I call myself that anyway, though rumor has it the truly insane don't know they're insane. I call bull on that one.

If it hasn't been evident in the past several blogs I've posted here within the last three months let me kindly point out something: I'm going out of my fucking mind. No it has nothing to do with my SO or the mechanics of the relationship I honestly have bigger fish to fry than a supposed lack of attention. No matter how many times I blog about this elsewhere (I have a livejournal that I think only two people read, most of my issues, rants, and aggravations go there) and no matter how many times I sodomize a word document to pound out my feelings to rationalize them, to examine them, to hope to something that doing this gets it out of my system, I can't shake the sinking feeling that I'm losing my mind, my will to live, and my ability to crawl out of any hole I or someone else makes for me, biting and cursing all the way. I really have no idea what to call all of this and frankly I'm at my wit's end.

I can't talk to my mother about this, or rather I won't because whenever I do she just stares at me and I can see her brain trying and trying to come up with an answer and she has nothing, so she stares like, "what do you want me to do?" If the problem were miniscule enough that I just needed a shoulder or an ear that would be fine but it's far escalated from that point. My therapist, while a very nice woman, makes me pay her $35 for not even a full hour (our last session was 40 minutes long and I was only late by 1 minute) of her emphasizing my need to get my driver's license and exercise. I haven't been able to deter the subject ever since she found out I've been having fights with my mom, though when I cut myself and showed her she decided she had to talk down to me from then on and almost strip search me for new cuts every session. My psychiatrist... is there a more accurate term for "asshole"? The man believes I have no mind of my own, that I'm still proverbially latched to my mother's teet because I happen to live with her, and that half the things I say are lies. I pay this man $60 to listen to him tell me I'm a pain in the ass.

In short I have exhausted my nearby options regarding someone to talk to. I hesitate to tell my SO because personally it bothers me when people get upset over something like this. I'm fine getting upset if he's upset but if I'm upset and it causes him to be, I feel guilt. By all logic I shouldn't feel it, but I do and it just becomes a very awkward moment trying to convince the both of us it's not that big of a deal, that I'm fine please you don't need to call me every hour. I don't have any friends to speak of, the last one I let go and so things are just... quiet. I think that's my problem, I've always had a great fear of silence because to me, silence is never, well, silent. I suffer from auditory hallucinations (I hear voices) and they're the loudest in the quietest environments. My psychiatrist refuses to say I'm schizophrenic because I'm already bipolar, really I don't give a damn what you label it as I hear shit and it scares me. Along with it comes loneliness. I may be around my mom all of the time since she's retired, but she's happy to spend her days in her recliner, reading library books and sleeping so it's pretty much the same as if I were by myself. We don't get along anymore so conversations are rare unless she wants to tell me the latest gossip about a family member.

I go outside once a week now, usually the day I have my therapist appointment or the day I have to get prescription refills. I have no desire to be outside, to go amongst people because frankly people make me sick. I'm tired of being around stupid people or watching people go by insanely happy when I cry myself to sleep every night in an empty bed. I don't do much other than sleep, eat, and sit in front of the computer or read a book. I haven't drawn in so long, I lost the desire completely. My art was one thing I always had, a venue for emotions, my visions, my creations but I just... don't want to hold a pencil anymore. My art defined me. Without it, what am I?

I've thought about trying to check myself in to the mental health unit of the hospital again (I tried to last July but the psychologist sent me to an outpatient clinic instead, one that only made me worse because they were constantly bringing up my father and accusing me of being a psycho in the making) but I'm not so sure it would help. None of this is clinical, it's about half a dozen situational depression problems piling on one another and I can't find my way to the exit door. I've gone through 4 outpatient clinics, none help and few take my insurance or don't make me pay out the nose to sit in a folding chair in a crowded room and be lectured like I was in school, not some place designed to make me work again.

I am... completely at a loss for what to do. Every professional I've known hasn't been able to help me and the majority of people outside the profession I couldn't pay to care if I gave them all the money I had. I'm in a bad way and I'm not sure how much longer I can keep getting back up before I just lay back down and wait for either starvation or a merciful tree falling on the house to kill me. (melodramatic but well, what do you expect from someone who's depressed?) Not really sure what I'm asking for as no matter how many times I hear "I've been there" "I know how you're feeling" I have to wonder. I'm not entirely sure talking it out at this point will do me a lick of good either. I just want to be happy, is that too much to ask?