prismaticbleed | nov 15 2014

I am devastatingly depressed.
I haven't updated in days (feels like weeks) because frankly I just don't care much about anything anymore. I'm too tired. I don't have the strength to get out of bed. The only time I feel anything close to alive anymore is when I run, and thanks to this surgery I can't even do that for more than 30 minutes without pain.

My memory is getting worse. It's making things tough. Today I forgot that fruit hurts, and I ate an entire apple. The wave of grinding pain and nausea was a total shock at first, as I had no idea why it was there. It took me a good five minutes to remember that "oh yeah, apples have been painful to eat for two years now."
I forgot the other brother, the older one. He moved out sometime, a long time ago. He used to live here and I don't remember what that was like, or who he was. It's unsettling in a vague way, but I'm too tired to care.

I hurt too much. I want to vomit until I'm empty. I'm tired of the stomach and chest and head pain. I woke up almost every hour last night, so nauseous I was shaking. I can't remember the last time I felt rested.
I had nightmares again, the bland ones that are defined by existential annulment. In it I was driving, I got lost, had to walk home without shoes or much clothing, and when I got there the family acted like I wasn't even there. That's common. I wonder about the driving; every time I'm in a car in dreams I get hopelessly lost or, if someone else is driving, we get in an awful accident. But driving dreams are rare, except I've had like seven in the past two weeks. I wonder.

Is this bad, to talk about the bad things?
It's just so hard to focus on the "good" because currently, my perspective is so warped, it considers everything "bad." It considers everything a punishment or a sin. It's f*cked up, if you'll please forgive my language. It's just the only thing that sounds ugly enough to match this situation.
The voices won't stop. I am so tired of them. I am so tired. I actually considered going on medication to get them to shut up, but I know what that did to us last time.
"Us." That damned, saving word.

My therapist has either gotten too soft, or I've gotten too smart (again). I have a bad history with therapists, because I used to read psychology books for fun as a teen, and learned how to pick my own brain better than they ever could. So I know exactly what buzzwords to say and avoid, I know what body language they look for, I know what symptoms to hide or emphasize, I know too much. I play them like a harp.
The problem is that therapists aren't supposed to "get involved" like Laurie. I cannot tell you how horrible it is to end up in a self-destructive loop during a therapy session, trying to claw myself out of it and only being unable to because that horrid woman is staring at me. Just like that man before her. Staring. That makes it so much worse it's disgusting, because that sustained blank eye contact puts the body into "social mode" while my brain is in "you're a disgusting whore who doesn't deserve to live" mode, so I end up catatonic and silent. Then the therapist says, "what are you thinking about?" And I don't say anything, because that's the right answer. But a more bitter part of me wants to scoff and spit and tell them "nothing, you idiot, that's the whole problem!!" Can't they pick up on clues? Can't they think outside of the DSM-V? Or are they just as tightly programmed to "follow the rules" as I had to be on the job? It makes me sick.

I want to talk to Laurie, but the solution already negates the problem. The problem is that I am too suicidally depressed to care about heartspace. Acknowledging her presence would already mean I was okay enough to not need to talk. So we go back and forth, between bloody blinded sparkle-eyes and bleached-out corneas. Extremes.
I talked about that in therapy last week, I remember. How black+white does not equal gray, to me, and never did. It's the most exasperating, frustrating thing in the world. I cannot escape from the extremist mindset as long as I am fighting it, because that fighting keeps me trapped in that mindset. See? Gray is its own thing, a neutral perspective that sees clearly. I wonder if Sherlock would swap. I'm tired. I really am tired.

I'm splintered enough to switch colors, I'm sure. I realized that the other day. I realized that the reason I keep name-slipping with myself is because I dissociate so totally, so easily, around others, that I think a third-person perspective of my own alleged form is normal. When it hit me that that boy was acting the way I knew I should be acting, or at least would be if I had written the script, just like Jewel's outspacer adventures in elementary school… I knew that we were different, somehow.
Did I ever mention that? We were so used to that depersonalization, for so long, that we didn't realize it wasn't "normal," for lack of a better term. Jewel knew who she was, she would write down what happened to the letter, with herself and others. But the person writing those things was not her. Same with me. I, the one "watching myself," am not that boy, that loving boy. Somehow. I'm not even sure if he's real, or if he's just a projected splinter yet, a conscious psyche-split, like Cannon and Eros before him.

(ended suddenly)