Via Dolorosa in Exploring the Ad Infinitum-Continuum Galaxy

The disaster continues unabated…

I’ve started this entry about four times.

Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.

I don’t have the energy to type it all out.

Everything that could possibly go wrong, has gone extra-spectacularly couldn’t-go-wronger wrong.

To infinity and beyond.

Every.single.fucking.thing.

(Except: Peter is still sober. And I can’t help but wonder for how much longer, though? At this point, I wouldn’t even blame him.)

We’re fucked. You name it, it’s fucked.

I’m completely paralyzed.
My days are spent half-heartedly (see: total exhaustion) fending off crushing panic-attacks while my mind races and races and races and races - compulsively checking every nook’n’cranny - for a way out, a plan, a solution.

So far?
I gots nuthin’.

Well… apart from suicide.

I have enough (stockpiled) prescription drugs to stop this, this… unrelenting shitstorm of frustration and disappointment and grief and black-dread and overwhelming hopelessness that fucking plagues and torments me with no end in sight - no matter WHAT I DO or DON’T DO. It’s a losing battle.
There is NO solution to this.
I don’t fit - I can’t relate to other people, my connections are dysfunctional - I’m doin’ it wrong and doin’ it wrong and doin’ it wrong - over and over again. I try. Oh, fuck do I try. I keep showing up. I keep trying to make it better, turn it around, redirect it and…
this.

Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.

^ That was written over a week ago…

There’s still too much to document - or, I’m so dangerously low on all reserves that I literally can’t even type it all out. I get very poor-quality sleep due to nightmares and chronic physical pain.

I am in rough shape.

I think I’ve had a few little psychotic episodes because I keep looking back on my life, and I don’t even recognize myself. It’s like reading a book or watching someone who looks like me, stagger through it. Does that even make sense? I feel a huge gulf, a terrifying disconnect from my own sense of self, my Susan-ness.
(Sounds a bit psychotic, amirite?)
Like, “reality” is all hazy and surreal to me sometimes.
That’s new.

Like, I don’t even know if this is making any sense, cognitively or, technically - in the written word.
I think I’ve snapped.
And the stress of my day-to-day existence has paralyzed me. It feels like I’m a boxer and life keeps pounding me in the face when I’m already down.

WHERE IS THE REF?
RING THE BELL!

Plus: it has triggered so much shame - of the sticky-clinging variety. I am so embarrassed. It’s rooted in childhood and I guess it just melded to my still-forming DNA and brain and personality. Thus perpetuating it.

In particular, we are poor.
Like, food bank poor.

RATIONALLY: It is nothing to be ashamed OF. It’s not a character flaw. It’s something I’m outraged by - on behalf of other people. It’s not a measure of ANYTHING important - like my integrity, dignity, worth-as-a-human-being - it is not a reflection of me, personally. Times are tough for a LOT of people, all over. I am not alone. It’s something I have sympathy for when I see it or hear about it from other people…
LOGICALLY: I know that poverty is a multi-faceted issue. SO many variables contribute to it…
BUT IT FEELS LIKE: I am a loser, I can’t make good decisions, other people are better than me, I’m stupid, I deserve to feel like shit because I AM shit. That, I’ve been in this position my whole life and it’s somehow all. my. fault. That, even though it’s a multi-faceted issue with many variables - I, AND I ALONE!!! - should be able to fix it with my Super-Human Fix-It Strength.

(I wasn’t even going to write about this part. People have biases against poor people and there’s a lot of extremely simplistic and insulting advice bandied about, so not-helpfully. Plus, I don’t want to come off as invoking pity. I have to stiff-upper-lip it, dontcha know. BUT, I also know that talking about things helps. It’s important to speak. ANYWAYZ.)

I dunno.

Everything is shrinking - my choices and options are so limited. I have zero help or support for this. I see my doctor tomorrow and hopefully, it’s for the last time ever because I literally cannot bear to sit through another one of her ”Try to look on the bright side.” speeches.

Plus, this:

My very-good-friend tried to kill himself last week.
He just got out of the hospital.
I said to Peter:

”I would be so fucking pissed if I woke up after that.”

I found a program specifically for people like me - people that live with chronic complex overlapping disorders and have failed out of first- and second-line treatments.
It’s inpatient.
It’s in Ontario.

The waiting list, just to be triaged - is seven months long.

I have been in a “crisis” for four YEARS.

Nobody will fucking help me.
It has taken everything I have, to ask for help.
Except there isn’t any help.

PR: ”End the stigma! Tell someone! We can help!”

Ask for help: ”Get in line. Again.”

I don’t know what to do next.

There isn’t anything I actually CAN do.

So, for the moment, I just sit and wait.

Whatever is coming next is already on its way.