I feel I’m on the verge of another depressive spell, and it sucks. Likely triggered by all the back to school posts. No back to school for me. Nope. No job, one class, just stuck in the same monotony. I’m entering physical therapy, trying to get a grasp on my physical pain, and my mental health? THAT’S a frick-fracking joke and a half.
I have a script for Effexor across the room, from a useless appointment with a psychiatrist. From one who pushed me for details about my PTSD, why I haven’t had sexual relations, wouldn’t listen to my past medical history (she tried to put me on Prozac when I told her no less than five minutes previously that Prozac had made me worse), etc. For this week at least, I’ve made the choice to stay off antidepressants, though it doesn’t mean it’s set it stone and I won’t at some point hunt for a new psychiatrist. But there’s a part of me, this twisted, demented part of me, that’s tempted to fill the Effexor script and take it in an act of self-sabotage. Even though I know that since it’s in the class as Cymbalta it’s a really stupid idea, and even though I know it’ll jack with my heart rate, it’s the irrational, self-injuring part of my brain. Even though I know I’ll likely have side effects from it, even though I know things will spiral further out of control, it’s so tempting just to completely throw the towel in and screw things up. I hate how twisted my brain is at times.
My eating has gone to crap. Most days? I’m lucky to get one meal in and enough fluids. Some days? No eating happens. My weight is dropping again and I’m finding it hard to care. I’m coming close to cutting again and this is preventing me from it. I don’t want to cut and I don’t want to not eat, but right now I just need some way to hurt myself to control my depression. I am in such a bad state, aren’t I? I’m not suicidal. That’s not a problem at all. But if hurting myself keeps me alive for now… I just don’t even know at the moment.
I feel like I’m crumbling. I feel like I’m tumbling. I feel like I am falling to shreds. I hate who I am. I hate who I am becoming. I hate how I feel. And I am so helpless. I feel beyond hopeless. I’m at the point where I don’t know if things will ever get better. How can they? So many antidepressants have failed. Maybe I’m destined to be a failure. Maybe things will never get better. Maybe I’ll just fall to pieces and there won’t be a way to duck tape me back together.
I hate how I let myself fall this low. I hate how I feel like I’m crumbling to pieces. I need a break. I need a vacation. I need out for awhile. I need to go somewhere that’s not here. Somewhere away. If I don’t fall apart before then. If I don’t fall to pieces. I hate how depression is. I hate how my depression makes me irrational and want to make irrational decisions. I hate how it makes my brain all foggy, like I’m seeing through mashed potato covered lenses instead of clear ones. I hate how it makes me feel.
I don’t like what I’m becoming. I don’t like who I am. I hate how when I talk to therapists and doctors that I just lock down. I retreat within myself. It’s safe in there. It’s scary and dark, but it’s comfortable and familiar, even though it’s a terrifying place. Because even though it’s dark and scary – it is what I know and so there I stay. I don’t lock down on purpose, and then the doctor gets pissed off that I don’t talk to them when it isn’t that I don’t want to, it’s that I can’t. The words and feelings are completely locked and trapped inside me and I can’t pull them out. I want to talk, but it’s so hard. It isn’t easy. And I feel so trapped. I feel so trapped within myself.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m becoming. All I know is I’m falling… falling… falling…