It’s not like i hate Mondays. At least not more than any other day. And it’s not so much the day either as it is the morning. To wake up and realize there’s another day i have to face. Another day where i have to pretend to “rejoice and be glad in it”. Why?
Why should i make believe i’m glad to be alive when the truth is i’d rather not have to live anymore. And, being of the mindset it would more than just “wrong” to end it myself, i have to live it. And i’m tired. Tired of getting out of bed. Tired of going to work. Tired of walking, standing, talking, eating … you name it. Tired. And the frustration grows each time i do one of the countless things i don’t care to do.
Had a therapist once try to tell me that i really didn’t want to die, otherwise i would have done something about it by now. i suppose there’s some truth to that – except i don’t want to DIE, i want to be DEAD. There is a difference. It’s like the child inside screaming “are we there yet?” over and over. But no, i’m not there yet. Obviously. Or i wouldn’t be writing this post. But i have to do something with the angst and writing seems to be my one avenue of escape.
Escape. If only. But there is no escape. i am cursed to walk this path until my body gives out on its own. Or until someone ends it for me, cuz i’m not strong enough to do it myself.
Yet another reason to be depressed.