Dear Me

Dear me,
you're depressed. I mean, you were diagnosed with manic depression, but that's besides the point. It's gotten bad. I've gotten bad. I wake up, or at least my body does, but my brain...my brain not so much. I lay in bed like a quadriplegic drugged on his meds and I stare at the ceiling, tracing the blank white lines until my eyes hurt, wondering what my mind is going to conjure up today. Maybe a t-rex will eat me. I'm not that lucky, they're dead. Maybe aliens will abduct me. No, I'm not that crazy. Oh, I forgot to mention the paranoia you're diagnosed with. I should also mention the PTSD, the borderline personality disorder, and more to add to the trail mix that is my somehow functioning brain. But hey, aside from the physical and emotional abuse you've endured and still do, you're alive. For the past ninety six days, yes I've counted, you've woken up and decided today was the day you'd die. You'd watch the clock go from 12:00 AM to 3:30 AM before you even decide to finally stand, and within those three and a half hours where you lay in silence, aside from a few friendly texts to reassure your pals that you're not dead...yet, you keep saying it. "I'll kill myself today. Today. I'm going to die today." and the words sound...correct. It sounds right. It sounds ready. But we haven't done it, have we? As much as we'd love to just bleed out, or finally fall from the chair with the fucking belt you've wrapped around your throat so many times. But, ninety six days and you haven't killed yourself. So, as wrong as it sounds, oh dear me, keep telling yourself today's the day. Because you never were good at listening to yourself, were you?