A new drug in my regimen is helping the others do their work. As long as there's enough Abilify in my system, the Cymbalta and Wellbutrin seem to click a bit better. I don't feel that howling pain at the back of my throat that marks my depression.
And yet ... With the relief being as welcome as it is, I feel no less drawn to suicide than when I am desperate. I live in a world that makes no sense to me at all. I make no sense to me at all. I do know, however, that I hate who I am, that I am utterly at odds with me, and that no amount of medication can hide that fact. It's a strong emotion honestly come by, and it is no less real for being a seemingly lifelong perception built atop an emotional reality.
If I fail to kill myself, whenever that eventuality (hoped-for eventuality, that is) comes to pass, I will be severely disappointed. Dying any other way, given how I perceive myself and the world I find myself in, would be a cop-out. I hope, I pray, I find the courage to do this. If it hurts others, so be it; it's not as though they haven't hurt me.
And yes, dying is the only thing that matters to me any longer. Everything else is time abided, time wasted. Pointless.
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