My heart won’t stop racing. I feel sick. Everything moves like it’s in slow motion. It sounds like I’m underwater. I have all the time in the world. No job. No kids. So much I could accomplish. But I can’t. The stress of being alive and trying to survive the day takes it out of me. I am a loser. I step away often to have quick sobs to myself. I feel so alone. “You’ll be ok” or “you got this” will be all I hear if I bother to speak up again. But I am NOT ok. I don’t got this. I play by the rules. Go to the clinic. Pop the pills. They do nothing besides make me fat. If I’m lucky, the clinic will agree to see me and talk about it again, six weeks from now. In the meantime, I can go fuck myself. There are no other resources. This is the reality of being poor and crazy in Arizona. I’m suffering. I can’t go yet. But I’m not promising to go on like this until I’m old either. Nobody should have to continue this way and it’s cruel to force the expectation on me. I love my children but I have failed. I’m sorry.