While you’re trying to decide what to have for lunch, I’m explaining to myself, once again, why the world would not be a better place without me in it.

While you’re trying to make Microsoft Word’s margins work the way you would expect they should work, I’m sitting here trying to make my brain realise that suicide is a ridiculous, over-the-top reaction to a cloud of unremitting anxiety.

While you’re jumping on Facebook to like the latest photo the George Takei posted, I’m fighting the desire to go and walk into oncoming traffic.

And while you’re trying to decide to who to call to hang out with tonight, I’m wondering who I could call to tell “Hey, I feel like killing myself. Yeah, again.”

There’s no-one I can call.

I won’t kill myself. I’m just so very tired of having to fight with the idea. 

What I want, and what I can have are two very different things.

…when I’m totally exhausted, almost beyond caring.

It’s when the dark slithering things slip out from wherever they hide, calling to me seductively.

It’s not what you think. It’s better. It’s worse.

People give in to this stuff, and no-one thinks less of them for it.

The one where you discover that your total insecurity about your skillset was on display to a client and your boss called you on it after the meeting.

Then he asks you “Do you still consider yourself a designer?”

…and you dodge the question.