I am so alone, so without hope, so far down, so gone. And no one knows because they don’t care. I can sugar coat it and say folks are busy, but truth is, when something is important to you, you make the time. I’m always there. Always trying. Always keeping in touch.
I’m trying so hard for results that I fear I will not see.
How long must a person suffer before they are allowed to say, “Hey, I gave it my absolute best, and now, I let it go.”
Am I destined to reach the point of destruction? My own personal, agonizing ground zero?
What is it I have done that others have not also done in spades? Why do I long for absolution and forgiveness when it seems fairly obvious no one would hurt if I were to cease all of my efforts? Like all of the slack, understanding and forgiveness I extend?
It is difficult to tell exactly how much a depressive state in a Bipolar cycle influences how I feel about how the other issues are going in my life. Perhaps it is something different, though.
Perhaps, at least sometimes, it is the exact opposite. Perhaps, the way I’m treated (or not treated) brings about the depressive state and continues to feed it as if it were trying to satiate the “black dog,” as depression is so often termed.
I really am tired. Not a good situation. I am not in a safe place. I think God, myself and this tablet and keyboard are the only ones who know that, but not for lack of trying to share on my part.
Today, if I had not initiated conversations, however brief they were, I only would’ve chatted with my son for a few minutes because he sought me out.
Maybe I should just reciprocate and match what I’m shown…what I’m given. Maybe I should just be done and fade to black.
Maybe it’s too late.