I read an amazing piece today – a blog entry about the torture we go through as people battling mental illness (thank you A Brave Mess). The daily battle of just getting out of bed, the struggle of imagining how we will get through the day, and the paranoia that is ever-present. Begging an unknown entity for help that never seems to come. Feeling as though we are crawling through our lives without real joy or even believing it is possible.
I read this blog and thought “this is me”. This is what I deal with ALL.THE.TIME. Daily. And it never gets better. Yes, I can do all the “correct” things that I have been told to do – exercise, have a regular sleep schedule, take the handful of pills every morning and hope it will all get better.
But it never does. And I sit here and stare at walls and wonder what the goddamn point of this life is? Why the hell am I still here? If all that is in front of me is pain, angst, and paranoia on a daily basis, then why bother? But I am a coward. I live my life in torture but I do not have the strength to end it.
God, some days I wish I did.
I am so confused with the direction of my life. My partner wants me to return to his city. I am miserable on my own here, even though it’s pretty close to paradise (who would think paradise could be hell?). He is pressuring me and I don’t know what to do. I know I am better when I am with him, but I also moved here for a reason…though that reason seems to be receding in my mind’s eye everyday. I no longer have a passion for anything. I am exercising which is good. I am eating when the pain in my stomach reminds me it’s been too long since my last meal. I am trying to get sleep though that is always a battle.
I was supposed to see my shrink in two days. But I know she will focus on the anti-depressants that I am not taking, and I simply cannot deal with that right now. I hated them – even the lowest dose made my body tremble from the inside, as if all my organs were on fire, and I had to white-knuckle my way through the day, simply because of a stupid blue pill. It instantly killed any creativity I had, which is always the first sign that a medication will not work for me. I may be crazy. I may always need help. But do not take away the creativity. I would trade my freedom for the ability to spend my days writing and creating expansive art pieces, if I could. I would gladly be locked away, if I had the promise of being able to just write and know that the world couldn’t get to me.
I used to have so much optimism. So much faith that life was good. I truly believed, even after being diagnosed in my 20’s that I could manage – it was a disease in my head and with the right help I could live a bountiful life. But that mirage has faded away. I find it harder and harder to get the help I need. I find it more and more difficult to simply deal with life – coming to work, going to the grocery store, seeing doctors. I just want to hide. I am so scared.
And with the constant paranoia, I am sure that all those I work with hate me, or whisper about me behind my back. That they know “something is wrong with me”. No one gets it. No one understands. I am aware enough to realize that we all struggle with something, but jesus this is simply too much to take on, day after day.
I know longer know what to do, except try and make it through another week. I applied for a job in the city where my partner lives, because he asked me to. I don’t know if that will come to any sort of fruition, and in all honesty, I don’t want to go back there. Back there is a town where I feel more out of place than here, back there are my ailing and aging parents whose decline in health scares the shit out of me. Back there is a history I have already lived and I am looking for something new – something to take me out of this place, this blanket of darkness I exist in.
But I have no idea what that will be, or could be. I don’t even know if I believe it is possible to find true happiness again. And this is what makes me cold and bitter and awash in remorse every morning when my eyes open and I look at the clock. If it says 5 AM I feel lucky. Usually it reads 3:45 AM. In either event, it is an arduous task to get out of bed, to make coffee, to think about how I am going to get through 8 hours in hell. I wish I was my partner. I wish I could work from home, in my pajamas and never have to deal with people, unless it was by choice.
But that is not my luck. I was here until 10 PM last night. I passed out on the couch from exhaustion the moment I got home. I woke up at midnight and crawled to bed. And then 3:45 came calling. I sit here now, at my desk, my body and mind exhausted, trying to think of things I can do to make the hours go by faster. I have NOTHING to do. Literally, nothing. The job I was promised is a wash – all my creative ideas are struck down, as this industry is “not ready” to implement them yet. How do employers keep people when they are bored out of their skulls, day after day? Do we stay because of money and benefits? Yes, many of us do. But it is getting to the point that I feel it would be better to say “fuck it all” and just leave this place, this country, these doctors and try and live my crazy life on my own terms. Without people telling me what to do, without being micro-managed by supervisors or partners. Where I can breathe and feel free to just BE.
Perhaps that is just one of my numerous crazy thoughts. Desires. If you build it, it will come. I’ve been building castles in my head since I was a child…and I am still waiting for them to manifest.
© Sorrow & Kindness