Another Year

I don’t know much about this site. I don’t know if anyone is actually reading this. I don’t want to complain, and I don’t want to make anything worse. I only want to write; I love to write. I can’t imagine I’m very good at it, but I love it. It’s among the only things that distracts from everything else.
I really can’t do it anymore.
I’ve tried so hard for so many years. The depression, the anxiety, the stress, the unprecedented shame and awkwardness, the never-ending pot of guilt, and the hopelessness. I’ve seen so many counselors, I’ve been on meds, I spent a week in Crisis center, and been to the ER so many times. I’ve tried every religion, to find God(s), to see if it will help. I’ve told my story, how I feel, so often. Throughout it all, I’ve only put so much more distress in my already broken family. My close three friends have heard my tirade, but there’s only so much advice they can give to a case they aren’t prepared for.
What good is any of it? After eight years, why would anything get better? Am I going to magically find all of my solutions somehow? No, no I think not. There is no answer, life is what we’ve made it.
But I’ve tried so hard. So hard, please believe me, so very hard, to make it better. I’ve done everything I can to support others during the process, to be helpful, to give whatever I can. I don’t know what else to do.
I’m just so tired. I can’t lift anything anymore. I can’t imagine doing this all anymore. A year ago I was in a hospital room, my arms bloodied and my thoughts distant.
I don’t want to be here in another year.