Dead end streets

How many times will I land in this place? A place of isolation, withdrawal, agonizing loneliness, deep despair and finally suicidal thinking? I cannot say the words out loud. I am depressed (AGAIN).  It’s a trickle down effect. I same them. I have to acknowledge them. My husband has to hear them. Then come the questions. What am I going to do about it. It’s all about your thinking. We’ve talked about this. I love you honey, I hate to see you do this to yourself again. Then comes his fear. Are you going to hurt yourself?
I just stare at him. Stoic. I cannot say the words.
Instead I go to bed at 8:30 to avoid.  I wake up late to “miss” him as he goes off to work. I cry in the car. In the shower. Before he gets home. I cancel therapy appointments so I don’t have to admit my failure. Or more importantly so I don’t have to lie about suicidal thinking. That also has a trickle down effect. She tells me she is worried. She may need to call my husband. Maybe I should go to crisis residential.
I have shut down and shut people out. But my mind. There is no stopping it. Constant lies. Making plans. Dancing around in a mask so tight I can’t breathe. Melding to my face to cover the tears, fears, shame.  Appearances.
This place is scary and horrible and painful.  It lacks color and purpose and life.  It grinds at my soul. My heart.  I am not necessarily powerless to stop it, but too tired to care or fight. In the darkness I no longer want to see my self or be my self. I just wade around slowly in the mire til I fall over.
I guess I am raising my hand here. Asking for help. I contacted my doctor. When I no longer try to see, it’s likely I will fall off a bridge or swallow handfuls of things I shouldn’t. There are realities of being here again.  It can be a dead end street. But it also doesn’t have to be.


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