New year, same crap

It’s a sorry state of affairs when someone is nice to you and your brain goes WARNING WARNING DON’T GET ATTACHED. That said, part of me is grateful for that warning, like I’ve just subverted a threat. A friendly woman (who I’ve known a little while) was caring towards me, and it becomes an attack. Stupid brain.

I’ve been reading through some of my old posts here, and current me seems pretty similar to old me so there’s a lot of solidarity high-fiving going on. In particular I’m drawn to that post I wrote when my old care-coordinator finally understood why I was suicidal (‘A strange kind of closure‘) – because I didn’t look forward to anything – and that’s something I said to Dr T yesterday.

Life is just endless cycles of stress. Get anxious about A, go through A, get anxious about B…etc etc. Even holidays make me stressed, so I don’t have any, which probably makes me ill.

I don’t expect to find a job I truly and thoroughly enjoy. Why should I? My one true, lifelong passion, to write science fiction, is over before it began; my creativity died long ago. I’m not interested in relationships.

I’m here because I have duties, to people like my parents, and I’m here because of the meds; the lithium dampens the suicide ideation, and the mirtazapine knocks me out so at least I can be unconscious if I’m not at work. Literally, I wake up, go to work, come home, and take the mirtazapine as soon as it’s socially acceptable for me to do so (I have housemates). I kill any time in-between with Tetris (I may not be cool, but I do have quick reflexes).

Is this a life at all?

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I get it. I won’t argue.

Nope, I’m not dead. Not physically at least. No, MQ lives on, in all her depressive glory.

Okay, enough with the dramatics.

It seems to me that my life always seems to end up being about ‘getting through the day’. Regardless of the highs and the lows, this seems to be the baseline. I try not to think, unless someone has asked me a question, or it’s work related. I use bathroom breaks to reassure myself with whispers that ‘I’m okay’.

I can’t do anything about nighttime, when the dreams settle in. They’re always pressured. It always feels sad, and heavy, and serious. They taunt me with old fears; airplanes and roller-coasters and clocks counting down. My family is in danger, my therapist wants me dead, and the world is about to end. Every night. It’s exhausting.

The diagnosis is the same: depression or dysthymia. The pills are the same: fluoxetine, lithium, mirtazapine, propranolol. I still have the same therapist, but as time goes on (we’re pushing something like four years now), I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’m too…broken. Too twisted out of shape. It’s not normal, not typical, and not fixable.

The old temptations are the same, but dampened with work and home life responsibilities. I have the tools, but I don’t use them. I wish I would. Even though I have to live everyday with my scars and be conscious of them around my colleagues etc, the thought of new marks, new injuries, sometimes seems so right.

I’m not asking to be happy any more. I accept that just isn’t my lot in life.

But it could be easier. Please.

 

Intruder Alert

I wasn’t expecting the blues to hit until tomorrow evening, but with an evil laugh they’ve found me today. Somehow I ache with a pain that it so hard to describe to those who’ve never felt it themselves. There’s something of a tragedy in that.

This ache makes me irritable. I look around and find myself hating everything I see. Hating the way things are, and hating my inability to change them. Money. Time. They aren’t my friends.

In an hour or two I’ll swallow something like seven pills, but none of them will really get in there and treat the pain. It’s not what they’re for. The only pills that would actually do that are the ones that are illegal, or dangerous. So instead I’ll turn to the safety I talked about yesterday; an early night.

I’m not smiling though, because that safety has some small print; may contain nightmares. Loved ones turning into metal. Screaming. Crying. Stress and pressure.

A sad evening

Tonight I find myself drawn to sad things. Songs. Books. When I thought about what I wanted to do this evening, the first thing that came to mind was to watch an episode of Star Trek (I know, groan away) that has always stuck with me, because the storyline is about a character effectively self harming. Parts of it are eye-roll-worthy, but other parts of it are spot on, as I find myself almost wanting to jump up and down with the words ‘I know exactly how that feels!!!

Dr T would encourage me to think about why I’m in this sad mood. I don’t think I’ve had a particularly sad day; work wasn’t brilliant, but it certainly wasn’t awful, and the day went a lot faster than any other I can remember there. Babysitting afterwards went pretty well.

And yet the end result is me sitting here, writing this, with the strong instinct that if I curled up into a ball, that would be ‘right’.

In motion

Yesterday I wrote that I was tumbling. Today I have to say that the slope I’m slipping down is getting steeper.

I’ve noticed that my concentration levels are returning to zero, which really dented my progress at work today. Despite the fact that I spent hours doing the same task over and over (with different data), I had to keep reminding myself what to do. Even writing this blog post, I find my brain flitting all over the place.

I’ve started sighing lots again (without realising), and my eating pattern is now just a mess of comfort eating/binging, and then some short-lived starvation.

If you put all that aside, and just look at the mental picture…it hurts. I wish I knew how to accurately describe what this pain is like. I can’t write it, I can’t draw it, I can’t sculpt it, I can’t speak it, and I end up daydreaming about blades because that pain, the resulting ache, and eventually the scar, are the only package I know that can express on the outside what’s happening on the inside. I tell myself I’ve moved on from those days, and try and shame myself by imagining having to confess a return to self-harming to Dr T, but those motivations are stretched thin when I don’t know how else I can really cope with this feeling.

Aaaah

Tumbling

I want to curl up under a duvet, and be nothing for a while. No thoughts, no feelings. No people. No work, no play, and no dreams. Just be nothing.

I do not want to cry. Get lost tears, you’re not welcome here. At this moment in time, crying would just reinforce the defeat. I won’t give the world that satisfaction.

The old feeling of heavy sadness I mentioned a few days ago is getting stronger, and it’s really starting to drag me down. Once again work becomes a place of acting and distractions, and socialising is chore. Self-harm urges keep flaring up as a way of expressing the pain, and it’s getting harder and harder to remind myself why I don’t do that anymore. It’s harder to motivate myself to do anything. Add to this a hatred that this is even happening again, and it really isn’t fun to be me right now.

I hate that I’m even writing this. It all sounds pathetic. But it’s the truth.

I’m not sure what else I can say.

An old feeling

Today when I left work, something about the sunshine we’re currently enjoying here made me feel really, really sad. Somehow I find myself right back in touch with how I’ve felt at some of my worst moments – and I’m not talking about being suicidal, but instead the layer of sadness that seems to settle over everything, adding weight to your shoulders.

In theory, I should be feeling pretty good right now, because my future employment is looking more secure than it has done for a while. I’m reasonably healthy. I have plans to see a friend this weekend.

But in reality I feel…strange, in a bad way. The summer sun was making everything prettier, and making people glow, but I wasn’t part of it. The closest analogy I can think of would be knowing that the sunlight is making everyone else’s skin warm, but when the light falls on you, you feel nothing.

This bad feeling hurts. It really hurts. In this moment I can empathise completely with my past suicidal self.

I’m not really sure what to do.