Perhaps I couldn't say it, if I wanted to, anyway.
So I say something:
I'd like a diagnosis.
I'd like to know if it's possible that it could get better, that I could get better, that life could be better.
If yes, I'd like help. Or maybe to have it done for me...
If no, I'd like a gunshot to the face.
I guess that about sums it up. What's wrong with me? Can I be fixed? Fix me, or cut the crap and let me go home.
I say this with... urgency. Yes, I know. It couldn't possibly be that bad, in fact it probably isn't, but that doesn't take away from the fact that I often feel as if I am coming to my last straw. It doesn't take away from the anxiety of this emptiness, in fact it adds to it because it abandons me to remain a "healthy one" who can make it alone just like everyone else. If I were farther gone, if there was something wrong with me, I could need someone.
But I won't deny myself my dignity so much as to push myself to that position. And so I remain.
I stay put and try to live on as best I can manage, but I don't even really know what to think anymore.
I just dink around and kind of do this or that... get by.
Somehow the world keeps on turning, I'm still alive- I think -and God is still love (good thing).
But it still SUCKS.
You must read this as if I say it with optimistic laughter, of course, because I try, I really do. Besides in the absence of this it would just be depressing- a pathetic tragedy story to say I've given up. But it's not, and I haven't. That's why I word it as I have, and why I insist I laugh about it as I do. If I don't do something I will loose hope, and knowing I have an eternal hope, I mustn't let that happen. Because it can, and it very well could, if only I'd let it. So I don't let it. . .
I say what I must, I attempt to shut up, and