For Lack of a Better WordMature

It wasn't until I'd planned my suicide that I found the small amount of strength to bring up the choice I'd made to my psychiatrist. Not that I told him about my so called plan, I'd never really told him anything but the bare minimum. I could trace back the origin of the dam that holds back my complete thoughts, but there are just so many possibilities I've given up trying. 

I'd been given the diagnosis of dysthymic disorder. As I clearly didn't spend much time paying attention to my psychiatrist as he babbled on and on for an hour, a looked up the term on Wikipedia. From my vague skimming of the definition it seemed to be some term for mild clinical depression. I didn't really think much of it, I'd gotten meds and I was ready to try and make my life worth something. 

As of recently I have once again become impossibly claustrophobic in my own head. I have determined over past experiences that it seems quite impossible for me to voice my thoughts or share them directly with others. This is a story based on true events. However I cannot be accounted for my complete honesty. 

The End

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