the weirdest thing about doctor’s offices is the composition of those robes they make you wear: paper-plastic-paper.

Today at therapy I cried. I told her about the hospital thing and she said it wasn’t a big deal, and I didn’t need to do anything rash, and though she wasn’t recommending it, if that was what I needed, well, it takes five minutes to get admitted to the hospital, and a few days can do so much good. Constant observation means everything happens faster- new meds, etc. You don’t have to be alone and you don’t have to agonize about hurting yourself, because you can’t. There’s still the pain of wanting to, but not the responsibility of guilting yourself into staying alive. And a break, from work and stress and parents and junk food and judgement.

It’s tempting.

For now, though, I am holding out. With a call to the school to keep them from breathing down my neck too much.

But if this keeps up…I’m giving in. Because sometimes I just don’t have the willpower to keep up this stupid war in my head, between the forces of sanity and the armies of my “genetic predisposition to depression.” Sanity knows I shouldn’t cut myself up or kill myself or sit around doing nothing. Depression wants me to do these things. And if it were just one it would be easy. But they’re both in there, duking it out. And they’re both me. And I always think there’s enough of me to go around…but maybe even though this is all happening in the compact space between my ears, I am being spread too thin.