So I started a job that was a little ambitious.
It required time, dedication, focus, direction and consistency. All things that my mental illness likes to fuck with.
On starting the role, I had the thought: “well, if this doesn’t work out, what’s my option b?”
As I write this, I’m no longer in that role.
And when it ended, my brain went: “guess what? you need that option b.”
I didn’t have one.
And so the black dog reared its head. And as it loped forward I saw the option it presented in its eyes.
Emptiness. The unending dark.
And it looked good.
I have seen the signs and I am taking action.
It’s time to see a medical professional. Again.