The Math

I cleared more brush from the back of my parents' house today. I sweated a fair bit despite the pedestrian work, I think a few mosquitoes got me, and I may have been sunburnt despite the late season. Tomorrow I will wake up with a sore back, too. Twenty-five doesn't seem like old age, but it's starting to feel like it.

Look at me, a litany of complaints.

I moved back in with my parents because, while living in Pittsburgh with my girlfriend, I wasn't getting mental help. There always seemed to be a reason not to, and I was frankly afraid. But, things came to a head, and I convinced myself that I needed to try it before ending my life. If I try it and it doesn't work, no big deal, it's a few extra months of lived pain. If I try it and it does work - that is, I get to a place where life is more good than bad - I add decades of worthwhile living. Even if I believe it to be unlikely to work, the math says "treatment" is worth trying.

So I am. And I have been. No substantive difference yet, but there's still a few things my psychiatrist wants to explore. I've got time, for now.

I am living with my parents because 1) I get cheap mental health treatment from my father's employer in-state, and 2) I'll be damned if I spend my last few months slaving away in a fucking grocery store like I was. There'll be time to figure out my future if I can get my present made into something alright.

I'm still ashamed about it.

Some pre-modern Armenian folk for you today, courtesy of Hespèrion XXI, because by about halfway through I actually felt okay. I should take what I can get, I guess.


Friday the 27th of September, 2019

Pain: 40
Struggle: 20
Success: 60