"I write because writing is the last avenue of a cornered soul. I write because I can’t trust my tongue.

And I write because I feel that words are the only things I have left to give. Because, hopefully, words will once more be my saviors as I drop all pretense and pride aside and ask for help.

I have been wanting to say this, procrastinating these words too as though time would mend the problem without the need for my assistance or willingness.

The original plan was to wait until we can purchase a car.

My rationale was simple;
* I have five classes that require my presence
* Our only current method of transport is public transport
* The bus fare is $25
* A single class implies two trips forth and back
* **(5•2) • 25 = 250** — $250 a week
* Times four gives us 1000 a month

It might not be much in comparison to the price of gas, or it might be. I... couldn’t find much about that... Point is, I know psychologists apparently are expensive despite the pay not being a lot, (don’t ask me how *that* works,) so I didn’t want to cause much of a fuss.

Still, I feel like there’s something deeply wrong with me.

I have researched far and wide, but, despite having many ideas about what could be “it,” I just lack the credentials to know for sure.

Even if I happened to know for sure, that means jack shit if I can’t access appropriate treatment.

I just feel... it’s hard to explain. Even now I don’t feel like writing this, that there’s no point to it because I’ll just get cold feet and won’t show it.

I feel like a failure, an impostor. I try and try to show a brave face and be what others need of me, but I’m just not feeling up to it.

It feels phony, I feel disingenuous. That maybe I don’t deserve to feel like this, I just have no reason too, or that there’s something wrong with me for feeling like this.

I don’t think any of that of myself, but I feel it, deeply.

I don’t feel like trying to keep up the pace and hoping it all works out will help me in any way, but I also strongly doubt that getting help will help me.

Maybe I’m just being ridiculous.

I keep hearing of self-compassion, but I’m not sure I have any of that. I live and die for others, and that’s just who I am, for better or worse.

But, nowadays I find myself unable to help anyone.

I’m acting in ways that hurt the people I love. I’m alienating the only people I have in my life anymore because I won’t admit that I’m hurting.

I can’t go on like this, and I just can’t bring myself to give up entirely because of the people that would be worse without me.

But... that’s not to say that I haven’t wanted to quit...

I’ll admit here what I haven’t admitted to myself, but I have considered... taking adverse actions against myself.

I ultimately have chosen life above the final alternative each time, but, how many times will it take for me to learn? How many times must I be at my wits ends to know that I’m fighting a losing battle? That I just can’t win fighting alone?

Must I bring forth great grief and hopelessness in my departure? Betray everything I have ever worked or stood for?

The illness I fight isn’t new to me. Every year it gets stronger, drains my will to live and poisons my body and soul.

I ask for help in the form of a letter because, even though I no longer have hope for a brighter future, part of me doesn’t want to give up the fight.

I want to fight one more battle, and this time I don’t want to fight it alone.

That’s why I need the help of a professional, and that’s why I need your help in finding one.

I’m tired of being tired... I’m sorry."

Could you analyse the text above?