I don’t know why I’ve been in such a depressive the past few days. I think I’m just tired and stressed. And anxious to find my damn med cocktail already.

It doesn’t help that the hubby and I are going through a rocky patch atm. Nothing like a few years ago, but still rocky. We aren’t arguing over anything specific really. Just whatever we can find to argue at any given moment. Let’s face it. We are both mentally fucked, trying to coexist. There are going to be rocky times. We’re both tired. We’re both physically sick. We’re both stressed. We’re bickering. I still mostly enjoy his existence so I’m not to worried. And he didn’t kill me when I threw my phone and it took a chunk out of his foot (yes, that’s why it’s dead) so it could be worse. BTW… the throwing… he pissed me off while I was under the influence of steroids. Yes, I know it takes years to develop roid rage. But I’m sensitive to any chemicals in me, so it’s enough to tip me over the edge I tightrope walk on anyways. I have rage issues to begin with. So no, steroids don’t help.

Back to my mood.

I think I’m just sick of migraines, stressed over money then I still owe Jesse for my ticket (10$ of my 20$ weekly spending money goes to him). As a result I can’t finance my photo finishing addiction… right when I finally got my good camera. I have about 30$ in prints waiting for me at work. Luckily my boss doesn’t give a damn and knows why I’m strapped for cash. (Duh, he works for the same company… we don’t work there for the money.)

I feel like I’m rambling when all I’m really trying to say is I don’t know why the funk.

I guess the big question that the professionals would be fast to ask is am I suicidal? Yes. But not nearly to the point where I’m a risk. It’s more a wishing I would go quiet and naturally in my sleep. I made a promise to my kid and I’m going to stick to it. I won’t kill myself. Doesn’t mean I can’t wish for natural causes.

Am I cutting? I did. Just once. I honestly think is was mostly a reaction to realizing my scars are gone. I miss them. They were kinda like my reminder of how bad I’ve been and my reassurance that things could be worse. Then I went to show Kate my scars and they were gone. It broke my heart. I don’t think the one little cut I made a week ago will scar. It’s shallow and superficial. But I felt like an important part of me was suddenly without warning gone and I wanted it back. I also was curious if I still had what it took to do it. Do I? No. I’m in nowhere near enough pain to enjoy the rush.

So what does all this mean? I’m in a funk but I’m ok.