This weekend was an exercise in futility.  Still reeling from the session with Therapist written about  here,  I unsuccessfully navigated a weekend that was filled with meaning and importance for me, and I failed.

I keep going over it in my mind, twisting it, turning it, unknotting it, what was said by Therapist  and I’m starting to feel angry about the session.

I don’t know. I don’t know.  I don’t know. I. don’t. know.

My guard is up.  My mind is closed clam shut.

I reverted back to whom I don’t want to be.

Fuck all that.

These words are ramble letters for others, but they mean something to me.

I am struggling like old times again, a place I had every reason to think I escaped.

And now I embrace the notion of death.  I welcome him, I dare him to visit me.  He will not be disappointed.

Please someone rescue me from this hell.  I am drowning and can not make it myself out of the water.
Perhaps that indicates I want to live.  Shit fuck hell, maybe I do.  but certainly not like this.  and if this is all there is, no matter what that fucking therapist says, I don’t want to do it.

I need to  be rescued.  I want to be rescued, but I’m afraid desire alone won’t make it possible.