I can feel my sanity rushing away from me in an exhausted stream. Sometimes it’s slow, a draining weight against my limbs and voice. Sometimes it’s painfully fast, as though I’ve fallen and am tumbling pell-mell, gaining speed every second, down a rocky, barren hill. I want to say help me. And I’ve said it, and there’s a person or two trying, but this fight isn’t going well. I have the disconcerting feeling that either I cannot be saved or that the only one who can save me is myself, and I don’t know how to do it. I’ve tried. But I don’t have the strength, or the willpower, or the chutzpah to do it. I am failing myself. I am failing everyone who loves me. I think they might be failing me too, but I waiver on the point. I am unsure. Are they self-absorbed, and blind because I do not literally limp from this disease? Or are they trying their damnedest, stretched to the limits of reasonable patience, and I am simply too full of the angry, guilt monster to perceive accurately? Best guess? It’s somewhere in between. I tremble in anger, or maybe fear. It seems I have been through half of the medications known to man and at their best, things are different but not better, one sickness mildly muted and a million side effects added. I’m afraid. I’m afraid I’m going to be sad and sorry for the rest of my life. This cannot be all there is to life, this terrifying hopeless, helpless place. Other people have been to ugly, ugly depths and climbed out (though probably just as many of them haven’t managed, says an ugly voice in the back of my head). I must find myself a ladder. Dear God, I do not want to drown.