desormais

read my past journal. read it again. know you're dying. right now. and it's ok. but it's not ok. there is no ok. there just "is".

thank you, synecdoche; thank you, charlie kaufmann, for fucking me and mercie up. i'm already existentialist in philosophy, you didn't have to make me want to curl up and die. we had a cuddle fest. i think i mended her heart a little while breaking it apart. i do that. it took me a breakdown to realize i'm a terrible but wonderful person somehow.


...i start therapy on wednesday. it's my second time with an actual therapist and not a psychiatrist; i've had 2 psychs, both just want to zonk me out on meds, and i let them. until the first one caused me irreparable brain damage. (tardive dyskinesia, if you're wondering. thank you, seroquel.)

he's the first (medical /professional) person who's ever sounded like he cares. it's odd. maybe it's just because he called me back when i needed it most, even if it was at 7am after a night of tears and near suicide that mercie had to talk me down from.

wish me luck.