Tonight has been one trigger after another, after another.
It doesn’t matter what the fuck the cause was. Or the result, or the aftermath. Or even the aftermath of the aftermath.
Because it was all wrong. And it was all fucked up.
Be it the events of the week (my appointment with my neuromuscular doc where I realized how much my disease has progressed in the last year), or just the events of the evening (where I didn’t feel heard or cared about or any of the above)…
It sucked. The entire night sucked.
There wasn’t a good part about it.
From 7pm, to where I sit on the bathroom with my 100+# doggo at nearly midnight.
This week has been fucked up. Tonight has been fucked up. And honestly, I want to die.
I’m the closest I’ve been in a while to intentionally having too much of one thing or another, and permanently going to sleep.
And it’s not that I want to.
I don’t.
I don’t want to stop the good. Or the hopeful.
It’s just…I keep being promised the bad. And the hard. And the hurtful.
To be honest, I feel like more of a burden to my family than they deserve. For more reasons than one. To be insured, it’ll take food out of their mouths. Actual money out of our paycheck. Which we do not have to give.
And to be uninsured….its a risk to everyone in guaranteed exorbitant medical bills. And they don’t deserve that either.
But…..to not exist and to spare them from all of that?
That seems like an option worth exploring. Especially tonight. During the hard. During the fucked up and impossible.
I saved my doggos life when he showed up starving and neglected at my back door nearly 6 months ago.
And now he’s doing his best to save my life in return.
He’s killing it, honestly. Because I had a lot of intentions of not waking up tomorrow. But we took some selfies instead. And I’m trying my best. I really freaking am.
Joy can exist. Hope can exist. But sometimes…it’s just too fucking hard to see.
Tonight has been unfathomably brutal.
But I didn’t fall back into my worst patterns and habits. I didn’t make any mistakes I’d be permanently regretful of.
And I’m not dead. Yet.
Not dead yet.
My genetic disorder wants to kill me.
My depression wants to kill me.
But they don’t fucking get to make those choices for me.
Fuck ALL OF THAT.
I’m in charge here.
So fuck all of it.
The physical health. The mental health. And the things I don’t get a say in.
I make my own choices.
And I’m so much fucking stronger than you’ll ever admit to out loud.
I win this fight. Me.
Not my fatal genetic disorder. Not depression.
I WIN. Me.
And not a god damn thing other than that.
No matter how long these damn nights are.