The medicine is working, and I think its making it worse.
I, and I beleive many of you too, was raised to beleive in good. In charity. In effort. That crime doesn't deliver and that the guilty find their due, and yet, as I've grown older, I've been repeatedly punched in the face with the fact that this belief is... naive, at best. Childish in most honesty, as some of you might've thought to say. And I find that deeply sad.
I've taken the meds, I've tried it all, the voice in the back of my head telling me I'm a piece of shit is something I can ignore now. I can even enjoy a distraction or two nowadays.
But the world we live in is dark, and cruel, an almost engineered grindstone feeding on suffering and pain. And the more I look, the more evident it is that, if I give everything I've got, if I get lucky, if everything goes right, the greatest acheivment I'll ever attain is to find a comfortable level of suffering. The great middle class, the same level of comfort my parents had when they were younger than me.
My own little spot where the shit of our communal latrine doesn't smell as bad. What a pathetic excuse of a dream. This isn't even the damn disease talking, I think I have some hope of getting out of this fucking hole, only to discover, more and more, that I've been defeated before I ever started fighting. We all have.
How the fuck am I supposed to force myself to dream for this? To fight for this? To live for this? The medicine is fucking working, and I still can't get out of bed because there's no damn reason to.
I can't think of a way out of the simple fact that the disease might've had a point and it terrifies me.