Is it real or is it fake?

It happens again.  Once again I give up, leave everything behind after panicking this morning in the middle of too much work, too much pressure, too much people around me and no place to hide.  I would wish I had the power to make time stop, and just lie on the floor for as long as it would take anxiety to go away, and when it does, I’d just allow time to run again and I’d jump back in into chaotic life just as if nothing has happened.

A taxi passed by when I was running away and I just took it and went home to do the only thing that stops my thinking and anxiety: sleeping into coma.   Woke up not remembering much and feeling a little better, except that I forgot to stop time, and instead 12 hours passed by, 12 hours of responsibility I avoided and people I left waiting.

And as much as I can blame my depression-anxiety for it, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m a worthless, immature, irresponsible person who only uses depression as an excuse to avoid difficult situations, to avoid stress and responsibility.  I know that’s what my friends are thinking, I know that’s what everyone is thinking including myself.  I’m ashamed, but mostly I’m tired of repetition.  How many times will I do this? I once again think it will not stop.  I’m seeing my shrink, taking my pills, taking one day at the time, trying forcing myself to get involved with people.   But nothing changes.  It’s a never ending spiral of self destruction.

I think deep down inside I’m just expecting to push the limit and be kicked out from med school instead of making the decision of quitting for good and accept that it’s not the life that I want/deserve/can handle.   On the other hand, I remember thinking recently how much I was enjoying my work, how good I felt talking to the patients, and that I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else than working in a hospital doing something I’ve worked for and I’m good at.

Right now I feel like my head is on top of a house of cards.

Yesterday I went out, tried to have fun, went to an interesting “story telling” show that takes place in my city every year.  Talked to some people, laughed my ass off, found a friend I haven’t seen in more than a year.  Lots of good things, but the inside of my head was still drilling itself for some reason.   I didn’t want to drink alcohol either, just didn’t feel like it, and that was one of the signs that let me know things weren’t right.  I only drink when I’m happy, which is a very lucky thing because otherwise, I’d probably use alcohol as a escape measure instead of sleeping…

I’d die for a call right now but I know if anyone calls me I’d just hang up.  I secretly want somebody to cuddle me and make me forget about my thoughts, but the thought also disgusts me.  I don’t deserve it, I don’t want to be this weak.  Something inside my head keeps telling me it’s not going to get any better, that this is not a disease, that this is me.  That I can’t change.  That it’d only get better if I were born again and since it can’t be done I should probably end this pathetic life once and for all.

Even though KNOWING -in the little logical part I’ve got- left- that this is just my depression talking, it doesn’t get any better.  I feel myself going into madness, watching it, being aware of everything and still letting it happen.  And it makes me think I’m not only letting it happen, but making it happen.  Faking it, wanting it.

People at work have  been incredibly supportive about my crisis.  But they still say “Next time don’t run away, just let us know how you’re feeling, look for someone who does your shift,  go home, call your psychiatrist, and work it out.”   If I were capable of calling someone to nicely ask the favor of doing my shift, then tell everyone “Hey, I’m depressed so I’m going away now, everything is set and ready, have a nice day”, and then look out for my psychiatrist so she tells me a bunch of bullshit I’m not interested about for about an hour, I would probably be capable of just keep working damn it.

But it feels so fake, so pathetic.  I don’t deserve to use it as an excuse, especially after being laughing my ass off yesterday at the story telling show.  Man that was so funny, that story about a guy getting high, he’s such a good actor.

If I’m capable of laughing like that I’m probably not depressed, my problems are fake and I’m just a drama queen who doesn’t like to take responsibility for her actions.


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