Weary

I'm beginning to think the bipolar may win in the end. Right now it's stronger than I am. And it certainly has more endurance and stamina than I have. This past month has proven that. I'm so tired of the fight. The question is, do I have enough left in me to try to turn this episode around? Honestly, I don't know. Tonight my answer is no. But tomorrow I may feel differently. There's just no predicting it anymore.

I'm not actively suicidal. But if something were to happen to me, I wouldn't mind. You know how in movies there'd be a person dying of something and the doctors would say if only they had to will to fight, to live. Well, if I were that patient, I wouldn't have the will.

I'm close to giving up. Maybe that's where the frantic panicky feelings have been coming from. From my stupid instinct of survival. Maybe inside I'm screaming for help. I don't know. But what I do know, however, is that if that help is only temporary and just prolongs the agony, maybe I don't want it. That's only false hope. And that's the kind of hope you don't want. It just sets you up for more pain now and later on down the road.

My shrink sees this. He knows that I'm close. Closer than ever before to ending it. I think he thinks that if somebody doesn't help me for real, and soon, that I'll die, whether it be by my hand or something else. I've been offered the illusion of help for 16 years. I don't want any more illusions. If it's not real, then I don't want it. He sees all this. He knows. I think maybe he can help, but the only problem is that it's 2-3 weeks between sessions with him. That's a very long time.