I am finding it incredibly difficult to write here, as I am finding it hard to see hope. I have started and deleted countless posts today. I realise to write honestly, about both the ups and downs, would be more real – but I don’t seem able to. I like to keep a tidy blog. I like to muse on beauty and meaning, insert colour coordinated images into my posts. It’s much like everything external in my life that I keep meticulously organised in my own systems. Everything clean. The world in perfect, ordered grids. I’m good at keeping things under control. The only catch being that really, nothing is under control at all.
Things begin to overlap each other, and my world gets messy. It literally hurts the inside of my head – it’s like there’s something banging from side to side inside my skull. I should know better. I should not be off medication. Resuming it will be quite a process – I can’t just resume at the doses I was taking before, despite dosages needing to be high in order for me to experience any therapeutic effects. If I were to resume medication immediately and increase at the fastest possible rate, it would still be at least three months before I’m back in a therapeutic range for me. Three months is a long time when I’m in this state. And that’s assuming I can immediately a) find a new doctor and b) find the courage to make an appointment and attend it. To be entirely honest I don’t know how long it will take for me to be open to seeing a doctor, let alone find one and get an appointment.
Off medication, the world is too loud, too fast. I feel blurred. My head weighs infinitely more than the rest of my body, and everything keeps spinning around me. Colours are too intense, sounds scratch at my eardrums, anything in contact with my skin burns. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep more than an hour at most at a time – and the prospect of nightmares makes me fear and avoid sleep in the first place. Ideation is without relief, constant images fleeting through my mind. Break all my fingers, cut to the bone and rip them out with my hands, pop out eyeballs with teaspoons, shove skewers through my ears, rip off fingernails and pull my teeth out with pliers. The world is confusing and intimidating, everything with sharp edges.
It’s hard to explain in words the complete suffocation that depression induces. Like a heavy fog, it descends quickly over everything in my life. The greyness has weight – it pushes me down until I’m curled in a ball on the floor of my bedroom wrapped in a blanket – and it becomes near impossible to move against the weight. I lose all energy to perform the most basic tasks. I showered today for the first time in five days, and the water on my back burned like bullets at close range. Everything seems to end in me sitting quietly, staring, not quite inside my body. Three cups of tea sit on my bedside table, each cold before I’ve remembered to drink them.