My brother and mother both recently called and asked about how I'm feeling since leaving the hospital where I voluntarily went inpatient for suicidality.  The truth is I might be worse.  I mix lies and truth together in my responses and both feel nasty to me.  I don't know what to do.  That generally defines my whole life at the moment.  I can't make decisions and I shut down.  Hours pass by in empty haze.  Various versions of myself slip into action based on stimuli that enter my environment, but generally I'm just nerves and exhaustion and a predatory emptiness lying in bed. I get furious at myself about little things and let big things slide.  I can't see this progressing to anything positive, but I don't have any agency.  If I did, if I could create plans and follow through, I know that wouldn't be good either.  It's like I'm just a pool of poor biology that exists with purpose, but with no capability but to suffer.  There is no way to fix any of it at this point.  There was no way to fix me before, because I don't exist other than the habits, but at least at one time, a normal human could have averted the unpleasantness that is this continuance.