This was a private post but I’ve decided to make it public instead.
I am feeling pretty fucking awful at the moment, in my customary agitated, irritable, paranoid, anxious, racing, constant brain noise so bad that I want to throw myself into traffic just for some silence, absolutely fucking hopeless about the future, self-hating depressed way.
Things have not been great here for, ooh, I don’t know, ten years, but more recently- well, recently, for months. The past two weeks have seen a change because I quit Lamictal. Please don’t line up with the “I told you so”s, because that dead, paralysed feeling was utterly terrifying to me and I would have done anything to make it stop. My CPN agreed that the dose was not helping me and that was no way to be living. I’m starting 50mg on Monday- half the previous dose- because I lost my prescription. I have been in that headspace where I am laughing and ranting hysterically one minute and crying the next. All I can think about is how shit I am, how I fuck up all my opportunities, how hopeless I feel, how lonely I am, that I don’t feel like there is any sort of future, any way out, ever, any prospects, feeling frustrated and worthless all the time. I am trying my best to keep a hold of things but it is hard. It maddens me that stopping a medication can make me feel a certain way, and it maddens me more that starting and taking medication makes me feel nothing at all. So what do I do. This is meant to make me strong. You suffer, everything I have gone through, all the losses, all the hurt, all the crap, it is meant to make me strong. This illness is meant to make me strong- it’s meant to push me forward, to say, fuck it, I will succeed because this won’t hold me back. It’s meant to be empowering. It’s not. It’s not. It is breaking me.
The worst thing is that the mental and physical energy is doing a number on my physically unwell body, and I feel as though it is trying to shut down. My body is screaming, “STOP!” Seroquel is not working properly to sedate me so I have to double the dose. I feel completely battered. There is so so so much that I want to forget, and so much I have forgotten that I want to remember.
I’m mentioning it here because I said I’d be honest here, didn’t I, and I deliberately try and hide my worst feelings from you because I don’t like letting people down and feeling like this seems to me to be a slap in the face to Rob and Hannah. And it’s not that I can’t smile or hug or love anyone, it’s just that all those lovely things are being submerged in a fog that I have to fight to get through. I know that besides this illness I am a happy and positive person. I love Rob and my family and friends so very much but I just feel as though I am an addition to their lives that brings nothing but trouble. I miss Brendan and I miss my dad. I don’t want to be like this.
I have this image of myself as laughing with my arms around Rob somewhere happy with my cats and a stack of books I’ve written and my sisters giggling with me, wearing clothes that don’t have holes in them, clothes that fit, with no self harm scars, with some sort of prospects, with something in my life that I don’t feel I have failed at, where everything that my dad ever hoped for me had come to pass, where I was a writer, alive, alive at thirty, forty, fifty, talking, without worrying about what I’m saying, not worrying anybody anymore, creative without being held back by this, outside, not paranoid about being outside, not caring at all what I look like or feel like, just being there, truly happy, for that moment, forever because I had that moment, it’s a fabrication, but it’s where I violently wish I was and I wish I could go to. Because all I imagined in my life was that, “this too shall pass”. And it’s didn’t. It never does. It never has in ten years. It is swings and roundabouts constantly. I can’t take it. I don’t want this. I cope with it all the time, every day, but this isn’t what life should be like, for me, or Rob, or anyone else in the world. This is not right.
So this isn’t articulate polemic, nor is it any attempt from me to gussy up everything and talk sagely about mental illness like it’s something that I read in a book. Living my life vicariously through writing here is not helping me as much as you’d think it is because all this is, it’s just words on a screen. I come across as so coherent here that I wonder if you forget that behind the screen I am a twenty two year old girl with no money and a family that lives across a sea and a complete inability to pick up a phone that is struggling to cope. I find it easy to write but so incredibly hard to talk.
I’m not “waaahing” but I often get the sensation that I’m floating on an island that’s merrily drifting towards the end of the world. I don’t write my way out of it, I write my way through it.
Sometimes it needs to be stated as baldly and tactlessly as possible: I feel like shit.
This is me banging my head against a wall. And it serves as an explanation if I go quiet.
I’m not asking for help. It’s not self pity or giving up, just pure, total frustration. I am okay, I will get through this, but I just needed to admit to it. Y’know, admit to it, then get over it. I will. I will do. I just needed to rant a little bit, and now I am composed again.
I really really hope that therapy happens soon as I am losing faith in medication.
Rob and I are going to stay in a lovely guesthouse in Cromer for two days on the 30th. Maybe that’s all I need, a break away. I wish I could afford more than two days, though. I hope my mood is better by then so I don’t ruin the holiday. I hope it’s sunny. I love the sea.
EDIT: I am itching to delete this. I hate writing stuff like this. Let’s see how long it lasts for.