My therapist suggested to me some bullshit self-help workbook. I have very little confidence that it will tackle the ever-mounting difficulties I see in trying to exist in this world, but, I should exhaust all reasonable options before ending my life. Thus: the therapy, medication, and workbook.
It wants me to fill out a form evaluating the day's experience, daily, for two weeks. I'm doing it on here, since the bullshit workbook only has space for one week. (And, hey, I can go for longer if, by some miracle, it makes any difference to me.) I'll try to post every evening, with numerical scores at the bottom: pain (mental/emotional distress each day), struggle (effort expended controlling or opposing the pain), and overall success (vitality/value of the day), rated between 1 and 100.
Today's bullshit workbook exercise was seeing how long I could hold my breath. Two minutes. Better than I thought, but my body got desperate toward the end. Survival instinct rules the day again.
The weather was good, so I got outside to do lawn and garden work. I am back at my parents' house during this time of treatment, and they don't want to charge me rent, so I insisted on doing summer mowing without pay. It seemed only fair - who wants their 25-year-old child to move back home?
Last week I was able to finish the hedge I was last working on. I began to panic after starting - again, with no discernible trigger or reason - but I regulated my breathing and just continued.
This week? Cutting saplings. I don't know how just an hour or two of work tires me out so much. I feel so weak. It's easy to imagine just shriveling away to a fucking skeleton: I'll end up as one sooner or later anyway.
I'm listening to "Withatten 1892" by Ulwhednar as I write. Embed
Here's the bullshit workbook-mandated entry I mentioned.
Wednesday the 11th of September, 2019
Pain: 35
Struggle: 20
Success: 60
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