1557 Noe Street, San Francisco

It’s just getting harder and harder. I’m trying to keep light about it, but the feelings creep up and overwhelm. Then I think that it’s alright, I want my life over anyway, so just lighten up and feel good about these feelings that are leading to my inevitable demise. But the feelings themselves are hard in each moment.

I find myself questioning my motives. Why do I want to go to therapy? If I want to leave, just leave. If I want to get better and live, face up to it. I tell myself I want more information; I’ll leave but I want to know what a professional thinks of my situation; I want validation. Isn’t that a crock, a load of crap?

Everyday is hard, that is the character of my life as it is. It is hard just to be here, to exist, to live in this skin, to feel, to have sensation, to see with declining eyesight, to hear with deteriorating hearing, to know and think with a deteriorating mind and grasp on existence and reality. To be cognizant when I can’t believe any of this is true and real.

1557 Noe Street, San Francisco

I’m suicidal but I’ve learned to live with it. What the hell does that mean? What is the bottom line of my existence? That I don’t want to be here? Am I going to tell that to anyone? How fast is that going to be misinterpreted?

We’re getting a new benefits package at work and they go into effect on June 1st. My first order of business is therapy (followed closely by new glasses and perhaps a dentist visit). What am I going to say? How am I going to approach it? Am I going to play games and make the therapist figure me out, or am I just going to let it all out and let him or her know what I think about my situation? It’s scary; I have no idea what I’m going to do. I scare myself.

1557 Noe Street, San Francisco

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. This is getting out of control. I don’t know how much longer I can hold this together. I read today that death is not an event, it’s a process. It is a process. When I die, it will not be an event, it will not be a moment. It will be the culmination of a process that began a long time ago. I’m starting to spiral out of control again.

Starting from June 1st, our benefits kick in and I will start going to therapy. I don’t want help. I don’t want to be “cured”. I just want to know what a professional thinks of me. I just want that opinion of what the medical establishment thinks of me.