I can barely function. Writing has become nearly impossible. I see the Psychiatrist tomorrow morning at 8am. I am hanging on tightly until then.
Despite what I write next, I will not hurt myself. I will not vanish into death. I promise.
Visions of suicide float through my mind. Romantic images of dying like Ophelia (trite, I know) wander, unbidden, throughout my day.
I mentally count my meds, seeing if I have enough to make me fall asleep forever.
Even as I sleep 18 hours a day, unable to work, I am still always exhausted.
I cannot wait to get help tomorrow.