On my Facebook page yesterday I briefly mentioned the fact that I am experiencing some dissociation which in turn makes it difficult to communicate with others, both in written or spoken form. I am trying to keep a grip on life, but perhaps it’s a grip I can’t keep because I’ve already lost it. Maybe I don’t even want that grip anymore. Maybe it’s easier to float along without it, “accidental-like on a breeze.” (Forrest Gump, duh!)
My fiance is supposed to take me to the new clinic tomorrow. I really doubt I will go. I don’t feel like waiting around in a place that may or may not see me…first come first serve my ass. I don’t feel like being asked questions and trying to piece together a map of where my mental health history and my current state of mind meet. I just don’t feel like it! And yes, this attitude is probably a big part of why I should go, but I’m just so done with it. Back on October 5th when I went to see my doctor I was so depressed that I was contemplating suicide, and she sent me away. And yeah, I’m glad I didn’t get sent to the hospital, and I’m really glad I eventually got out of the deadly mindset I was in then, but the fact remains: she sent me away. I spent money to see her that I could have used for groceries, to ask for her help, and I left with nothing but an even worse outlook on life than I had before I saw her. Do I really want to risk having that happen again? The rejection? Do I really want to go to another clinic knowing full well there’s a great potential they will not be able to help me either? In my mind right now, the prospect of help being there but not receiving it due to pride is a better alternative than being hopeful in treatment only to be punched in the face with another dead end. And I must be logical about it: nearly every medication that we can feasibly afford has indeed already been tried. Diet changes have been made. Exercise. Therapy. I have very rapid cycling bipolar disorder which is hard to treat. My anxiety (OCD, social, panic attacks) has me almost completely homebound as it is, so leaving the house and talking to people is increasingly more difficult to do. This in turn makes treatment all the harder to be successful. I’m not saying I’m giving up, but I guess I am taking a vacation from hope because it’s just been fucking exhausting!
So what I’m going to do in the meantime is clean up the house. At least it will keep me occupied. I can pretend I am not mentally ill (there’s no such thing – HA!) and I can just busy myself with domestic chores that are not too incredibly taxing on my brain cells. Knowing that, in fact, every little thing is taxing on me these days. But humor me for a minute. Believe that I will be alright. Believe that I am perfectly fine and will not precariously dive off the deep end. Do I really have a choice? Well, of course I do! But my decision (for the day, for the minute, for the millisecond) has been made.