Wit's End

It's terrible, feeling this alone. It's my birthday in three days, and my parents both want to have a meal with me. I don't think I'll be able to, just because I don't think I can muster the energy necessary to cover my mood with a smile that'd pass as even somewhat-believable. They always ask me if I'm okay if I appear even the least bit sad, but if the past is any indication, they wouldn't be able to handle an honest answer from me. Besides, so what if they're my parents? Why should they have to bear the burden of my emotional state?

I'd really like some friends to talk to, but I find myself asking the same question. The one friend I have (who I think I've mentioned here before) whom I see regularly--and by that I mean more than once every few months--seems to always shy away from more serious conversations, and she's made it clear that she doesn't tolerate people off-loading their problems onto others. Ironically, neither do I, hence my current state.

I know I should see a psychotherapist, but I can't bare making the call to my insurance company to see if that kind of thing is covered. Besides, if my previous experience with a psychotherapist is any indication of what it'd be like (though I'm not saying it would be), it'd just be a whole lot of him or her trying to discredit what I say and how I'm thinking about myself. Which, of course, is exactly what I need: another person telling me that I'm screwed up and am in my current mindset through no one's fault but my own.

On a superficial level, I understand that that's one of the ways in which mental illness works--the mental facilities that one would normally use to resolve issues instead either twists them or magnifies them; I told my father the same thing when he was having his own issues, and that he needed help because of this fact--but having to concede that there's yet another thing wrong with me is just...really close to too much.

I just...feel like I'm drowning, and every time I manage to come up and get a breath of fresh air, that fresh air always has an odd smell about it, the kind of acrid smell that makes me choke, and I'm soon pushed back under by one thing or another. Even my moments of respite just aren't right.

I'd call a suicide hotline, but seeing as I won't really consider suicide because of all the debt I'd leave my parents, that doesn't seem like the right thing to do. I'm just not sure what to do, anymore.