integrating's Diaryland Diary

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I'm not doing well.

I have shut down. I'm an embarrassing blob of depression. I find everything weighs me down like a camel on my back. My apt is a snapshot of what the evening of August 16, 2020 has done to me. The judgemental assholes in my head sing, "What you allowed the night of Aug 16 to do to you."
Sit the fuck down.
I don't want to bitch and moan...but my counselor broke up with me. "I can't be your counselor anymore, Kim. You're my friend. I hope that's OK."
Sweetest breakup ever.
I can't lay this at the feet of a friend. Although I did get an OK to call him when I'm wiggin out. He already knows everything about me. He knows the key words to put my feet back on the ground and my brains back in the skull. And I can't, mentally cannot, break in another therapist.
I had to put Starry down on Dec 4. After Sasha died on June 3rd I adopted Starry a couple weeks later. The shelter knowingly gave me a sick animal. But that's OK. She gave me a reason to laugh everyday, even when it seemed impossible to ever smile again.
My oldest son down in Tx bought a house and he invited me to live there. I keep flip flopping as to whether I really want to do that, for a myriad of reasons that at the end of the day don't really matter. I want it all... foolishness. I've been trying to escape this self-inflicted prison for five yrs. I've missed five years of watching my sons grow. I took their mother away for five years.
I'm afraid of the jump. I'm not up for the task of moving, even though I never actually moved in where I live. I should put quotes around the word live. I'm drowning.
I bought a van and I was going to live in it. I was so excited. Every package of camping gear I got in the mail was a celebration. I had everything I needed to live in it, but as a 1989 van that had trouble keeping a speed of 55 and a new expensive drama every time I replaced something. I had to let go of my dream. Had to be realistic.
I'm jumping all over the place, but I do have a lot going on in my head and my heart.
When Starry was no longer responding to treatments...A conniving little cat, not so little actually, who loves to eat and would never turn down a free lunch, started coming to eat the strays cat food on my dad's back patio. I don't know why he thought the cat was a stray. He is quite large. So the day I had to put Starry down, leave her at the vet's one last time... I was a mess. I couldn't go home alone or I knew I would crawl into bed and cry for days, and that never ends well. So the conniving fat cat was waiting for Starry to die so that I could resc, yes I will put that in quotes, so I could "rescue" him.
I cannot neatly wrap this up. Before I ever met the cat, I named him Dude. That was a Friday. Before the weekend was over I had renamed him "Butthole" until further notice. Dude is another story. I have to tell the story because he is a dot on my connect the dots depression puzzle. Sasha, Starry, Dude, giving up on a dream, having to crawl another fucking mountain to finally get home.
I'm tired of the fucking mountains. My back hurts. Another boring story told only for shock value. I was forced to buy a shower seat for when I cannot stand up straight.
I am officially someone I don't want to be.
Wear the fucking masks and be prepared to fight a red hat.

4:04 p.m. - 01.28.21

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