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So today I go to the optometrist, who shines bright lights in my eyes for a few minutes and tells me that so far I'm okay -- no degeneration from the diabetes and only normal deterioration for my age. Lucky.
A few hours later, I go to my psychiatrist, who tells me that he's going to keep my medications just the way they are in spite of recent bad patches, and we'll see if the DBT sessions give me any relief from my symptoms. Not so lucky.
He also pretty much dismisses the option of electroshock treatments, though he admits that he's willing to refer me to someone if I'm really serious about it. Depending on how the DBT and the meds work out, we'll have to see.
So, who am I?
I'm a person profoundly out-of-balance with themselves. I am, mostly, a mess on two legs. Yet somehow I manage to keep moving, even though I stagger a lot. Many days I want to lie down and die, but I've been able to restrain myself from seriously damaging my body through cutting, and I haven't made a serious suicide attempt yet, though God, has it been tempting.
I am a weak person, often broken, who's still strong enough not to completely cave in. I've never been admitted to hospital over my emotional problems, though one time I came extremely close. This could be seen as a blessing, but lately I've been seeing it as a curse: part of me whispers: "You can sometimes TALK about it -- maybe too much -- but unless you DO something, people are going to think you're faking, or that the pain isn't that bad." Some days I want to scream, to break things, to cut myself to bloody ribbons just to demonstrate that yes, it IS that bad, that yes, living with misery so deep that death seems like a vacation is still the way I endure over half of my waking minutes.
I'm a person who counts on medication to take care of the groundwork of my depression so that I can consciously work on the skills I need to pull myself the rest of the way.
I guess I'm a hopefuly person, because I'm looking at being initiated into the Black Ring line, and I've stated my intention to work toward a second degree priestesshood within that tradition. This would mean lots of study, lots more self-development, and even more hard work. Whether or not I'm a worthy person is a whole different question. Maybe, maybe not.
I'm a fortunate person, because I have people who, no matter how much I angst or whine, seem to still be willing to give me a pat on the back and say: "Keep going! You can do it!" And I'm more grateful for that than they will ever know.
Right now I can barely type, but something else I am is a compulsive writer. I have to communicate, or something inside me becomes even sicker.
Right now, the truth is that I don't know WHAT I am. Only that I'm condemned to go on being it, because right now death is not a workable option.
*lies down, and lets myself howl with misery*
A few hours later, I go to my psychiatrist, who tells me that he's going to keep my medications just the way they are in spite of recent bad patches, and we'll see if the DBT sessions give me any relief from my symptoms. Not so lucky.
He also pretty much dismisses the option of electroshock treatments, though he admits that he's willing to refer me to someone if I'm really serious about it. Depending on how the DBT and the meds work out, we'll have to see.
So, who am I?
I'm a person profoundly out-of-balance with themselves. I am, mostly, a mess on two legs. Yet somehow I manage to keep moving, even though I stagger a lot. Many days I want to lie down and die, but I've been able to restrain myself from seriously damaging my body through cutting, and I haven't made a serious suicide attempt yet, though God, has it been tempting.
I am a weak person, often broken, who's still strong enough not to completely cave in. I've never been admitted to hospital over my emotional problems, though one time I came extremely close. This could be seen as a blessing, but lately I've been seeing it as a curse: part of me whispers: "You can sometimes TALK about it -- maybe too much -- but unless you DO something, people are going to think you're faking, or that the pain isn't that bad." Some days I want to scream, to break things, to cut myself to bloody ribbons just to demonstrate that yes, it IS that bad, that yes, living with misery so deep that death seems like a vacation is still the way I endure over half of my waking minutes.
I'm a person who counts on medication to take care of the groundwork of my depression so that I can consciously work on the skills I need to pull myself the rest of the way.
I guess I'm a hopefuly person, because I'm looking at being initiated into the Black Ring line, and I've stated my intention to work toward a second degree priestesshood within that tradition. This would mean lots of study, lots more self-development, and even more hard work. Whether or not I'm a worthy person is a whole different question. Maybe, maybe not.
I'm a fortunate person, because I have people who, no matter how much I angst or whine, seem to still be willing to give me a pat on the back and say: "Keep going! You can do it!" And I'm more grateful for that than they will ever know.
Right now I can barely type, but something else I am is a compulsive writer. I have to communicate, or something inside me becomes even sicker.
Right now, the truth is that I don't know WHAT I am. Only that I'm condemned to go on being it, because right now death is not a workable option.
*lies down, and lets myself howl with misery*
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(no subject)
We're here for you, sister.
(no subject)
Crow-joe.. you've survived a whole hell lot longer than I have through deeper depression than I have. To me that shows how strong you are. I shows how bloody stubborn you are to fight the depression that haunts you and somehow you still manage to work as a professional artist who is not only EXCELLENT, but WELL RESPECTED.
To that, I tip my hat to you, lady! **Does a bad Gigolo Joe dance before giving Crow Joe a hug**
(no subject)