I could be offered death right now, and I would take it.  If it was silent and painless, I would take it.  It’d have a lot more peace than I’ve ever gotten in life.  There’s no point to this piece of shit hovel we call consciousness.  I could kill myself, and how would that affect me?  It wouldn’t.  It would affect the people who remain alive.  But why should I care about those people?  Their feelings aren’t nearly as important as my feelings are.  Or are they?  I’m still here, and I know I don’t want to be.  Clearly, I’m putting other people’s feelings before my own.  Because there’s nothing here for me—a simpleton’s job, a difficult relationship, and my family.

No, nothing to stay for.

I’m not even a good writer.  It’s the one thing I want to be good at doing, and I can’t seem to get it right.  I simply want to die—effortlessly, like life should be.  I don’t deserve this breathing I feel compelled to do.  I can’t endure this anxiety.  I’m exhausted with the meds.  I want to close my eyes, then not wake up.  A forever sleep sounds heavenly.

Instead, this nothingness is a vice, an addiction, a warden.  There’s nothing left outside of me that matters, so I withdraw from the world in every way, at every opportunity I can.  I wonder if there’s a name for the emotional equivalent of the fetal position, and where can I find that information out.

That’s what I wonder only seconds before I realize I use learning as a sedative, the way others use food or sex.  I can’t yet fathom what I’m so afraid will happen if I rejoin the world.

As usual, I don’t know the answer.  Simply, my little voice says, Little Lucy is always afraid; she needs no evident reason to be. After all, I’m crazy and strange.  Can’t I see it in the eyes of coworkers and acquaintances?  I’m a freak.

Or so the paranoia I’ve been fighting these past two decades momentarily led me to conclude.

At once, my focus and retention rate cause me shame.  There’s nothing cohesive enough about my thoughts to create something cohesive to read or to speak.  Among my million other fears, I’m afraid depression is robbing me of my ability to express myself effectively.  I feel dumber and crazier.  I fear I’m slipping.

I think, who will tolerate me then?

And if I write it all down so I can see how insane my thoughts can be, will I be protected from their effects?

I’m being ridiculous.

Related posts:

1. Freewriting: I’m Crazy, & They Can’t Fix Me
2. Freewriting Panic Attack: Waking Nightmares
3. Freewriting Panic Attack: There’s Never Enough to Cry About
4. Freewriting Panic Attack: The Building. Shaken. Up.
5. Upswing: Just Keep Breathing