Whistling in the Dark

This isn't a cry for help. This isn't the pit of despair. This isn't anything but what it is.

I can't take this any more. I'm ready to just die already. I'm sick of nausea. I'm sick of chemicals. I'm sick of odd fatigue. I'm sick of wondering every time I run out of breath if this is it, if it's back and the game's over. I'm sick of calling my doctor every week. I'm sick of waiting for surgery details that will never come. I'm sick of the drain. I'm sick of the exhaustion. I'm sick of the pain in my knees and back and feet. I'm sick of seeing what I've become when I look in the mirror. I'm sick of needing special treatment. I'm sick of needing, period.

When do you just say 'enough?' When is it noble to struggle and when is it noble to walk out onto the ice, sit and wait? When does nobility give way to pathos? To bathos?

I don't know. I just don't know.

Oh, and another freaking iPod's died on me. Just to add a little zeugma to this thing.