I saw my old psychiatrist the other day. It's been years. He said something like: I can give you something that will help stop the symptoms from getting in the way but you'll still have problems. Perfectly reasonable. Except really I went there hoping that he had something magic that will make it all go away. Even though I knew he didn't. That he'd tell me the hopelessness is all in my head. Even though I knew it wasn't. It's just reality. I told myself I was just depressed and to hang in there, but what I feel isn't imagined, it's the reality that I've made. Not some misfiring wires or lack of this or that neurotransmitter. I guess it's typical of me that I'd try to make the shithole that I've turned my life into out to be an illness. I'm just one of those people who suck. Who won't take responsibility, won't get their act together. Passive, self-centered, lazy and worthless. And when I understand that I don't want to live life, well that's the way it should be. If it were someone else I'd say, "good, now maybe they'll learn." Except I can't learn. I don't learn. I'm 39 and I've tried to change. I've changed for a while but I end up miserable and terrible - but in new and different ways - and slip back into uselessness every time eventually. It's like I'm an addict who's hit bottom, except I'm not addicted to anything except being a completely useless, selfish piece of shit. And there's no 12 step for that. I'm trying to confront the fact that instead of just fantasizing, I really really need to end this. The longer I live, the more I poison everything. I'm a cancer. But if I kill the cancer I destroy my parents (who I still live with!) and I don't want to hurt them at all. Even though my existence hurts them too. They're still hoping that someday I'll turn out OK. And that's the thing that makes it hardest - that when I die I can't console my mother, or console my father, or console my bird. I can't do it and make it all better too.