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War All The Time
|Monday. I make it to class. Coming off of this shit is misery. Any movement of my head sends a wave of electricity through my brain and down my arms. I feel sick I am sick. Just make it through the day. I go home and I go to sleep. I wake up in the late evening. The day is wasted. It might as well have never happened.|
Tuesday I am up fifteen minutes before my class starts. I am not even going to bother with this today.
Wednesday. I am almost too sick to even get out of my bed. I watch shitty tv and surf the same shitty websites and play the same shitty games. I take a shower.
Thursday morning I have decided the previous night I will go to school today. My alarm fails to go off and I sleep through my class. Hilarious.
Friday I actually make it to class. I still do nothing.
I failed one test. I passed another. The ratio of pass to fail for the prior two months is not what I want it to be, and it has driven me to the point of reconsidering my major. This translates into me reconsidering my life. It is getting harder and harder to go through the motions. As of now, there really is no backup plan. It is very doubtful I can make any sort of career off of my writing, or from being a sarcastic and cynical asshole. Maybe I’m wrong.
Lately I have found myself thinking about fate more and more. Maybe there is part of me that hopes there is some greater force responsible for these things so I do not have to carry the burden on my own and I do not have to feel like this was all one giant fuck up on my part or some completely random series of events that have led me to nowhere. I try to believe everything happens for a reason. I try to believe it’s all going to work out. You can do it you can do it I believe in you it’s going to work. I wish I could believe. I fucking wish I could fucking believe.
I have no faith.
I want a constant in my life other than medication and apathy. I do not know where to look. I do not know if I am supposed to find It or if It is supposed to find me.
You intrigue me. You make me laugh. You scare me.
I stare at my ceiling and I listen to a girl’s voice on the other end of my phone.
It is the little things.
That keep me going.
|Tags: journal, blog, personal, life, meds
|I have stopped taking my medication.|
I'm completely bored
With every single word
And nothing ever works
And this juvenile search
Is systematically revealing to me
That I need a new approach
|Tags: journal, blog, personal, life, fuck, meds!
|Hammers & Strings
|And my friend calls me up|
With her heart heavy still
She says "Andy, the doctors prescribed me the pills
I know I'm not crazy, I just lost my will
So why am I, why am I
Taking them still?"
I need something to believe in
A breath from the breathing
So write it down and don't think that I'll close my eyes
'Cause lately I'm not dreaming
So what's the point in sleeping?
It's just that at night I've got nowhere to hide
To the sleepless this is my reply;
I will write you a lullaby
The past few days have been anything but enjoyable. I wake in the morning, my throat on fire. I must be sick. I crawl through my day of classes. One of the disadvantages of going to a small school is the fact that everywhere I go I am greeted by the face of somebody I would rather not see. Too many people here who have negative ties to my past. Too many fucking ghosts. I have been over this time and time and time again.
My friend asks "Do you think it was a mistake staying here?" "Yeah," I say, "but neither you nor I could have predicted that things would have gotten this shitty." Looking back , I wish I had left. I was naive. I had the girl. I had the connections. I didn't plan on losing everyone. I didn't plan on losing my mind. Then again, nobody plans on those things. They just happen.
I go to the doctor. She's not the usual doctor. Hi I'm so and so and I'm filling in for doctor so and so today. How are you doing. I've been better. What seems to be the deal. My throat hurts, my head feels full of hell. I can't breathe. Sounds like you're doing great. She doesn't have a ring on her finger. I remember that I saw her last year when I had a battery of tests done. She's still just as attractive, obviously still single. She takes my pulse. I think about how it would be to fuck her. She checks my breathing. I think about how it would be to fuck her. My ears. I think about how it would be to fuck her. These aren't the usual thoughts I am presented with when I go to the doctor. My mind is filled with a thousand scripts from low budget porn films. She will probably go home and fuck her hedge fund managing boyfriend. I will go home and stare at the wall.
I have a massive ear infection, as well as a sinus infection. I get giant pills to take. Okay.
The withdrawal from my antidepressant has reached a new level of shittiness. I cannot turn my head or move my eyes without a feeling of electricity shooting through my brain and down my arms. I cannot sleep. I cannot move. There isn't much to do to feel better. I can either go back on the horrible drug I am withdrawing from, or I can endure the symptoms and wait for them to subside. There is no set timetable for these things. Everyone is on a case to case basis.
