So … I’m out. Like, out from hospital.
I didn’t think I had missed home, and I didn’t. I didn’t miss the living room or the kitchen. But I did miss my rooms. I missed being able to sit in my couch and put my feet on the table. I know, I know it’s not very sanitary or whatever, but it goes! I missed my purple home-knitted blanket, I missed the candles and all of my books. So for a little while it felt good, slouching down on the couch, putting my feet on the table … and then suddenly I was filled with despair. The same feeling as before. I remembered how, and why it had become as bad as it did, and it felt as bad as it was again.
I’m gonna be honest: I’m scared! I’m scared that this is how it’s gonna feel forever. I’m scared that I’ll never get better. I’m scared that living is always gonna be so painful I can’t handle it. I’m scared that somehow I’ll forget how to breathe and then die. And the worst thing isn’t dying. The worst thing is living. I’m scared to exist in a world where there’s this strange unexplained pain every day. Where loneliness and emptiness, and hopelessness swallows you. I’m scared that the sun will go down, and the suicidal impulses will be to hard to handle. I’m scared to live.
I just don’t really know how to handle this. I wish it was easier. I wish I had a manual I could follow. Always do the right things and not need to be alone with the pain.