The universe needs to fucking stop kicking me when I’m down.
Because I fucked up my account, I don’t know how I’m gonna survive the next 2 months. I’ll probably end up getting my phone cut off, which will be fun since I can’t afford home Internet. For added fun, Winston chewed through the power cable for my laptop, and I can’t afford a new one. Hell, I’m not sure how I’m gonna afford his food or mine. I fuck everything up.
And the pain…it’s gotten unbearable. Last night I was curled up in bed crying. Even the Vicodin only put a small dent in it. PT only helps for an hour or two afterward. Oh, and my physical therapist wants me to quit kung fu. The whole point of going to PT is so I can do kung fu. But then I don’t think I can afford that, either.
And the nightmares. God, the nightmares. It takes forever to get to sleep because of the pain, and then I wake up crying. I want to sleep to escape, but I keep myself awake to avoid the nightmares.
I can’t quit thinking that killing myself would solve all these problems. Winston is cute and sweet, so they’d find him a good home. God knows my family wouldn’t miss me.
Suicide is not really what I want. That’s what I came to understand during my reprieve from depression. What I want is relief, is security and comfort. I don’t need luxuries; I just want to know that I’ll be able to meet my needs. But when that looks so unlikely, when there’s so little hope of relief…what is there left but dying?
I’m sorry. I just keep saying the same stupid shit over and over. Why can’t you just be happy, for chrissake?