So, I wasn't going to post here again. But I don't want to write this on my new blog - I can't - I added family there and I really don't want to worry my family. The website is special to me, too: it's the better me, the 'whole' me.. well, the flashes of her that I sometimes get. That's probably why I've slowed down with it now it's come to writing content. I want to write happy, insightful things. But it's hard to write happy insightful things when all you can think is aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggh. Still, screaming's good for you, right?

I literally don't know what to do. I'm working so hard at being 'well' but I'm not even sure I know what well is. There's a bit of a family crisis going on, at the moment, I'm not going to go into details but it's not good. And it is more important than my depression. So, I tell the people involved that I'm fine and not to worry (although they still do). And I AM fine, comparatively. But, God, if I don't type these thoughts out I'm going to explode. It was dad's birthday yesterday, or would have been if he hadn't died nearly three years ago. I wasn't good the night before and was too close to self-harming. I was prodding at myself with scissors. See, my left wrist had been throbbing all day, it has been for a while, nagging to be cut. I had that before I started burning: the compulsion. I didn't do very well at fighting that, I'm doing better at fighting this thanks to the meds. But even as I'm typing this there's a constant dull ache to do it. But I didn't then, and I won't now, I painted - the thing I'm the worst at in the whole world. It was therapeutic and dire and distracting enough to calm me so I could sleep. Yesterday, the day itself, was actually better. I made myself go out, armed with a camera and the walking, sun and hours editing later left me in a better place.

So what the fuck is wrong with me today? Death is heavily on my mind: dad died a month to the day after his birthday and the aforementioned family crisis could be resulting in another one soon. I need to be strong, but I don't want to be strong. I saw the docs a week ago, mentioned I'd been suicidal - she asked me if I'd act on it. I won't. It would destroy people I care about. I said I didn't feel like I was staying alive for myself. I'm not sure how true that is, actually: I enjoy the good days, I take pleasure in the small things I do to occupy myself. It just isn't enough. I don't want to live with this constant feeling of emptiness, hoping and wishing things will change. I don't want to feel like a constant whining burden when I know so many people suffer more than I can even imagine. I'm tired of feeling half coshed and half agitated all the time, I'm tired of not having anyone to talk to about it. I'm sick of listening to myself moan.

I just don't know what the point is, at all.