sigh

I’m done. I can’t believe I have to keep waking up for the next… what? How long? I don’t know what is going to happen with my marriage or anything else. I don’t know how my … self… is going to affect my kids. How long am I going to just be getting from one end of the day to the other? I don’t want to say it’s unfair, because no one’s inflicting it on me. I don’t know how God works, but I know God doesn’t work like this. Personal freedoms, free-will, poor choices, poor judgment.. Tendencies toward self destruction, self harm, self abuse. Last night I was laying in bed imagining what it would be like to hit my own arm or hand with hammer. Or dropping cement blocks on my foot. I am constantly imagining a car accident, or cars coming around corners when I’m walking and running me down, and what a relief that would be. It wouldn’t be my fault, no one could blame me for it and be resentful, or feel sorry for me, and no one would feel guilty about it. What kind of accident could it be? It would have to really look like an accident, at this point in my life, because people are going to be really suspicious if suddenly I just DIE right now. I don’t think you can cause yourself to get terminal cancer or something like that.. At least not on short order. Falling down stairs? Getting hit by a car? Drowning? All carry a high risk of *not working out* and me ending up a vegetable, or incapacitated.
This has become an escape for me, not the escape of death, but the escape of fantasizing about death. The escape of justifying to myself how much better off everyone would be, IF I could find a way to do it that would appear completely as an accident. But only if it could be an accident.
My kids keep me alive. They keep me acting like a person. If I weren’t responsible for them, and responsible for showing them a sane, reliable, attentive mom, I don’t know what I would have done to myself by now.
I debate about calling the therapist Beth and telling her this is not easing up at all. I consider it sometimes because I wonder if I should be more concerned about the kids’ well-being since they spend so much time with me. I keep myself fairly well under control, there’s no crying, or yelling, or anything like that. I play with them and take them places and try to make sure they’re entertained and wearing clean clothes and fed and all that.

I am so fucking lonely and so isolated that I’m resorted to not even sharing random thoughts with my fake friends on Facebook, I am sharing my own suicidal ideation with myself because it’s not safe to share with anyone else. I am not at all surprised that I have been self medicating. This is so much worse, this numbness and this isolation and this tear-LESS-ness and this loneliness. So much worse than regular depression/sadness.