Remember that last post? Yeah, well that all me only I was having a manic episode from the new medication my doctor put me on. I can't believe I had such a strong reaction to the lowest dose! It was insane! I was insane! I had manic episodes. I was shaky all of the time. I was often exhausted and yet at the same time I'd felt like I'd drank a whole pot of coffee. I was tense, felt restless, and if I wasn't sleeping, I was talking almost non-stop, having a laughing attack, or sobbing.
Thankfully, my Doctor was wise enough to take me off the medication and switch me over to something else, something that has worked in the past. But in the last couple of days I've had to deal with withdraw symptoms. Oh boy does that suck. I'm still having manic moments and then the other night, I had one of the worst emotional crashes I've ever had.
I lost every bit of hope I'd ever had for anything. There was no point to anything any more. No reason to save money because I would never see my family again unless it was to go to their funerals. No reason to read books because the escape isn't like it used to be (that has something to do with my living situation). No point writing because there's so much wrong with my writing and trying to write while manic was so easy but so stunningly awful I should have been slapped for daring to read it out loud and every other story was pointless. No point in crafts because they cost money to do, time to make, and so forth. No point in fighting for disability they're never going to give it to me. I won't get help for my back so I can get back on my feet. No point in try to lose weight when everything I've done hasn't helped AT ALL. You I actually thought about using the scissors to cut open my leg like they do to the whales they pull up on the beach. It would be so easy. And it would be easy for every one to get on without me being here to drag them down too. All my family and friends in Kansas do it just fine. Kind of like out of sight out of mind. That will continue.
Really I could go on and on and the point is that I was in such a dark place that even though I was sobbing and panicking, there was an eerie calm settling in. I think if Skoora hadn't been sitting right there trying to talk me through it, I probably would have just killed myself. I think I actually said something about not being able to kill myself because I had no life insurance so just trying to get rid of my body would cost too damned much.
I really try not to complain, whine, or bother people with too much. There's only so much you can fuss about being people just get tired of it and I've never wanted to be one of 'those' people people don't want to be around. I really try to save my venting and complaining for here and even here I hold back. But this, this was something I needed to get out. It's gotten bad, really bad. I really need to get in and talk to a therapist but mine made me feel like she didn't want me there. Mine made me feel ugly and horribly fat. I have to request another therapist but it's so hard for me. I will be going to the same office as my old one. It;s awkward, it's uncomfortable, and even though I know they aren't allowed to talk about patients, I am so paranoid that I think they will anyway. I honestly have some serious trust issues. But like I said I just really need to request a different therapist. I also think part of what is holding me back is the fact that it costs money to go and we just can't keep paying the clinic that much money a month on top of my medicine costs, and so forth.
That all aside, I am trying to work on the new story. I really like the idea and I like the beginnings of the characters. It;s just after that manic day of writing and the bouts of mania that I keep having, it's hard for me to settle down and be comfortable enough to write or have much confidence in writing. And that has to stop. It really, really does.
It's just some days I get tired of all the waiting, all the fighting, and I just want some time to not have to worry about anything. I am tired of forcing myself out of bed, getting dressed, shifting into a mostly-no-nonsense-get-myself-into-gear-and-get-moving kind of attitude and making myself get out of the house. But I know if I quit doing it, I will screw myself over so badly I won't be able to get going again. You know what, it fucking sucks!
I hoped you've moved on from this low-bottom depression somewhat since you posted this. I struggle with this constantly. To be honest, thinking about suicide gives me strange comfort. I feel like in a world where I'm in control of so little, I have control of when I die, how I die. It gets me through the rough spots. I know how you feel about not wanting be an anchor that drags people down. I rarely grant myself the same kindnesses I will to other people and I don't know how to stop. Some people tell me, 'you just stop by stopping.' And I've even told my ex the same thing about working on vehicles. He says he doesn't know how to stop working on vehicles and I told him you stop working on vehicles by stopping working on them. Period. [And he'll go and buy another fixer-upper and groan about working on that too. Guess he just doesn't know how to stop]I've been beating myself up pretty badly lately over the housing situation. I feel ashamed of not being able to rent here and having to go back up north, tail tucked between my legs, blah, blah. I feel like I shouldn't have to be ashamed and that nobody's perfect but look what it's cost me in consequences.
ReplyDeleteI guess the reason we get out of bed and go on living [if you can call it that on certain days]is because we want to know what happens next. Or that a reprieve is just around the corner. Or the payoff is just at the end of the tunnel. But when it doesn't come...yeah.