When my psychiatrist refers to my “mood”

I think he means my constant sadness; my inability to appreciate anything without the intrusive thought that it will end and everyone I love will die; the persistent nagging feeling that the easiest way to not deal with this is to die myself; the guilt of living my easy life while knowing there’s suffering in the world; the guilt of failing to recognize and appreciate my easy life; the dread and impending doom that every few days makes the room spin and turns any sounds around me into white noise and about once a week turns me into a puddle of tears, shallow breaths and vomit; the knot deep in the pit of my stomach that tells me something is chasing me, something bad will happen to me or someone I love, I’ve made mistakes that will catch up with me; and the snowball effect of every failed treatment boiling all of this up a little closer to the calm facade I try to keep.

It’s a curious shorthand that makes me wish he would shrink into a tiny balloon and float into outer space.

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