Day 42 With Dora

I’m scared. We received the application from our chosen service dog training organization, and I need to submit proof of my disability. I understand this, rationally. It makes sense, and of course it’s part of the process. That’s fine.

But I’m panicking.

This is so dumb. 

At my core, I still don’t believe that I deserve help. I’ve been told so many times that it’s my fault that I sleep through class, my fault that I have no motivation, my fault that I can’t focus, my fault that I don’t feel better, my fault that I can’t just let go of the past, my fault that I’m overwhelmed, my fault that I’m not choosing better reactions, my fault, my fault, my fault.

I have tried, guys. I have run myself ragged, used all the energy that I had for classes, poured out everything trying to succeed. At the lowest, I wasn’t eating, wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t a thing, wasn’t washing my clothes, wasn’t brushing my teeth, wasn’t spending any time on hobbies, and I still failed.

I still failed. All of my classes but one, and that one was entirely based on 5 essays. No attendance, no exams, no homework.

It is so hard to pass classes when you’re only awake for a few hours a day because your body needs 20 hours of sleep.

It is so hard to succeed when you’re smothered by your shame at struggling, then disappointing others, then failing altogether.

It broke me, guys. I haven’t been the same since then, because I have absolutely everything that I had, without holding back anything for myself, and it still wasn’t enough.

I tried so hard.

Depression is stronger than I am. Bigger and faster and pervasive. I couldn’t beat it. Worse, it feeds into my anxiety, because as depression cripples me, I get stressed about my decreased abilities, which makes me more depressed, then stressed, then meltdown.

No matter how well I may be doing right now, I know that I’m not normal. I know that others don’t have suicide’s shadow lurking behind them, waiting for the light to fade. It’s been so long, my whole life, just drowning under the weight of my existence, that I’m used to it. It’s normal.

This is what it means to still be breathing. Of course I’m constantly afraid. Of course I’m ashamed of myself. Of course I prefer others over myself at every opportunity. Of course I feel alone, and hollow, and disconnected. I’m still alive, so why would those feelings stop?

I’m just functioning with them. It’s still here.

I hate my life. Why can’t anything be easy? Why can’t I ever rest? What does it have to be like this? What did I do wrong? Why?

{Aside: In case I’m worrying any of you, please rest easy. I’m not suicidal, everything is safe. Like I said, this is normal, and I’m used to it. It was simmer back down in a little bit, and I’ll just avoid poking at it. I will be ok.}

The troll is having a rough day too. Dora has been having a fabulous day, which is good. At least she’s happy. 


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