It is hard to look back on the train wreck the last 36 years have been.

The first time I considered suicide, I was ten. The only time I actually tried was when I was eighteen. 

Mostly, I am beyond that now. The thoughts still come, but I do my best not to engage with them. Sometimes I can even convince myself that there is some reason to hope for the future, or at least that there are reasons to be grateful with what I do have.

Mindfulness and medication, these things help too. I sleep a little better these days, and my moods are a little more even.

But most days go by in a daze. 

I have been on a disability pension for two years now, and work was my only social outlet for a long time. All my friendships are virtual, and I can often go days and sometimes weeks without seeing another person.

It is a struggle to get things done. Mostly this is because everything is a negotiation. On a good day, I cook dinner and manage a shower. Not every day is a good day.

It feels, in some ways, like I have finally just given up. Like this is as good as it is ever going to get.

Tomorrow, though, I have my first appointment with my new social worker. I am excited, although I wish it was more than just a phone call. Still, I have no idea anymore what to say.