Just Until Tuesday

What is this? How do I know what's real? I can't remember what I was dreaming, but I know that I was. When I remember what I dreamt, I don't remember that it was just a dream.

I'm not sure I have any control over what I'm thinking any more. I have an appointment at the health center on Tuesday--maybe I'm just tierd. Maybe . . . even though I've been sleeping too much.

Surely something as simple as depression couldn't effect me like this. I have to be ill as well. I have to be ill as well as being depressed. Because I am supressed. I'm even waxing suicidal again. I'm not worried, though; I've only ever actually tried to kill myself twice, and both times by smothering. I want air more than I want death and quiet. Air . . . to shove my face into the pillow again, until my body takes control from the twisted, lost passages of my mind and drags my face, gasping, out into the air . . .

*shudders* I don't want to die. Not really.