My brain is talking to me. Blah, blah, blah. We'll call it depression, though OCD might have a say as well. I keep talking back. "You think I don't hear you?" "I know! I heard you." And so on and so forth. Meanwhile cue flu-like symptoms of depression/anxiety (minus the throwing up). And cling to hope.
I've got a few specks of hope and half a mustard seed of faith. But they are clenched tightly in my hands.
Meanwhile, I'm here at the library because I have homework to do. I'd gotten it almost done yesterday, and then mannaged to erase 7/8ths of it. So now I can re-do it, around my brain muttering and my normal procrastination habits. My brain did shut up for me to write this post. Thankyou, brain.
I see Mr. Psychiatrist this week. I felt oh so much better getting off of the second atypical antipsychotic. With my usual contradictory enthusiasm, I hoped that meant that the depression would pretty much disappear. No such luck. The weekend came. It's not my fault that the weekend came. People set up the calander that way, and I wasn't one of those people.
I've been "being good." Getting out of my house, talking to people, etc. My counselor should be happy-sad. Happy for my actions, sad that I don't feel better.
I'm sick of this, really. I'm sure you are sick of your illness, too. I wasn't planning on having a chronic illness while in my twenties. I'm sure you weren't either. I somehow thought that if I dealt with it and did the right things, it would go away. The OCD would tone down and the depression would leave. But that didn't happen. Well, the OCD toned down and the depression keyed up. For those who would ask me to choose which is worse... If either of them is bad, I struggle. If I'm depressed, I'm depressed. If I'm anxious, I'm depressed or very close to it. What is anxiety anyway?
But we believe this will get better. It will, it will. My specks of hope and half mustard seed of faith know I'll get better. At some point. Just it seems that today is not the day. Maybe tomorrow. (The contradictory thoughts that I'll never get better on earth and that I'll be better tomorrow are rather confusing. But let me not bother the doctor, because I might be better tomorrow. Only now I do call the doctor. Because enough todays have been tough.)
I've got a few specks of hope and half a mustard seed of faith. But they are clenched tightly in my hands.
Meanwhile, I'm here at the library because I have homework to do. I'd gotten it almost done yesterday, and then mannaged to erase 7/8ths of it. So now I can re-do it, around my brain muttering and my normal procrastination habits. My brain did shut up for me to write this post. Thankyou, brain.
I see Mr. Psychiatrist this week. I felt oh so much better getting off of the second atypical antipsychotic. With my usual contradictory enthusiasm, I hoped that meant that the depression would pretty much disappear. No such luck. The weekend came. It's not my fault that the weekend came. People set up the calander that way, and I wasn't one of those people.
I've been "being good." Getting out of my house, talking to people, etc. My counselor should be happy-sad. Happy for my actions, sad that I don't feel better.
I'm sick of this, really. I'm sure you are sick of your illness, too. I wasn't planning on having a chronic illness while in my twenties. I'm sure you weren't either. I somehow thought that if I dealt with it and did the right things, it would go away. The OCD would tone down and the depression would leave. But that didn't happen. Well, the OCD toned down and the depression keyed up. For those who would ask me to choose which is worse... If either of them is bad, I struggle. If I'm depressed, I'm depressed. If I'm anxious, I'm depressed or very close to it. What is anxiety anyway?
But we believe this will get better. It will, it will. My specks of hope and half mustard seed of faith know I'll get better. At some point. Just it seems that today is not the day. Maybe tomorrow. (The contradictory thoughts that I'll never get better on earth and that I'll be better tomorrow are rather confusing. But let me not bother the doctor, because I might be better tomorrow. Only now I do call the doctor. Because enough todays have been tough.)
Hugs, Abigail.
ReplyDeleteI pray that your specks of hope and half mustard seed of faith grow and grow.
Elizabeth-