Stupid.

Everything's stupid. Don't ask me why- it just is.

I'm running out of footholds. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. it's all just... too much.

I heard from my pen-pal again. Funny, how you sometimes think you know someone. Everything was a lie. I don't even know what gender any more. And yet, I'm not surprised. Hurt, yes. But not surprised. It just so happens that my best friend being a lie fits in perfectly with how my life is going at the moment. And besides, what can I do about it, anyway. I'm powerless in this situation... Just like everything else.

How stupid.

I had the joy of discovering what a panic attack feels like today. It was awful.

Damn my weakness. Damn my fragility.

I used to be a pretty strong person. Not any more. Now I feel more like glass. Cracked, chipping glass. It pisses me off. Every little thing just keeps piling up and up and up, and there's no relief in sight. And then that last little bit falls on top of everything else, and I break into a million pieces.

It's very glamorous, sitting in your bathroom, bawling your eyes out for a million reasons and you can't pick which one.

And then you look up at the vanity, and see the pill bottles just sitting there. You could end it right then, if you wanted to. And you do want to. But you know that if it fails, you will go back to the hospital, to that place where you're treated like the poisonous scum on the bottom of a shoe... They don't give a damn about you, but they're wary enough to not let you out of their sight for more than fifteen minutes.

And then you're torn. The pills are calling you- if you take enough of them at once, they will ease the pain forever. But your mind and heart are filled with fear of the what ifs, the consequences, the things left behind.

You start to hyperventilate, your eyes widen, and your heart rate skyrockets.

You curl your knees up to your chest, and hide your face against them, covering your ears with your trembling hands. Your sobs are running you ragged, but you can't regain control.

It isn't over yet.

You're trying to cry quietly, so that no one will worry over you, but your cries are coming out much louder than you would like. You can't control your body's convulsing as sobs mix with hysterical laughter. You can't stop. You're only dimly aware of what's happening. Your heart is beating too fast, causing you great pain and adding to your tears.

Your mind wanders as you lose the last bit of control over your body, which is still trembling and convulsing. Your throat is raw from the harsh sobs that are tearing through it, but you hardly notice. What caused all of this?

Mere minutes ago, you were fine.
You were laughing.
Everything was okay.

The door opens, and your mother walks in. She knows that she is what pushed you to this, and a mumbled apology escapes her.

You are lost; blame and forgiveness tumble out of your mouth in the same sentence. You know you're not making sense, and you dig your nails into your palms in an attempt to stop your body's shaking. Unable to think clearly, and overwhelmed by the new flood of emotions, you begin to hyperventilate a second time. Your mother says nothing, but stays by you, stroking your hair.

Slowly, you begin to regain control, You bring yourself to your knees, then to your feet, standing waveringly on shaking legs. You see the tears in your mother's eyes.

Look what you've done.

Quickly you begin to fix things as best you know how: Draw the blame into yourself.

And so the cycle begins anew.

I was there not two hours ago. I was frightened. I still am.
I don't know what to do.
I don't know how much more of this I can take.
I feel so... wobbly.

There are so many things in this house that could kill me, if I took the initiative.
I could be dead in the morning and no one would ever really know why.
That scares me.
I scare me.

It's been a year since I began treatment for my depression.

Am I ever going to get better?