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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