I feel terrible. I am not a terrible person. I feel depressed. My life is actually going more or less ok. I feel worthless. I am an invaluable part of my household. I feel like I don't deserve to be loved, that I have not earned the privilege. Everyone deserves to be loved. It is not a privilege, it is a basic necessity for life.
This list goes on and on.
I'm fighting myself pretty hard today. It is exhausting. I find myself swinging somewhere between utter apathetic despair that I am going to be like this for the rest of my days and absolute grief for the horrors happening in the world, for the things I've lost in my life due to Bipolar, and for all the potential that could have happened between me and people who are just not healthy for me to be around.
And I hurt, very, very deeply.
A part of me wants to give up on everything writing related because nothing will ever be good enough. Another part of me says that if I give up, I will lose another vital part of myself and this is committing slow suicide.
Good thing I'm seeing my doctor tomorrow, though I am dreading this appointment. And my PTSD has been in high gear for various reasons. I'm exhausted but sleep doesn't help with this form of exhaustion. I will keep putting one foot in front of the other. If nothing, I am stubborn.
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