“I fear I am in trouble. Could call my social worker tomorrow, not going to. Planning on cancelling next INR test as don’t want to explain – maybe it won’t even be too high. I WANT to self destruct. I’m exhausted yet I am out drinking. Stopped wanting help, just need it to end now. Haven’t told my therapist about the warfarin or that I want to die. That in itself is strange. Think mum knows something is up. Hmm.”

I typed the above into my phone about an hour ago whilst at the pub with a friend. I wasn’t having an awful time, quite the opposite in fact. The problem is that my mind is set on self destruct and I can’t seem to get it to focus on anything else. Moreover, I don’t want to focus on anything else.

I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. Jan 2014 will be 15 years since I was first diagnosed with depression. Surely that’s enough. It’s almost half of my life. How is that fair? It’s a serious question – how the fuck is that fair?

There was a point in time when I didn’t care about consequences. Back in 2005 when I was really ill, I didn’t care at all. I had no responsibilities and I was too ill to care about anything or anyone outside of the circle of hell I was living in.

Now, I wish I could stop caring. I am so fucking tired, so fed up of talking, asking for help, saying the same things over and over again. It’s just too much.

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