I haven’t been posting as often as usual (daily) because, even with all the excitement and birthday and exterior activity, my blasted mental illness is still pushing itself forward, soaking through all my intentions and muting all my attempts at progress.

I’m still seeing a psychiatrist and a psychologist. I’m still staying constant on my prescribed meds. I’m still staying away from booze (obviously) and caffeine. I’m still getting plenty of sleep. I’m still exercising at least 5x a week. I’m still getting up and staying active all day. I’m still taking time to meditate and just be still for a while every day. I’m still reading, still journaling, still praying, still writing gratitude lists, still eating right 98% of the time, still putting my desire for sanity into the Universe, still subscribing to holistic approaches and still implementing every possible tactic I can possibly conjure to possibly knock the momentum out of this stealthy disease.

I’m fucking exhausted.

I hate it when I keep getting advice, as if, after years of researching and seeking help I still haven’t heard “Well are you eating right?” “Maybe you should get out of the house and get some sunlight!” “Why are you so unhappy? Try thinking about things you’re grateful for!” I EFFING KNOW, okay?

I know there’s no reason I topple into this physically painful hole every day where my mind can’t focus on anything and I sit, staring for unaccounted periods of time. I know there’s no reason I shake and cry as my mind pushes all my neuroses on me. I got it. I know.

I’m still trying. I’m still pushing forward. I’m still standing. I’m still fighting my habitual destructive thoughts with a gentle “NO!” when they start and I’m keeping in constant motion to keep my mind from wandering to that hurting place anyway. I’m still doing everything that I can and praying, begging for relief. I’m ready. I’ve been ready.

In fact, at this point I would rather never have a single moment of elation for the rest of my life if I knew that I wouldn’t have to contemplate real self-destruction so often. I mean that. I’d sacrifice every potential moment of unadulterated bliss for all those thousands of evenings I endure where I’m convinced I’m on my last legs of sanity. In a heartbeat.

I’m tired of having this in my back pocket every day. I’m tired of throwing it away and cleaning my hands of it, only to find that it’s crawled back into my life when I wasn’t looking. I feel assaulted and taken advantage of, even though I keep fighting.

But I am still fighting.

(Hope that doesn’t make me sound like I’m vying to be some sort of martyr. I just had to vent a little. I’m tired.)