Here I go on my week. Tomorrow I have therapy in the morning and Margaret is coming in on her day off to do a session with me. It’s good timing; because I’m going through some stuff. I’m filled with sadness sometimes. I can hardly hear some songs without breaking down. Don Henley, The Heart Of The Matter… or Richard Marx, Should’ve Known Better. Or John Mellencamp, Check It Out. That guitar was us. Right there.
I have such remorse and still my heart beats on. Silent tears. Lots of missing.
I wonder if having such complex thoughts also adds equal depth and severity to pain, loneliness? I experience things differently than most, I figure. I find my thoughts to be occasionally excruciating. Yet I’ve felt such joy. I’ve had a lot of sex too. More good than bad. And I have a lot I am thankful for. Like a loving family.
I think about Robin Williams killing himself. I think about how close I’ve come. On multiple occasions. How I can’t let something like my being neurochemically challenged cause my life to end. No one really knows how dark it is down there. How deep the hole goes. It is so hopeless there. I know he got to that place and decided it was the end. Like I did. He took his life, and I’ve had mine handed back to me. I can continue on fighting, or I can give in to the darkness and let it have me.
I don’t know how to be grateful for life. I have done much to squander it. I have contributed how best I can, but shit homes, I’ve screwed things up while I went and had my life. I am learning to simmer down. How to be strong, self-reliant and medically stable. I went and refilled my meds like a good boy. I’m staying on top of it. I hope. But do I hurt? Yes. And there’s not a whole lot I can do about it.