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.
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