someone promised that they'd catch me

What am I saying. I’ll tell you exactly what I’m sayin’. Not a goddamn thing. Just wallowing around out here, not knowing what to do or who to do it to…I’m exhausted. I remind myself of my father, who died early because of his goddamn heart attack brought on by his drinking and sad, failed dreams. That’s what I mean when I say I’m not sayin’ another goddamn thing anymore. Trying to hold my head above water. It’s getting the best of me. For the first time in my life, I’m considering death. By my own hands. I know what you’re gonna say. “Oh, no you aren’t. You don’t have to say that to me.” Yes, I do. I want someone to hear it out loud. I want somebody to know that I said it so they can say “That’s what he told us he would do.” And now here I am, without an income, without a friend or any kind of love, demonstrating man’s unworthiness, his absolute nothingness. Without which he might have even considered himself a lucky, saved man. The palpitations have increased. The anxiety has increased. Nothing has decreased except his desire to get off his a*s and find something meaningful to do. Nothing has even been accomplished. Just something small to do, like pick up or clean up the unsavoriness of his clown-like mischief.  What should I do? When should I do it? Who should I do it with? Stop mincing about and listen to yourself blabber on. You’re weak, you’ve been broken, you refuse to mend because it’s easier to pretend your sadness is your destiny. It doesn’t have to be. Being overly respectful of anger and bitterness leaves you alone, unable to cross the Rubicon. What would make you happy? I bet if you'd go outside and take a walk on this sunny day you’d mend. Just try something, anything. I’m afraid I’m saying what has been said a million times before. Therefore, it is all derivative and ridiculous and just loud enough for the church bells to drown you out in his misery.  Praise Jehovah, don’t know what I should say. Accept this: Try a little. Not a lot. Not even several smidgens. Just a little. So you’re saying the antidepressants and antianxiety medications don’t help. Therapy doesn’t help. The only thing that helps is sitting in front of the radio listening to The Byrds sing “Mr. Tambourine Man” while you devour money. This is sad. This is uneventful. Don’t carry on. You.Are.Derivative.  Praise Jesus’ Philistines. They were a lot funnier than anyone ever gave them credit for.