I don’t need to be

What’s the point of anything anymore? Why do I write in here at all? Just to hear the sound of my own voice I suppose.

I ended up back in the hospital and now face losing my job.

Am I ready to work again? No. Do I need to work? Yes. But I’m terrified to go back in any capacity. My moods aren’t stable and for once I’m 100% compliant with my medication. I vacillate between stable, numb and moderately suicidal – an improvement according to my psychiatrist.

How the fuck is having my husband hide the mags of his gun under his side of the bed, having nightmares of me killing myself and waking up in a panic a fucking improvement exactly? Oh, I see. Because I’m not manic anymore my mood swings aren’t a major concern. Not like I was ever truly manic to begin with. Let’s be very fucking clear, people – I experience hypomania. Not full on mania. Totally different.

Right now I’ve lost the ability to give any fucks. I don’t care about anything anymore. I don’t care about life, I don’t care about death, I don’t care about you – the same as you don’t care about me. I. Don’t. Care. I’ve tried to explain to my husband – who probably wishes he’d choked on the phrase “I want you to share everything with me; we shouldn’t have secrets” – if for some reason I was in a severe car accident and a call to the authorities was the difference between saving my life and not, the call would never be made. Because I don’t care enough at this point to make the effort to go out of my way to survive however have no thoughts or plans to harm myself at this time (let’s be clear with each other, shall we?). I don’t take the meds, I end up in the hospital. I take the meds, still feel like absolute shit. What fucking incentive do I have to continue to work towards wellness here? Absolutely none.

I went to lunch with my mom and my favorite uncle. He knows about what’s going on and has been hospitalized himself. He asked me how I was doing. I told him: “You ever step in dog shit? Ever try to shake it off the bottom of your shoe but it just doesn’t come off – it’s just stuck there no matter how hard you shake? I feel like that piece of shit.” He just stared at me, no words. What can you honestly say to that? Nothing. I feel like a car windshield under a power line most days recently.

I know I need to go back to work because I need the money. My husband says it will be okay and he’ll take care of us, but that’s a hard sell. He falls asleep while he’s driving home. He falls asleep while we’re having date night. He falls asleep while we’re watching tv. He’s exercising almost daily to lose weight. He’s going to school online. He’s working full time graveyard shift. He’s breaking his back and without my income, we’ll have maybe 100 whole dollars at the end of the month – you know for incidentals like doctor’s bills and, you know, food.

So I have to work no matter how unstable I am. But then I get fed this bullshit line: “you have to take care of you, Alison. Your health comes first.” Bullshit. You know it doesn’t. My mother doesn’t give a shit – she wants my money. Always has her goddamned hand out. She asked me for gas money the other night because her car isn’t as economical as mine and we were on a family outing. A family outing! I told her to get bent and a non-Luxury car that takes regular. The night before I went to the hospital I told her I only didn’t feel like dying when I was at work because my mind was occupied; the minute I’d step in the house I’d want to die. She told me it would behoove me to go work – I’d feel better eventually. [But, like, a bitch has to come home sometime though, right? And be in my own thoughts? The ones that wanted me to die? Does that not worry her? No? Ok.]. No one gives a good goddamn.

So I repeat: what’s the point? I don’t think there is one. So why bother.

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