"The meds are working great! I think I'm finally fixed, it's over! What was all that even about!?" I walk into a computer store and ask for a job application, "my life is finally coming together" I think to myself. "Next thing I know I'll have friends!"

That is, until I leave the store, and step outside.

It's raining.

The bus is gonna be 10 minutes late

The dead leaves on the ground only remind me of myself. Who was I kidding, thinking I can actually accomplish something? Look at those guys over there, they're happy. "How do people do that?"

There's nothing. I am. nothing. But somehow I convince myself my life has more meaning and substance than other people. That's a lie.



About once or twice a week, I take all my meds at just the right times, meaning my symptoms will partially be gone for like 8 hours. Zoloft, check. beta-blockers, check. Another fucking pill, check.

This is when I realize how empty my life is, how much lack of stimulation I have that I look forward to taking benadryl at night. I'm running on the same hamster wheel thinking I'm actually getting somewhere. When in reality, I am nothing. But a hamster in a cage, following the same train track every. single. day. When the only thing that occupies you is a broken version of the very thing that allows you to make that very observation, is when you find out it's all a catch-22. (Sometimes I wish my head would catch a .22) 

Then the guilt sets in, but how have I hurt anyone but myself?

I take an Ativan, I'm calmer but mostly just tired.

Then I wake up again. For it to start all over again