Another 16 years

So I realized that I have never really enjoyed anything in my conscious life. My life is a constant frustration, constant boredom that eats away at your remaining human frailty. I think its bothersome that society casts aside boredom as a non-issue, when it actually sits amongst the tenets of depression and anxiety and other higher class things of that nature. I also beleive that I wanted to kill myself because I am so afraid of death that when I had the feeling that I accepted death, I needed to take that opportunity immediately to take advantage of not having a fear of death. Now this is a blinding, paralyzing fear, enough to create a living hell, which is what my life is turning out to be. Coping skills? they have no use to me now. I feel like my life is coming beyond repair and my mind is permanently burned out. The only comfort I can possibly salvage is going along with this despairing fate of mine rather than trying to fight it. I dont understand how anyone can expect me to try to fight this torrent, this savage beast of life when I am so weakly armed and so weakly defended. they sit back and judge and watch while I act like David without a slingshot against a Goliath of torment. They yell things at me and toss little plastic pills but they just bother me more. The biggest mistake of my life was telling anyone how I felt, because it completely destroyed me and got rid of my only hope of getting help, and now that I am getting help, it doesnt work and only makes matters worse. Every ounce of hope is quickly washed away and seems completely fake and unenjoyable, and when Im not in a completely depressed mood I feel even worse that I am so empty rather than full of despair. Now, the only comfort I have is wallowing in my stupid self pity and exasperation and when I cry, and when i stop crying I want to cry again, weeping for nothing, desiring to go back to hospital, but to live there. I cant deal with a gradual change, I have no strength, I am burnt out from exhaustion. And I hate that the only time I feel remotely satisfied is when I am depressed. What a great birthday

I need to write. Like stories and novels and plays and screenplays and scripts and poems and novellas and anecdotes and the like. I need to prove myself in some way, and I need approval. For writing is the only thing that I can communicate to any other person, speech is overrated.

But regardless, other things have been going on. I am seeing more clearly this idea of fate playing out in my life. I could be completely wrong, and probably am, but fantastic realities are so much more enticing to beleive. I see myself succumbing to this evolutionary fate that I bear that tells my body to die, and I honestly think that there are so many signs to suggest that I was meant to die, both through my mind and body, mentally and physically. I am killing myself without killing myself. OR, I can escape this fate by extreme measures, by leaving almost everything that is familiar and join something that was once beyond my scope of mind, something so radical or reactionary that is also real to me that makes me actually fight this suicidal infection. And I know staying where I am can only bring me so far in my journey, and so far I only see myself leading the way to the first path. That path tells me that my being wants me to die, that I am currently in a struggle with myself and the rest of the world, no support anywhere. I am hanging on by a loose thread right now whose savior is unknown. I need that moment, the sacred moment. I need a click, a snapping of the fingers, a genie with three wishes, I need help. Im getting help, but how can they help if they are only telling me to help myself, when I'm struggling with myself.