I think I can, I think I can (maybe, possibly)

I don't feel like the Little Engine The Could. I feel more like the Little Caboose That's Hardly Holding On.

I get up in the morning, shuffle through the day, go home and sleep. I don't do yoga anymore. Sometimes I doodle on the piano; sometimes I play video games if I feel up to it. But mostly I just pull the covers over my head where it's not so scary. I don't mention feelings anymore -- tell Paul about the violent thoughts, and he gets worried about me. Best not to rock the boat.

Yesterday, I mentioned to a coworker that I was scared about my psychiatrist appointment next Thursday. She said, "Well, at least you only have to make it until then, and then it'll be over with." I didn't correct her, but I was thinking that, no, it wouldn't be over with -- it'd just be beginning.

I'm so tired of being me.

... Wonder if I inherited the crappy depression and anxiety from my biological parents? At least I'd have somebody to blame other than myself.

Now, where did I put those Klonopin?