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Basement Dweller

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Mom had a double mastectomy for her cancer last week and we've been getting meals from neighbors. It's a lot of food for us, even though I guess they don't know I live there. I'm 26 living in my parent's basement. I don't slack off or anything. But, when Sister Beeston says, "It's so nice of you to visit your mom," and I tell her I live there, it hurts a little bit. Admitting I can't afford to live someplace else. Free rent, free food. Am I doing enough? I guilt myself into thinking I'm not, because what I do earns little money, but it does usually earn familial respect. So I guess it's okay to live there.
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Writing is my "Therapy"

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I threw up on Sunday. I wasn't sick or anything. Dad asked me if I was. I was just anxious. "Just" anxious. I don't think that word works, but I wrote it anyway. I didn't really get to that point in my spiralling until I had my suicidal ideations. A doctor told me it wasn't bad enough for me to worry too much about. I'm not going to do it, but what if I did, just to spite them all? I kept thinking I am loved. I am loved. And yes, I feel loved frequently, but not enough. "I was loved, but not enough."  Stupidest suicide note ever.
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