I finally visited the psychiatrist this past Wednesday. I’m on clonazepam now, a benzodiazepine. It makes me sleepy, but it also helps me get so much more done. My sleep isn’t as awful as it was a few days ago, and my anxiety has died down to a low boil.

I still feel myself screaming inside my head. Please, God, let me die.

I’ll give this some time to work before I give up on it. I’ll be positive about the potential this has to help me. I’ll think good thoughts and exercise and diet right and adopt the “fake it til you make it” attitude. I’ll do it all. I’ll fight this with all my strength.

Except—I’m tired. My boyfriend is going through a major depressive episode. Textbook publishing just entered its busy season, so I’m bringing work home. I have negative funds despite my paychecks. I just started new medication after being off them for several months. I just surrendered two good girl friends to the sake of my relationship. I saw Leopard Fur tonight, and though I adore him, I felt so uncomfortable the entire time. I felt I was putting on a face. I’ve never felt that before with him, but here I am, feeling that with everyone—even Sam. Oh, and I’m on a month-long job interview for a position I desperately desire. I eat at my desk, most days.

He says, I’ve been distracted these past few months by women. I wish he would understand that I wasn’t distracted by women. I was trapped in my own head, a veritable mute screaming out for help. Can you imagine the frustration coursing through my every muscle constantly? My neck is stiff and my back is all knots. I get my best sleep on buses and trains. The home I once loved has begun to feel like a trap. I brace myself each day for some new obstacle. Most often, I find the obstacle is him. What’s going on with my happy home?!

I’m exhausted. How am I supposed to fight my depression and trauma when I barely have time to think?! When the pain of depression is still on me, but I still have to run my life with a smile? I need my boyfriend’s help, but he’s too in need of my help to offer any of his own. Who’s left?

You—come to think of it. It’s more important now than it’s ever been that I write here. Don’t be afraid to nag me when I disappear for more than a day. It’s pathetic, but I’m asking for your help.