Needless to say, dealing with a conventional sickness at the same time as fighting withdrawal from the harshest of the SSRI family feels like shit. I didn't go to school today.
I would like something that feels good. What do I have to do to find something that feels good.
Andy, you never said how your friend ended up. I hope she is doing better.
I know I'm not crazy. I just lost my will.
|Tags: journal, blog, personal, life, meds, sad, Jack's Mannequin
|It is 5pm. I feel nervous. Brief waves of panic course through my body and then start to subside. The airport seems so far, as does the ride back home.|
I am terrified at not being able to tell why these feelings happen. Mental or physical. Both, perhaps.
Bukowski attempts to distract me. The music is loud, and I am trying my hardest to get lost within it.
The lightning outside is becoming more and more frequent. My body is restless. I need out of this car. I have nowhere to go but on this page of paper.
If something horrible were to overcome me at any moment, sitting in the back of this car, soaring down the wet road, nobody around us would know. Nobody would feel it. Nobody can feel this.
They will drive. They will drive, and they will never know.
|Tags: journal, meds, anxiety, trip to airport, trapped in a car
|How appropriate. Once again, it is raining. Thunderstorm, actually. In December. Cold. It is on and off, increasing and decreasing. The cold is just enough to qualify things as feeling miserable.|
The weather and I have a lot in common.
My head feels heavy. There is a storm inside of it, and I do not know if it is growing, or if it is weakening.
I am currently debating whether or not to ride along with my parents to Atlanta to pick up my sister from the airport. I’d like to get out of the house for a bit, even if it is miserable, and even if I am just in the car.
This pocket full of pills will keep the demons quiet. Maybe.
I need to tell myself to ignore these “What ifs?”
Just feel okay just feel okay just feel okay you will feel okay you can feel okay everything is going to be okay okay okay i promise i promise please please please help.
|Tags: journal, anxiety, meds, atlanta, help
|The days are blurring again. My skin is crawling, and I cannot relax. I am trying my hardest to resist excessively doping myself up, because I know that means coming off of those drugs will only be harder in the end. I just have to be patient and wait for this treatment to start working.|
I am tingling. I am compulsive. My head feels in a way I couldn't even begin to explain. Electricity shoots through my body. Electricity shoots through my brain. My heart flutters. My brain is filling me with feelings of doom. This is the tip of the iceberg. I won't bore you with all the physical symptoms. You can't understand, and I probably can't even list them all. Misery.
My psychologist is extremely impressive. I feel comfortable talking with him. Many people who go in for psychotherapy have a hard time being honest. They edit themselves, they leave out details, they lie. I don't have a problem talking to people about the things I feel, think, or experience. I want people to share these things. I want people to know, I want people to know why I am how I am. I want somebody to say "I understand, I've felt that also." To form a bond with somebody when you realize you are both fucked up on a certain level, or have felt a certain pain, is something strange, yet incredible.
I wish I knew more people broken like me. I don't know if we could help one another, but at least we wouldn't feel so alone. I have the hardest time trying not to feel alone.
The hour in the office went by so quickly. I am sure this is going to take a long, long time to get my mind and soul back to where they need to be. I cannot pinpoint many single catastrophic events that have led me to where I am. As far as I can tell from these early stages, my anxiety and depression stem from the disastrous relationship problems I have had over the past few years, not to mention heavy alcohol use. I was never abused, abandoned, or assaulted. There is no individual reason for me being this way, and at times I wish there was. It would make it much easier to target the source.
I was never a happy child. To say I was sad would not be accurate, but I don't remember being happy. Feeling joy. Feeling lighthearted. Everything was heavy. My mind could not be turned off. I found comfort in myself, my music, my books, my words. Not others.
Gradually, then suddenly.
That is how I became broken.
Numb. It's happening again. Numbness is settling in, and I'm afraid I will lose feeling for the few things and people I do care about. I am afraid, but it is a necessary evil at the moment.
