Fucked up Welcome Back Free Write

Where do I pick up after abandoning my blog for almost 2 weeks? Has it been two weeks? Honestly, I don't know even what day it is. I spent the majority if the day thinking it was Friday and even when I learned it was Tuesday, I continued on as though it were Friday. 

Something is seriously wrong with me at the moment. I can't really say "at the moment" considering this has been going on for the past several weeks, and years, before that. So I am going to free-write my scattered, fucked up, horrible thoughts here until the Lorazopam I popped kicks in and I can finally get a brief moment of peace before I crumble under the weight of myself.

If I had to sum it up in just a few words, those words would be "The monsters are winning." Yup, they are back full force, taking control over every mechanism that makes me me. They decide when I am fast, physically and mentally. Like today, my monsters thought it was fucking hilarious to watch me run around the house gathering up every piece of fabric for the laundry, rearranging the bathroom so it's more pleasant for the cat, and crawling on my hands and knees picking up lint so that the house would look perfect. Because a perfect looking house means that I'm not crazy. Haha, thanks, guys, but everyone knows damn well that fucked up. All this while making a list of things I don't have time to do today but can work on tomorrow. Like scrub the walls and paint the bookshelves and create some wall art for the bedroom with no money.

That was today, but most days the monsters shut me down. I spend way too much time crying under a blanket hating myself so much that it physically hurts. I dwell over the fact that I am ruining Boyfriend's life and he won't admit it. I beat myself up over everyone that I have left in the wake of my destruction. I hate the evil parts of the world that I am too incapicated to fix when I am depressed and only contribute to its downfall when I'm not. But what really makes me break down, really makes the tears flow and the hyperventilating to the point of passing is the fact that the little girls I nanny for, the little girls I love so fucking much it isn't even possible, won't remember who I am. If the monsters kill me, everyone else will mourn for the appropriate time, move on with their lives, and occasionally look back at the sordid part of their past that included me. Those girls won't. I still can't decide whether that is motivating to get better or pushing me further into the depression.

If the depression and the wild weren't enough, I'm also having some pretty fuck-tastic dissociation episodes. I don't know if that is the right way to describe it. The doctor I saw about it won't tell me. In a nutshell, the world around me disappears. I am trapped in a bubble of just me until my head and body start to separate. Then I am left with two options. I can either sit there and bawl like a baby in terror for hours until miraculously the world is in focus again. Or I can speed up the process and cut myself. I know, totally fucked up. Or maybe not. The doctor didn't think it was important enough to talk about.

I suppose it is worth mentioning that I'm off all my meds. They were numbing me. They were making it harder and harder for me to write, the one and only thing that I took any pride in before this whole ordeal. I believe that they were prescribed to me by doctors who really didn't give a shit about my well-being. They just wanted me to talk slower and sit still. So fuck em. Fuck the doctors who wouldn't give me more than 5 minutes to explain what was wrong. And fuck the meds they gave me to shut me up.

I came to this lovely conclusion after spending a bit of time at a temporarily unnamed mental facility. (When I reveal where this care came from, I want to do so in a more level-headed manner.) I admitted myself with great support from Boyfriend and Dad with the hope that I was finally going to get real help. That maybe someone would be able to explain to me what I was saying to them in confusion. Nope. I got in a fight with Dr. Narcissist and was discharged against medical advice. But more on that later.

So here I am. Free from Lithium. Free from Zoloft. Starting the cycle over again. Taking on the monsters that are stronger than ever with my bare fists and losing. Apparently there is never a good time to bow out graciously, or at least that is what I'm told. So I have to keep fighting for something I don't even believe in anymore. Hope is gone. Or I was naive to think it was ever there to begin with.

The Lorazopam has kicked in finally. I'm probably going to regret posting this later, but whatever. For now, maybe I can maybe enjoy a few moments of the day.