lot of the emotional muck that I have been carrying with me these last fifteen years, but they haven't resolved anything yet. Right now, I am a fucking mess.
For the last two or three weeks I haven't left my house unless I had to and have been stoned pretty much all of the time. I just lay in bed and watch movies and smoke pot and eat horrible shitty junk food.
These small comforts have become my life-preserver. I cling to them. I can't seem to function at all.
It's gross. It's unhealthy. It's shameful.
I don't want to live like this, but I don't know what else to do.
I've got twenty dollars to my name and no one to hang out with.
I am so isolated from everyone right now. It makes thoughts of suicide much easier to entertain.
And since I can't allow myself to entertain those thoughts, I self-medicate with a shit ton of weed. Ensuring that I am so baked that I can't even think anything; I can't feel anything.
I am writing on here because a few errant thoughts of desperation keep bubbling to the surface.
This is the darkest I've been.
I can't do it much longer.
6:40 p.m. - 2014-06-04
Recent entries:
Awake in My Tiny Cage - 2014-11-03
God. - 2014-10-27
I remember me. - 2014-10-17
The Paper - 2014-10-13
A Post About Not Doing Anything - 2014-10-12
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