Today I have mostly done ‘good’ things.

I listened to a guided meditation. I can’t do pay-attention-to-the-breath but there is one I downloaded that is about listening to sounds – he rings bells – and that works ok for me. I’d go so far as to say I quite like it.

Then H and I walked to the park again. It was another lovely day, the light was amazing and made all the colours rich. H talked to me about things I could do in the future and all the support I could have and how I just had to take it one day at a time.

After that I lay on my bed and listened to music, and the music almost moved me to make art.

I also had a text from a new friend I made on the ward. She’s been discharged now but we’re staying in touch. She lives near me and she likes art and pottery too.

But all this is only on the surface, and underneath, while I don’t feel desperate today, and I don’t have any internal screaming, I still don’t believe in any of it. I feel like a fraud because while part of me does these things the rest of me has no intention of being around much longer or in any way trying to ‘recover’. And if that means I am not a ‘good’ or ‘worthy’ person, well, I have given up on being those things. I don’t deserve help and I don’t want it.

Because what I realised today is that I don’t want to get better. I don’t want the medication to work, which is why I am going to stop taking it. I don’t want to have hope again, to make plans for the future, to walk again that exhausting road of determination followed by disappointment. I just want to go home and lock myself in my house and get drunk and stoned and be bitter and maudlin and sorry for myself and brood on all my failures and write bad poetry until I destroy myself either accidentally or on purpose, whichever comes first.