I am not sure
I thought I was making progress and I was. I was reading cards for people and was being productive and happy.
But for some reason, my head took a turn.
Why is my phone blowing up for card readings from people I rarely EVER talked to?
I know I asked. I know I wanted the practice, but for some reason, I feel used.
I bet once I charge for readings people will disappear again. They always do. Only want you when you have something to offer, especially if it is easy…
No offense to my friends…
Do not listen to me.
I am negative today.
I have not meditated but there is no room to do it here and candles are not allowed on. I feel trapped. I feel like I have nowhere to go. When I go home I will just be this way again but with the everyday responsibilities again. I can barely function. I drew pictures, wrote in my journal, and wrote a note.
Yeah…those suicide notes I write just in case if I go too far.
What the hell is wrong with me?
One day I am the happiest ever, one moment ago I was laughing and thinking about how great life is and now I just want to end it.
End it all. I want to shove a pencil through my eye far enough to just do it. To jump out of the window and fall on the hard concrete. But I want to die fast. Not messy.
But I feel shitty by thinking about doing it.
Not because I know I am a mom, but that I know I am going to be a burden also. I am a burden living and I sure as hell will be when I am dead.
The cost to cremate me, bury me, or whatever William chooses (he is still married to me and my next of kin).
I do not want to do that to him. Or hurt Sammy when she gets older thinking why the hell did I abandon her.
It isn’t easy being a mom with depression like this.
You are always scared that you are just the right amount of crazy to take her away and never see your kid again. I live in fear of speaking the truth. I live in fear of people throwing me back into a mental institution where I learned absolutely nothing but how shitty we treat the mentally ill.
Oh, yeah. I have been there. In those hospitals with the barred windows and white jackets with walls with padding. It was shit. They did nothing but shove pills down my throat that made me want to kill myself more. There was no light at the end there.
It was a “fake it until you get the fuck outta there” kind of place because it made me feel more insane.
I am. I should admit to that.
I am sorry I am the way I am. I can see why people do not talk to me. I feel like I am hard to handle and that is myself thinking that. I cannot handle me, and why should I burden you with what I feel?
My note sits on the damn bed. The window is open and I cannot seem to think straight. The alcohol is within arms reach but I do not dare take a drink.
Wish me luck.
I know deep down I am terrified of dying because of all the aftermath, but I know one day I will be too far gone to care.
keep me in your happy thoughts.