For the record. 

I’m not okay. But that’s okay. Once you gain the perspective you need inside a mental hospital, it tends to stick with you. The measuring stick by which I rate myself has an Altapointe label on it. So, no I’m not okay. Not by a long shot. 
I have all of the good, still. Kids, job, house, bills, guy. All good. But I’m not okay. 
I had a few morbid moments that I actually am not bothered by. And the fact that these thoughts didn’t bother me, bothers me. But for instance, medically, I’m no longer freaked out. It is what it is. I’ll get it fixed to I can move onto the next tragedy. And my weight, eh, why bother right now? The list just piles up. But… Honestly, I’m not stressed. I’m defeated, deflated, cynical. Resigned. 

Its just that I’m no longer thinking “its got to get better”. I’m thinking instead ” let’s get through this thing as best we can because something else is on deck.”
When someone says something particularly uplifting or inspiring, I’m hard pressed not to snort. And when people tell me that there are others who have it worse than me, those people can go fuck themselves. Because in this moment of “I’m not okay” that I’m having, I honestly from the bottom of my heart, do. not. care. 
Oh I’ll be fine. I’m in no danger of going back to the loony bin. But for the record, I’m not okay. 


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