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.