Surely there is something else I could be doing with my time, some productive activity, something that accomplishes something.  But no, I just keep writing blogs.  It wouldn’t be quite so bad if I didn’t write such long blogs.  But I’m trying desperately to kill some time, occupy my mind and hands with something until I can, with good conscience, go to bed.  Writing fits that purpose.

I just discovered my blog statistics.  It’s a little intimidating to think of other people reading my drivel.  I know that when I put my writing out on the internet I should expect that there will be people who read it, but on some level it still surprises me.  It doesn’t bother me; obviously I’m not a very private person beyond the anonymity of user names.  Still, it does make me wonder, as I write, if I’m going to bore “my readers” to death with my whining.

I talked to Ray earlier – he called me back so the Big Wait is over.  He asked me if I had cut.  I haven’t.  Not yet.  He said he was glad since I “don’t deserve that.”  I guess he means that I don’t deserve to be hurt; I don’t deserve to be punished.  Maybe I don’t.  But why, then, does it somehow make me feel better for a time?  There is a release to cutting.  I know that’s weird, but it’s true, at least for me.  But then again, I’m pretty weird.

Ray said that our goal is to keep me out of the hospital.  I’m all for that.  He said that he might have to see me more often during the week.  Okay, there’s the problem.  One, I can’t afford the co-pays.  Two, I can’t afford the gas to get to his office two cities away.  Three, I already feel like I’m a pain in his ass without him trying to squeeze me into his already tight schedule.  There are probably problems four, five and six, but I can’t think of them right now.  But I also can’t afford to go into the hospital.  Every time I think about money, that same dumb thought comes to mind – death doesn’t have a co-pay.

I asked Ray for his email address and like a fool he gave it to me.  I’ve given him copies of some of my blogs before, and he told me that he wanted to read more.  I emailed him a few of my recent ones.  Maybe he can use them to ward off insomnia.  I really do appreciate him giving me another way to make contact with him.  The email seems less intrusive, for some reason, especially since I told him he didn’t have to respond to my emails.  I just like to feel a sense of connection with him in between sessions.  Even a one-sided “conversation” can help keep me away from the razor blades.

Right now, the only thing keeping me from cutting is that fact that my hands are on this keyboard.  I don’t know why I feel so rotten today, why it’s all such a struggle.  There’s still this great boulder of despair that seems to be dragging me across the edge into the deepest crevice of the abyss.  But it probably isn’t the deepest crevice; every time I think I’ve reached bottom I find that there are further depths I can fall to.  So I’ll keep writing as I keep falling and hope that at some point the meds start working and I start climbing out.  Hope.  I don’t have an abundance of that.  I’m not sure I have any at all.