Hello, dear friend.

I guess it’s not really unexpected. That’s what you get, dictating your own meds. 

I should never have stopped, but I can’t help it. I can’t stick to a schedule, it seems. At least not in pill form. But I need one. I’m some psychotic raging animal, turning in to her father, abusing her partner who sacrifices much of his free time to cater my my own inane needs and last night I escalated a stupid misunderstanding into a mental meltdown for him. 

I broke my boyfriend, quite possibly destroyed the best relationship I’m likely to ever have, and woke myself back in to the reality of me. It’s not everyone else. It’s me. And that’s why no one can stand me. 

 

Today, I cannot stop fantasizing about gliding a deep incision down my left torso side, under the arm, down the rib cage, rattling like a body rolling down a case of stairs. 

If I was a drinker, I think my bottle of spirits would be gone by now. 

Perhaps I need counseling. 

What I want to say

Is that I’m quite lucky but quite unhappy.

Day after day I am praised for my unique and extensive work history, yet I can’t seem to land a damn job in my field. Obviously, I’m taking this quite personally and my sanctuaries have become my brooding grounds, a festering pile of pits of despair where I can only go to wallow in the unnatural fate of woe is I and how I’ll be stuck in food service. Forever. 

sway

I am in a constant state of motion sickness.

Which is a problem since I take public transit to get everywhere.

I can’t read on the bus or train anymore, which sucks because that’s my 45 minutes of peace that I use as my pleasure reading time. When I arrive at work, I feel sick, but I haven’t eaten anything, so I’m usually able to settle my stomach with a small bit of bread or apple or soy milk.
On the way home, however, it’s a huge struggle to keep myself from not vomiting. It’s gotten so bad that I have small dry heaves or even a bit of bile in the back of my throat by the end of my trip. When I get home, I do throw up. And then again before we go to bed. And again in the middle of the night.

I’m not sure if this is a side effect or not.

Work has been unbearably hot lately, and so has Chicago itself. I sweat profusely at work and have had to bring an extra shirt to change in to just in case. On my break, I take my shirt off and sit in the walk in fridges in my pants and tank-top.

I’m really hoping that this is a heat stroke thing and not a side effect thing. I don’t think I can handle this if it’s a side effect thing. But I’m scared to bring it up to my doctor because he’s quite… terse (however, he did give me all three of my mental health medications no questions asked, including the clonazapan).

N. thinks that I’m suffering from heat stroke.

 

On the plus side, I’ve lost five pounds in the past week.

 

I don’t know.

Restart button

Last thursday, I wrote my will and a good-bye letter, tucked them in to my underwear drawer and finished crying.

I hugged the dog.
I made some tea.
I sat down to knit.

When N. got home, I broke down again.
And received little to no support. His main focus was on the computer in front of him.
All I wanted, NEEDED, was for someone to hold me while I was feeling my most vulnerable and most destructive in two years.

I screamed at him, locked myself in the bathroom and gouged my right hip with a dull razor that had stupid safety blades. But it got the job done, sharp, slow, better.
Shallow enough to heal quicker than most cuts, but still enough of an irritant to be a reminder for a good week or so.

Last friday, I went in for a scheduled doctor’s appointment and got back on Wellbutrin (300mg), Prozac (20mg), and Clonazapan (.5mg).
I forgot about the nausea, the fatigue, the flushing, the not so hungryness, the irritability, the absolute drone-like mentality you have to suffer through before the body reconciles with the drugs.

Today, I took a clonazapan and I feel detatched from my body, very numb and I would love nothing more than to lie down and never wake up.

But I’m forcing myself to sit up and knit or write because I have shit to finish.

I am such a failure.

Patterns

I’m migrating again.
Physically, emotionally, mentally.
I’m up and then I’m down.
I’m purging again.
I’m exercising.
I’m unsure if I’m losing weight.
I felt extremely overweight today.
I’m exhausted.

I should have eaten soup for dinner

The hardest part about having body image issues is the guilt that comes with eating.

Did you know that cheesecake is a grand bitch to purge? It sticks in your throat like peanut butter.
I’ll be surprised if my eyes aren’t bloodshot a little tomorrow morning.

New seasons

I miss writing, terribly.
I miss the incredibly sense of spirituality I get from creating constellations of words and thoughts with my fingers and my mind. I miss the stability, the sanctity, the sanity of it all.
Most of all I miss my thoughts.

My life is taking new directions, new turns, new opportunities.
I’d like to think that I’m doing much better as myself that I was a year ago.

I’m still recovering, still coping, still learning.
But I have a much better grasp on this metaphorical pill bottle than I think I ever had.