War All The Time
|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
|There is no way this is December. 70 degrees, flip flops, and a t shirt. The weather is as confused and backwards as I am. |
The appointment with the psychiatrist went as well as could be expected. She was almost opposite of what I had been used to dealing with, and hopefully she has me on the right track. Medication is such a tricky thing to tweak and play with. Like I have said before, this is not a broken bone. I have no cast. This is not an infection. There are no antibiotics. This is almost a living entity inside of me, that plays games and tries to avoid being found out, and does everything it can to do its damage. It really is a demon. There is no other way to put it.
Psychologically, this is going to be a draining experience. I am hoping that my doctor is good enough to guide me through this process, because I have so much pain, anger, and sadness that I do not even know where to begin. This is going to take time and dedication. This is going to be hard. This is going to hurt. I can do it.
Sometimes I am afraid I will forget my past, or forget moments that have happened. This scares me, because essentially it means that the moment never happened. If a tree falls in a forest, and nobody hears it, who gives a fuck? If an event occurs, but you cannot recall it, does it even matter to begin with? This is why I write, and this is why I photograph. I need to have a record of where I was, who I was, and what I was dealing with. As painful as these days may be, I do not want to forget them. Writing is much easier to do, compared to photography, as lately it has been nearly impossible to get out and about to capture anything. That is assuming I feel something is worth capturing. The inspiration came much more easily when I was stranded on an island off the Atlantic coast with nothing but a notebook and a camera, or when I was traveling up and down the country, trapped in cars, hotels, and my own mind, consuming pill after pill just to make it through the day without completely falling apart. Problems breed inspiration, that much is true.
I went to visit Matthew's grave today. It took me a moment to find it, as there is still no official marker or plaque. I wish I could fix that, but maybe his family isn't ready to finalize that yet. I cannot begin to comprehend their emotions, still.
There is a potted plant. It is fake, and it is almost insulting. The grass is uneven and discolored. There is what resembles an aluminum 3x5 note card with his name on it. He deserves so much more than that. Standing there for a minute, just saying hello, trying to take it all in. It still doesn't feel real that he is gone. It never will, and I don't know if I will ever come to grips with it. I want to feel some kind of understanding for why these things happen, because if I can even begin to comprehend that situation, I feel it would help me with my own problems. I wasn't as close of a friend as I could have been during his last few months, and I feel guilty for that. I couldn't even attend his funeral since I was such a mess with my panic and anxiety attacks. I don't think I talked for a day after he died. Then my mom asked me if I was ok, and I completely lost it. I broke down. It was the first time I had cried in almost a year. I hope he understands that I really felt like I couldn't make it to his funeral. Hopefully so, because I've visited him numerous times, and I have a feeling most of the other kids haven't. He was such a great kid. So fucking great.
He is on the extremely short list of people that I miss, and unfortunately he is no longer here for me to tell that I appreciate or admire him. That's something people just don't do enough of, and it's unfortunate it takes things like that to put it all into perspective.
There are too many goodbyes, and not enough hellos. The fear and the sadness outweigh the love and the joy. Confusion reigns over clarity, and apathy is pounding at my door.
I want to replace these negative emotions with positive ones. I don't just want to feel happy, I want to be happy. I am not exactly sure how I am going to do that, I just know that this life is too beautiful to be living any other way.
Don't know when
But a day is gonna come
|Tags: journal, rambling, valium, psych, friends