Breakdown

Yesterday feeling stressed, Mrs Boss exasperated how she wanted "to go and have a nervous breakdown". I told her that I didn't recommend it, and was reminded of a Postsecret I saw a few years ago. I think it sums up most people's perception of a mental health crisis, as if indulging in this act is like going on a holiday. The only way to truly cure this idea is something I wouldn't wish on anyone.

A Million Little Hates

Despite my exhaustion in every way possible, I was unable to sleep last night. I picked up A Million Little Pieces, the book I am reading (when able) by James Frey and felt these words jump out at me:

I don't want to be alone. I have never wanted to be alone. I fucking hate it. I hate that I have no one to talk to, I hate that I have no one to call, I hate that I have no one to hold my hand, hug me, tell me everything is going to be all right. I hate that I have no one to share my hopes and my dreams with, I hate that I longer have any hopes or dreams, I hate that I have no one to tell me to hold on, that I can find them again. I hate that when I scream, and I scream bloody murder, that I am screaming into emptiness. I hate that there is no one to hear my scream and that there is no one to help me learn to stop screaming... I hate that what I have turned to in my loneliness is killing me, has already killed me, or will kill me soon. I hate that I will die alone. I will die alone in my horror.

9/11

Dr A. asked me yesterday if I received messages from inanimate objects; like as if the newspaper could speak specifically to me as an individual beyond the news content.
No.
I think perhaps I have changed my mind after reading today's Sunday Secrets. It's as if my subconscious has mailed in this secret warning me of what's to come:

A Bug in my Dinner.

Tonight over dinner V. made a shock reference to my holiday at Hotel Northside.
"At least when you went funny last year you did something about it."
I couldn't bring myself to tell her I had no choice. That as I stared down the barrel of the gun depression was holding to my head, it was not me who intercepted the blow, but the law; and in this there was not so much as a smirk, let alone anything funny about it.
She then adopted a technique that my mother tries on me; in telling me what she wants to hear in the hopes that my subconscious will replace my previous views with the one that she is presenting.
"Your life is going well at the moment."
It was a statement, and not a question; making it harder and more dramatic to correct her.
Instead of answering, I finished my drink.

"I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual."