16 August 2004

Three years, four months and six days. That's how long it took me to get help. Last week, I finally talked to a doctor about this. He confirmed exactly what Amy said over three years ago: that I have problems.

In less than two days, I move back to RIT. I finally made the realisation that I was screwing up my life by leaving. I'm getting my life back, and I'm happy in doing so.

Next week or so, I will be starting counseling for the big problem: depression. My doctor prescribed Paxil for me, and just taking that has made a big improvement. Everyone around me noticed that. I noticed it. I didn't get so emotional when certain subjects came up. I can put things into perspective. The ultimate goal is to live and feel like this without the medication. That will take time and effort, but I feel that it is more than worth it.

I've burned a lot of bridges in my time. Someday, I hope to fix that. I don't want the things I had back. I don't want whatever it is I had with Amy or with Elizabeth back. I just want to talk to them. Maybe even be friends again.

I don't want anyone leaving this world thinking I had done them wrong. That has happened once, and I don't want it happening again.