Pity

Every time I walk out of that room I feel like shit. Granted it’s my own damn fault. But still makes me feel like shit. Every single thing that comes out of my mouth comes of as inane or ignorant or usually both. And then when they have to carefully explain to the dumbass why his ideas are stupid, it comes off as if they are talking to a child instead of a 26 year old man. I’ve talked about this before. The way they view me. They expect nothing of me and have to treat me with kid gloves. Something to be pitied. I hate it. I can tell by the way the look at me. The way the talk to me. I don’t like looking at them or talking to them. I was silent as we walked back to the lab. Took maybe 30 seconds. No more than a minute. But it was a very uncomfortable walk. I’m constantly told by the therapists and psychiatrists that my suicidal ideations are sort of like a safety blanket. Something I can fall back on as a way of comforting myself when I’m in these sort of situations. But I’d never do it. It kinda pisses me off when they say that. I’m a spiteful person. So maybe when I’m at that ledge or with the gun to my head and I think of backing out, I’ll remember how it’s my safety blanket and pull the trigger anyways. To prove them wrong. What a hilarious way to go.