Watching It All Drain Away

Oh, woe is me. Waaahhhh! Bitch. Whine. Complain. Sob. Mope.

I hate talking about my depression. Those doctor people tried to get me to take meds, but I absolutely HATED them. And if an anti-depressant is making you even more depressed, there is something kinda wrong, there.

I wish I could just dazzle all of you with some fantastic revelation, but I'm no magician. Just me, my head and my bullshit.

Usually, when I leave town for work, I feel better. But this time I feel no comfort. If anything, I feel worse.

Have you ever felt that if you could just curl up tight enough, that maybe you wouldn't exist, anymore? And nothing could touch you? If only that really worked. (It doesn't. I've tried.)

And this isn't even really about companionship or relationships or anything. This is just a general feeling of emptiness.

Does talking about it help? Yes, actually. I know most people couldn't even care less about all of my little head-trips. But it is freeing to send all of these thoughts out into the vastness of existence. Fly, my fucked up little friends, fly! Disperse and be no more!

I suppose I'm really just looking for support and have no way to get it, considering all of my friends are hundreds of miles away from me. *sigh* Bitch. Whine. Moan.

My life isn't that bad. I have friends, family, a den. My job is great.

It's just my head. Sometimes I can't control what it does to me. I know what's happening but I can't stop it from happening.

Fuck it. I get home tonight. Hopefully I'll be able to visit with someone. That would help.

Nix says: Chop that chicken, bitch!