The Panic, It Devours Me

When I am having a particularly bad depressive day, or in this exact situation, several in a row, the feeling that lives inside me is that I am being torn to shreds.  Thoughts hurt, clothing is a nuisance, the sadness has depth, breadth and width.

These are the days that make The End (as in the righting of the ship) seem impossible to see, much less imagine.

I see people who care enough to get dressed, go out, keep their heads up, look others in the eye, talk, and I want to SCREAM at them "HEY! I'M DYING HERE!  And no one cares." I used to have my mother to pray for me --- now I'm not sure I even know anyone who prays.  My children are dealing with issues of their own (though they weigh exponentially on me), plus neither is of an age where anyone's world matters but their own.

I am sitting on this couch right now wondering how I will make it through the next ten minutes.  That's what my life is some days.  How am I going to make it through?  Why should I try?  Nothing interests me.  Nothing inspires me.  There are no conversations to be had.  There is no energy to be creative or proactive.  I just sit.  Sit on the edge of panic.  My throat closes and my heart races and I cannot take a breath and I'm going to faint and please don't let me faint and I break out in a cold sweat and I just want to now why this is still happening to me after all these years.  I've gone through therapies, I've gone through medications, and I have never been so low, so despondent in my life.  Nothing --- God help me, sometimes not even my children --- gives me reason to stay conscious anymore.

And yet, I keep waking up every morning.  And my first thought is always the same: "I hate my life."