crash test dummy

“I have a feeling that you’re riding for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall.” —The Catcher in the Rye

I crashed. Of course I crashed. I woke this morning and the bright, yellow sun was blazing already. I felt leaden and full of fear like wings flapping; I’ve read bloggers calling them birds and moths lately and that’s just what it feels like. Someone else posted a photo of shirts saying, ‘anxiety is my cardio’ and true enough, it’s bloody exhausting.

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It’s February, you see, and so the third anniversary of my mother’s death is coming up. Lots of bad stuff barely buried there. Synapse will be here with me for it. Might have to relax the rules and just get drunk or something. Eighteen days to go.

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One of many, many things I loathe about death, is all of the conversations it cuts short, the mutual interests. Albums get released, books published and I grow angry. It’s horrible, sitting alone with a pile of stuff that should be shared. Music is a bloody nightmare, we shared a lot. Books too. Our tastes varied enough to avoid the book thing much of the time, but music, forget it. I’ll start off just listening to stuff I love that she didn’t (hip hop, for example), but soon enough, the guitars and ballads creep home. “You’re into harmony,” she said to me once, “that’s what you’re about.”

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Someone I thought of as incredibly fine told me yesterday that she gets angry and wants to slash her wrists some days.

in brief

So now I’m three days into the olanzapine and fluoxetine meds regime. I prefer the word regime to cocktail, because meds generally seem to arrive in jackboots and take over my life. Also, there are no parasols or  disgusting maraschino cherries in sight. I’ve gone from spending about two thirds of my life asleep, to being wide and wired awake most of the time. I don’t like it. I need some balance. I need some sleep too. I’m not going to freak though, I live a quiet life and in terms of avoiding mania, the odds are probably in my favour. I tend more towards mixed episodes anyway.

Anxiety is a well worn Möbius strip (oh lol autocorrect made it ‘strop’, how perfect) shaped warpath in my mind. It shall henceforth be known as the Möbius strop. Möbius trip, Möbius trope… It’s almost 1am and I’m sitting fretting about a friendship. Rumination, ruination.

Ugh I bore myself shitless too.

What if I don’t manage to get back into life properly? What if I’m stuck out here on the fucking perimeter? What what what the fuck.

a particularly petulant post

I feel battered by my life, my history. I used to feel rather fiercely proud that I was never one of those people who declared they’d never trust again, or love again; nowadays I feel as though I’m sitting in a particularly muddy trench, clutching an inadequate pisspot helmet and weeping. I’m not blaming anyone for it, it’s circumstance and happenstance and my own egregious mismanagement of it all. Plenty of people have endured far, far worse than I have and emerged victorious. Me, I’m tired and frightened and I have zero faith or hope for the future.

Last February, some of you literally pulled me through a month full of grief. This February will be the third anniversary of my mother’s death, and shrink two tells me it’s a more than adequate reason to be feeling so fucked up and broken now. I’m as moody as an adolescent, I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m so fucking tired.

I messaged shrink two on Sunday to update her about a couple of side effects and a little light self harm. She replied today saying she’ll find out the fastest way to get me on to olanzapine via the public healthcare sector, so it’ll be farewell clozapine soon. I feel zero hope in that direction too.

Most of my 45 years have been depressed ones – that is not an exaggeration. I’ve tried a lot of medication and meditation and in general, I’ve fought it hard. The last four or five years though…. I think they can be filed as ‘the last straw’.

Ag actually, whatever.

Fuck

Well my amygdala is very firmly in control of my brain at the moment. Strong little fucker, like a jack russell on coke, selling me fight and flight, two for the price of one. Jaws like a gin trap, teeth like a tiger’s, gaze as baleful as a basilisk’s. 

Fuck.

Fucken lizard.

Shrinks one and two will have brighter eyes than mine when they ask how my Christmas was. I’ll probably look a bit confused while I try to explain that I was in an uncomfortable stupor, interspersed with hectic agitation and a little light self harm. Got my Christmas sodding  stocking stuffed full of triggers and shame and pain.

Fuck.

The other day I added self harm to the list of things I track. How utterly fucking great, I went a few years clear of it and now… well here I fucking am again. There’s so much good in and about my life and I can’t seem to do more than look through a fish tank at it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I hate myself so fucking much. I just can’t seem to catch a fucking break these days. Well actually my main issue at the moment is that I don’t know how to make sense of my life. That’s the crux of it.

single player in a multiverse

I’ve lost count of how many posts I’ve started and then abandoned lately. December was going to be tough anyway, even before the advent (ha not very ha) of clozapine. Adventures and misadventures with clozapine are dominating me so hard right now; I hate it. They’re not the worst side effects I’ve experienced, and they’ll pass; it’s just that one of them happens to trigger stuff for me. Thank fuck shrink one is cool about consulting via email sometimes.

More often than not, I sound like a complete grinch round this time of year, but of course the external bitterness demonstrates internal hurt. Blah blah fucken blah, right…. Clozapine’s little cycles and foibles fuck the whole thing right up the ass this year anyway.

Remember the douchebag neighbour’s homophobic boyfriend? Apparently she dumped him last week, because, “we’re just not compatible.” This is where I make the sarcastic W for whatever sign with my hands.

So Christmas and clozapine have their boot soles aimed at my arse, and no doubt menopause is in the same position. Grief though…. Grief for a long line of my dead and the lion’s share of it for my mother. That particular grief is a fist in my throat at the moment.

I can’t write any more right now, it’s all too jagged and bleak.