This May Not Be The Kind Of Commitment She Meant....

Welp. I always put off shit like this because I stress about the "first post". Because *that's* something that matters 🙃

But, this probably ain't a bad one.

It's 9:47pm, Wednesday, October 20, 2021.

I'm sitting in my office - which I just manically painted and redid (and have yet to finish) from an attempt at making my workspace somewhere that didn't just continually add to my levels of stress and sensory overload,

In my new office chair that I got for $80 because my body is so small now that I can just buy $80 chairs,

Watching my wife buzz around, printing out lists of my medications and symptoms, packing a bag for me for a few nights following incredibly strict stipulations on what is and is not allowed,

Watching her do her best to hold it together, both because she thinks I need her to, and because I think if she doesn't, she may need to join me in the morning;

Just sitting around really just letting how fucked up everything is wash over me. How much I've fucked up. 

It's fascinatingly surreal.

I'm just sitting here, watching her, doing nothing, not helping at all, because today I managed to tell my parents my news, and I'm so emotionally exhausted now that I'm almost catatonic.

Tonight I'm going to eat junk food, ulcer and stomach pain be damned, cuddle my dogs, cuddle my Waffle, and go to sleep. Or, pretend to. Then, I'm going to get up, take a shower, and get in my car - as a passenger - so that Waffle can drop me off at the emergency room, so that I can tell them I'm suicidal. 

It's fucked up, really. This whole thing.

I need fucking help.

I know I do. 

I was so desperate to escape a mundane situation earlier that jumping off the deck seemed a viable solution.

But getting help - all of it - admitting it, asking for it, getting treatment, everything - necessarily requires hurting everyone you love in maybe the deepest way you can. 

So, here's to the night before committing yourself.