Closer

Something’s going wrong again.

I can’t write, as everything I’ve written seems like complete crap—I’ve never known what I was doing and there was and never can be a meaning behind it. My art means nothing and I can’t even finish the drawings I’m working on now because I don’t feel as if they’re my ideas anymore. I don’t own anything I’ve ever done.

I just feel disconnected, brainless, blank and unimaginative. And it’s constricting in on me. And whatever I might think of doing to fix this is more of a loss at the end of the day.

This is hell.

Why can’t I appreciate what I have and stop bitching about having to breathe? I have a life. It’s going to end one day. Why isn’t that enough anymore? Why don’t I find enough comfort in that anymore?

The last thing that genuinely made me feel better was listening to my mother tell me about her grandmother, on her father’s side, having a pet praying mantis she’d let roam around part of the house. And my mom telling me how there were never any spider webs where it was and how it used to just sit on the piano sometimes. It makes me want to write poems on all the other strange stories like this that have been told to me about my family.

Stories from the past, from someone else’s life, because you know I don’t live enough to have much at all to say.

Last week I slammed my wrist against a wall in my bedroom as a signal to my brothers to shut up. I was trying to sleep. Diplomacy is out of the question. I have lost a lot of respect for them, and actually don’t mind the thought of hurting their feelings.

This can’t last too much longer. I’m getting closer and closer, not being able to stop myself. Yesterday I was just about to hit the side of my wrist onto the edge of my desk when a tired feeling flooded over me, and I dropped every thought and just shut down.

I need to be taken away so badly.

Words Sent and Received….

 My therapist sent me another letter, replying to my reply. At the beginning of it she basically made me feel ashamed for feeling like I want to kill myself at times. Saying that I’ve not really had much loss in my life–no devastating war or death and whatever else she threw at me. I basically told her in my letter that I was totally unmotivated for life and that I wanted nothing, and would rather not be here at all than to pretend I want what everyone else my age (or otherwise) is supposed to want.

So anyway, when she started telling me how I’ve really not had it bad in life, I started to get angry. But as I read on I could see she was trying to make the case that she thinks I have “biological chronic depression” and that it’s gone a long time without being “properly treated”.

Chronic depression might be what this is, but with the beginning of that letter still fresh in my mind, I was starting to feel once again that my moods are all made up, that I’m causing all of this, allowing myself to stay obsessed and stuck. She went on to suggest that I get a psychiatrist who can give me some medication to help it out.

I’d also mentioned before in my letter to her that I could never say all I needed to say face to face with any therapist I’ve had. I was and still am afraid of the consequences of even hinting to an outsider that I’ve been suicidal–whether right now or in the past. She responded to that in this new letter by saying that only if a plan is included would there be any consequences. Being held for a time and all that.

I’m guessing none of that’s going to work with me, because if I have a plan I’m not going to tell a soul. Especially someone who has the power to tell and have me held up. Since I told her I think my parents insurance is going to drop me because of my age and unemployment, she included a list of mental health centers I could go to for a psychiatrist who wouldn’t cost me an arm and a leg to see.

I don’t think I’m going to follow through with any of it though. I just don’t care anymore. I should be in better spirits right now, because my brother who’s been away in jail for a year comes home sometime tomorrow. But all I seem to be able to do is wallow in how stupid my existence feels, and in shame for feeling bad for even one moment of it.

Distraction. I’ve got lots of stuff to read; I’m writing a lot (unfortunately it’s all about the same thing), and I finally have ink to print my art. None of it means a thing, but at least I have not injured myself. A glimmer of hope came about today when I heard of the job openings at my father’s second job. It’s a job where you call up people for surveys. I’m just going to apply and keep my mind as far away from failure as I can while I do so.

Counting…

I figured taking strange pictures like this would help the feeling go away. But this was taken about two weeks ago, and it’s still with me. I want to slip further. For the past week I’ve taken 200mg, and for a time I was doing alright. Numb as can be, but it wasn’t bothering me. But now the apathy is weighing me down, and I’m thinking about suicide for no other reason than to end my pointless existence. Do I make a little sense?

I actually think it’s more the medication than anything. I don’t know why it is that I’m just now finding out about ”apathy syndrome”, but apparently it’s an effect that can happen in some cases when anti-depressants are taken for long-term treatment. And increasing the dose (as I’ve been doing) will likely worsen the feeling (from what I’ve read)

So, I will make an appointment with my doctor and tell him I want to wean myself off this medication. I don’t care if the depression comes back or if my anxiety worsens at this point. I don’t want to risk taking any other kind of anti-depressant because I don’t want to deal with the unpredictable symptoms again. And I especially don’t want to take the chance getting one that causes weight gain (the Zoloft actually caused weight lose for me).

That’s about it. I’d rather die than feel this way forever; unable to care, and without any motivation– except to break  out of it somehow, to hurt.

I’ll take 150mg tonight, then 100mg tomorrow night and then I’ll make an appointment with the doc to get a liquid form of the drug or something so that it’ll be easier to lower the dose…or something like that.  Taking this medication is the only kind of ‘help’ I have left and I’m choosing to let it go. I’m not making very much out of my life, and I no longer feel my attempts at staying well are working or deserved.