It's not an easy task for me to reveal my thoughts and feelings. You're probably laughing at me if you've read this site. I still have this misconception that I'm an incessant blabber of all that is Naomi but my psych appointments have pointed out that this is far from true. I talk in cryptic, ambiguous sentences instead of details.
Why? I'm not proud of my inner workings. I find them pessimistic, disgusting, dark, disturbing, violent, jealous, selfish...amongst other things. Because I want people to love me and like me and want me, I try not to share what I really feel. I don't even open up to Z, who I fear only fakes the concern like others.
Perhaps it's more than depression, bipolar, borderline, self-image. In melodramatic hyperbole, I'm dying. I have no trust and no hope. And the insistent belief from others that I can get through this only leads me to believe that no one really wants to hear my shit anymore or wants to help me out.
Last week, I asked Z to put me back on medications. Essentially, I told him that I want to be chemically lobotomized. He wouldn't prescribe anything. Since then I've been pissed with him.