I feel stupid for letting myself be used and led on for such a long time. I feel so fucking stupid for thinking I could make things work. Why does our generation feel the need to make things okay? Why do we need to recycle these people? Truly, they cannot be that special that they are worth us killing ourselves over.
They weren't worth losing my mind over. They weren't worth my broken heart. These things I know now.
Let it go. Make it stop. Move on. Find another. Fall in love. Fall apart. Fall. Rinse, repeat.
There is rarely any middle ground. I should have learned that a long time ago.
I think I have more to say, but I have gone on long enough, and it is time for more milligrams of something. There is a line of seven medicine bottles. I mix, I match. Eventually I sleep.
On a side note, there is a friend of the family who is very close to dying. I have a lot of thoughts on that, but they do not belong here, now.
More to come soon.
P.S. - I want to send you a Christmas card. See my thread. PM me.
|Tags: journal, meds, psychologist, therapy, christmas cards, relationships
|A Daily Dose
|The feeling in the side of my head is alternating between a dull ache and an electric buzz. It is one more symptom to worry about, it is one more symptom to be afraid of. Every day seems to bring some sort of new physical feeling to my body, and my mind interprets it as being something dreadful. |
5mg of Valium every 8 hours. Klonopin every 12 hours. Other drugs to be taken as needed, as necessary. It is impossible to tell where withdrawal from my previous medication has begun, and where the effects of these medications has started. I realize that the doctors have been trying to help me, but this concoction has left me feeling less and less human.
The panic and anxiety has greatly subsided, largely due to the fact that I am unbearably medicated. Truthfully, I would be perfectly ok with that if the physical side effects weren't an issue.
My doctors are impressive. I feel like I am being cared for. He told his secretaries to make sure I got back into the office as soon as possible, regardless of what the appointment sheet said. He took action. He was urgent. It was good to see that being done for me. Back to the doctor in the morning it is, and then back and forth every other day, at least, depending on what kind of tests they feel I need to undergo. I want as many tests as possible. Scan my brain. Give me an MRI. Give me more X Rays. Take my blood until I faint. Where do I sign? Anything to tell me that I am ok. Anything at all. Just make it happen. I need the reassurance.
Medication and therapy they say, that is the win win combination. I was so used to listening to an old woman nod and agree with everything I said, then hand me a prescription for numbing chemicals. There was no therapy. There was no counseling. There was no healing. It's going to be different this time.
There are no days, and there is no time. There is a haze. Life is being measured by the opening and closing of medicine containers, by the mouthfuls of pills I am taking. Some days are worse than others, and the inconsistency scares me. I never know if things will feel better, or if things will feel worse.
I took a walk through the old road leading down to the river. They are slowly starting to develop the area, so the time I can spend there while it is still in its natural form will be a memory worth retaining. I climbed the hillside, and I watched the sun start to set through the tree line. It was peaceful, and I will probably continue to visit that spot. I realize that I haven't given my body and mind enough time to do nothing. I have assaulted them with chaos and with anger and with sadness and with worry. I have forgotten to let my soul breathe, and let my mind be at ease. I should have started this process a long time ago, before I got this fucked up.
I'm sorry. I really am. You don't know how foolish I feel, and every time I hurt your feelings, it tears me to pieces. You say you are fine, but you know you're not. I know you're not. Laughter is my safety mechanism, and when things get terrible, I still find a way to make light of it, even if it is devouring me inside. I think I am too fucked up for you. Probably for anyone, but especially for somebody as incredible as you are. You don't deserve to put up with my bullshit, and I'm not sure why you have up until this point. If I am asking too much of you, or if you have had enough, or if you do not want to hurt me, or if I am just too insecure or too far gone, please feel free to walk away.
I have a hard time putting faith into people. Trust. It doesn't happen easily. But when it does, it means everything to me. If I trust you, I will tell you everything, and I will be completely sincere. I will hold nothing back. But if something comes up that threatens that trust, I lose my mind. I go into panic mode. I sabotage things, and I don't know who or what to believe. I've been burned so many times that it's hard to not feel like history is repeating itself in some ways.
I hope I'm wrong, and I hope this ends up how I want if. If you know it won't, or if it's too late, or if you are now realizing I am too damaged of an individual to have any sort of meaningful relationship with, then it's alright, I can accept that. Don't waste your time on me. You deserve the best.
