I was in my kitchen last night, trying to come up with dinner because the leftover Mardi Gras gumbo with all its seafood was not appealing. And I just thought, I want to give up. Not just in the kitchen, which I'd so loved over the past few years, cooking new recipes all the time. I want to give up everything.
How freeing it would be to just stop trying and throw my goals away. I wouldn't feel guilty or ashamed about not doing things. I already partly do this. I'm often in bed by 8:00, happily snoozing a dreamless sleep for as long as I can.
I was in a very popular grocery store on Superbowl Sunday - my mistake, it was so crowded - and while entering an anxiety attack, I thought, I don't need this shit. This isn't the way to live. But this week I really don't know the way to live.
Knowing that my depression, through my bipolar disorder, is lying to me is only partly soothing. I'm listening to the lies.
And frankly, I'm tired of trying to understand everything that happens in my brain. And tired of trying new meds. If I gave up I wouldn't have to keep trying.
This story has no ending.