The hours at work are spent in endless rumination. It’s what I tried explaining to my previous doctor when I said something always comes over me when I’m there that makes time there feel unbearable, causing unexpected tears to well up and a battle to keep my composure. As much as I might try keeping a tune in my head to distract or try focusing on my breathing, it doesn’t get me through the entire day. And I’m aware that it’s all me. I could be anywhere and I’d still experience this and I feel guilty that it isn’t so easy as to just think positively or being able to shut my thoughts out, but it is how it is and may always be. When days like this happen to be particularly bad, I really wonder if I am doing well at all or am anywhere near it. Or if my definition of “well” is far off from what I should ever really expect.
I tried to get in touch with the new psychiatrist earlier this week and didn’t get a call back. So I give up on scheduling an additional session and will wait until the June appointment. By then I hope I haven’t slipped too far back, but somewhere inside I wouldn’t mind seeing that happen. I’m much less convinced it matters what I end up doing to myself, especially when there isn’t truly anyone to turn to. I’ll leave it my business. My own secrets.