That being said, you don't know how much I miss you.
Please forgive me, If I act a little strange
For I know not what I do
|Tags: journal, meds, anxiety, blah
|In The Hospital
|I spent most of my day in the emergency room today. Things just didn't feel right, and the sedatives were not calming me down like they are supposed to. Something was wrong.|
After nearly passing out in the car on the way to the hospital, I finally check in. My heart rate is 134 beats per minute. I feel like hell. I feel cold. They take me back, and hook me up to the tentacles of the heart monitor. I try to ignore the numbers and lines, but I cannot look away, and my anxiety only increases. The numbers rise. I feel worse and worse. My hands and feet are numb.
Doctors come and go. The myriad of patients around me is aggravating. I want to be alone. I want privacy. They have not given me anything to calm down. I want to calm down.
I talk about my symptoms. I discuss the medication I have been on. The medication I have come off of. My history of depression, anxiety, and panic. It is a miserable portrait. The cardiologist comes down and talks to me. She is very reassuring, but the voice in my head screams that something is wrong. I get a chest X ray. An IV is poked into my vein. My hand hurts. I am worried. I am not feeling better.
The results of the EKG come back pretty much normal. I have had episodes of what is called PVC, and they are now appearing on the monitor. The cardiologist, arguably one of the best in the state, assures me that this is nothing to worry about. Millions of people get these, and while they are uncomfortable, nobody has died from them. Mine are incredibly minor, and she says it's nothing to worry about. My anxiety will not let me listen. It is something I have to work on to cope with, assuming the irregular heart activity does not go away.
There are nurses, there are doctors, there are my parents. I am answering questions. I start to cry. They ask me what I want to do. Do I want to stay in the hospital? Do I want to go home? Do I want to be admitted to the mental health institution? I insist I'm not crazy.
The doctor disagrees. I laugh, and tell him "very funny." He tells me he is being serious. While I may not be psychotic, my anxiety has indeed crossed a point of irrational craziness. He is seriously talking about having me committed to an institution for further monitoring until they can calm me down and resolve my anxiety.
I break down. I break down. I am crying my eyes out in front of my parents, in front of these doctors and nurses, and in front of other random patients. I do not care. I cannot believe I am having a conversation about being put into a rehabilitation center. I can't describe how helpless this feels. My mother is crying. I put my hands over my face, and I cry. And I cry.
This is a breakdown. Sound the alarms, the ship is sinking.
I ask the doctor when I should draw the line and surrender; when I should give into this and check myself into somewhere I can get whatever help I need. He says if I continue to have such severe anxiety and emotional distress, then I need to come back, and they will get me help. I still cannot believe what I am hearing. I cannot believe I could possibly be going into rehab.
I wonder if I did this to myself. No. This is not my fault. This is not my fucking fault.
The nurse has the most incredible blue eyes I have ever seen.
I lay in bed, tingling, waiting for the medicine to lower my heart rate. It kicks in eventually, and the world feels cold, and I feel distant. I feel slightly better, but I still cannot get my head around what possibly could become of this. I want help. I want to feel better. I do not want to be in a cage with alcoholics, junkies, and other things of that nature. I am not like that. I am me. I am just scared, and I don't know why, I just can't help it. I just want to be myself again. That's all I fucking want.
I go home.
These are my new companions. I am paranoid about new medicine, but what choice do I have?
Prozac Nation. More, Now, Again. A Million Little Pieces. The Bell Jar. I suppose it's time to start writing mine.
I'm completely horrified at how damaged I might be by the end of this.
It's an interesting feeling, breaking down, spilling your guts, bearing your soul in front of people you do not know. I felt their sympathy. I could see the tears in my doctors eyes. He wants to help. I do not know if he can.
I cannot believe I am on fucking Valium. It is creeping slowly. I feel it. I want to sleep. I want to cry more. I want to be face to face with somebody and tell them how badly I feel. I want them to understand. I want to feel love. I want to feel something good. I don't want to be numb again. I cannot be numb again.
I don't want to be crazy. I don't want to be alone.
I feel so fucking alone.
|Tags: journal, meds, hospital, doctors, ER, panic, anxiety, valium, breakdown