Colours

A part of me would really like to kill myself. There you go, I put that out there. I suppose everybody thinks like that sometimes. I don't think I would do it though, not unless I really lost my mind. I always have some connection to reality, even if it gets a bit warped.

Today was father's day, so I went with A. to his parents house for lunch. I was feeling very very anxious, and   had this nauseous "off" feeling, teeth-against-blackboard type feeling again. It was really bad, I couldn't really interact with anyone. A's parents had friends over too, so I hope they didn't think I was rude by not speaking. M insisted that we sing and play guitar for them, so I did it but I felt terrible doing it. I couldn't stand the sound of music today, same with the radio in the car on the way home.

A. dropped me off at home then went to a rehearsal. I watched tv series online, then I got in the bath with bath salts and I SH'd again, first time in a few days. I'd actually healed really good in that time, shame I guess. But tonight I also painted a picture, acrylic on canvas:

I am quite proud of it, it's my first canvas painting. or even "real" painting come to that. I really like just dabbling with the colours, its therapeutic, somehow.

I took an antipsychotic tonight, I'm feeling all wrong and of-hilter I know I get that when I'm bordering on mildly psychotic. Well, so says the pdoc anyway. 

I don't really like existing, I always feel either afraid or sad or agitated or extreme fatigue and I never feel "normal." I can't really remember what it feels like just to be okay, to be happy. 

Maybe I can live on disability pension and just stay home and paint pictures, play music, read, write, eat and sleep. Well what would the point of that be, because I'd still be sad. I'm not quite sure why I can't just be a normal human. Sometimes I think it is my own fault, that I'm somehow making myself sick. Sometimes I think its the world that has the problem, not me. But in the end none of it makes any difference.