So I’ve been a bit quiet lately. My head is an asshole, and it’s been trying to kill me.
Things have been kind of swirling around the sinkhole since last year and it all ended with me at the bottom of the pit.
My GP got so freaked out by my frequent appointments where I turned up Italian lady crying that I got sent back to the psych team to get back on the meds merry go round.
Which resulted in long weeks (months) of doubling one medication, increasing another, and shoving another one in to the regime, increasing doses at particular rates, taking them at the right time (with or without food) and having blood tests on particular dates (juuuust in case I you know, DIE)..
The instructions eventually got so confusing that my pharmacist was like “Bex, I’m so glad that you’re onto it because I’ve completely lost track of what’s going on with all your meds”. Thank fuck I have some kind of “teachers pet” programme that can break through “I want to die” fog when my psychiatrist gives out the meds regression analysis of what I’m meant to be doing every week. Heaven help the other 99% -you need a freaking PhD just to figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to be doing.
Sadly having a PhD in how to take legal drugs doesn’t mean that I’m de-crazied. But I still manage to get one star on my star sheet. Every time I go to the psych team, they’re amazed that for someone so deeply suicidal, I manage to go to work each day. It’s the first praise I’ve heard in ages and my gallows humour makes me want to frame it and put it up on the wall (I don’t).
I stop eating. It’s not a conscious decision – I just forget. I don’t notice until my clothes are hanging off me and someone tells me I look like I’ve lost weight. I stare in the mirror and think I should feel happy. I think about patenting the misery diet. People would probably buy this shit.
My psych team stops praising me and starts to look alarmed when I turn up week after week, month after month still in hysterical crying, wanting-to-die mode. “How long do the meds take to work?” I ask my psychiatrist. “It can take a while”, she says staring glumly back at me. I’m pretty sure the next line of treatment is shock therapy so I don’t push it further.
It’s difficult to describe this particular hellscape because it’s not like any place I’ve been to. It’s not a constant panic-ridden radio station blasting about how shit I am. I don’t want to anxiously scratch myself all day or gallop up and down the hallways.
I like to think that when I’m well, my head is like a pinball machine. But it’s been like white noise. There’s no coherent thought at all – no pleasure. Just a general feeling like everything is heavy and takes so much effort and I just generally wish I wouldn’t wake up. With the odd “I want to die” tuning in when I’m really distressed. I wouldn’t listen to it on Spotify. Sometimes my boss asks me questions and I just stare at her and she says “no I’m actually ASKING you”. Bleh.
The only thing that’s really different is the crying. I do a LOT of crying at my desk. I cry to my beautiful Manfriend more times than I count (he could probably count it if he wanted to. He’s a statistician. He can count on more than his fingers, it’s science). I’m like a human waterballoon.
But I do all the stuff you’re supposed to. I go to a wedding (get wasted, yell incoherently through all the speeches – tick). I meet up with old friends (tell them my achievement for the week is not killing myself – friend freaked out tickkkkkkk). I go and see people even when I don’t feel like it and “wait for the feelings to come” (they don’t AND I feel awkward). I keep going to work even though every day everything in me screams GO HIDE IN THE CAR BOOT!!!!!
It sucks, and I hate it.
This story doesn’t have a saccharine ending. There’s no “and then a golden medicine appeared, the white noise cleared and I was saved”.
I guess I just wanted to put it out there that you know what? Sometimes you take the meds, you go for the walks, you see your friends, you do what you’re meant to. And you STILL feel like shit.
And I know that’s frustrating for people, and I know that can be uncomfortable in social situations when it’s like “hi soz, still a greasy zombie”. But goddamnit, you’re ALIVE. You’re living in waking hell with your head in “must kill my maker” mode, and you’re getting THROUGH that shit. If this was a Nintendo game you’d have clocked every level and be about to face the Boss (Satan? The big G himself? Sorry, got distracted).
Just being alive when your brain is being a c-word and trying to kill you and making you act like a weird self-conscious marionette is some heroic zombie shit.
So yeh. Dispatch from a braindead zombie. I am still here. I would like my zombie medal plz.