Wasting her time

Had I not promised my therapist that I would refrain from killing myself this week, I'd be in the hospital right now. I had a horrible session with her and was tempted to just walk out. I even told her I was wasting her time because she couldn't help me. I think what kept me in my seat was that she didn't try to make me feel better. She allowed me to be miserable and cry and vent about not wanting to live, instead of trying to convince me that life is the greatest fucking thing in the world and I should be happy to be alive.

She didn't once say that things will get better or that she understands. Somehow she managed to talk to me without making me feel more hopeless, more defective, and without ever making any comments that come off as condescending when you're extremely depressed. You know the ones, stuff like "life is what you make it" or "you're miserable because you see the glass as half empty", blah fucking blah.

I'm beyond stressed, beyond tired, beyond frustrated, beyond angry and I just want my life to be over with already. All I ever hear is "fake it until you make it". Do you know what faking it does to me each and every time? It only accelerates the downward spiral that it's supposedly meant to deter. Faking it might actually help others, but it's a huge detriment to my well being.

I got up early Friday and Saturday, put on my happy face and actually made the conscious choice that I was going to let myself ride the wave of anxiety from dealing with a bunch of strangers at the garage sale without letting it overpower me to the point I'd hide in the house instead of helping out. I told myself I'd just concentrate on spending quality time with my sister, my daughter and my nieces. And that's what I did. I spent time laughing with everyone and even engaging in a little chit chat with some of the shoppers. Where did that get me? By the time I left, I was so exhausted, physically and mentally, that all I wanted to do was curl up in bed and never leave. What good is an hour or two of happiness when the other 44 hours of those two days combined sucked major donkey dick? When the other 166 hours from the rest of the week are so depressing your only desire is to slit your own throat?

Before I left, my therapist said that I knew what to do if I felt I couldn't keep myself safe. Little did she know my only thought was "yeah, make damn sure I use something lethal".