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.

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.