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meapetHad my Leather Family Christmas last night, which was great. I had a few moments where I was confused with things inside of me, especially as I was having my narcolepticness. Musta been the excellent meal. If you ever want to get a good dinner for not too much with a group of people, definately do the family style dinner at Maggianos...if you can get in that is.
Anyway, Uncle John and Suellen gave me this book, Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel. I have to admit that I was skeptical, as everyone's been giving me books or recommending books about depression/bipolar/suicide/self help/etc. I'm actually almost tired of it. Part of me doesn't think that reading a book is going to give me any better insight into myself, and in a lot of ways I'm tired of looking into myself.
Anyway, giving it the benefit of the doubt, as I do every book someone recommends to me, I opened the cover and checked out the bit. Boy was I amazed.
I start to get the feeling that something is really wrong. Like all the drugs put together-- the lithium, the Prozac, the desipramine, and the Desyrel that I take to sleep at night-- can no longer combat whatever it is that was wrong with me in the first place. I feel like a defective model, like I came off the assembly line flat-out fucked and my parents should have taken me back fro repairs before the warranty ran out. But that was so long ago.
I start to think there really is no cure for depression, that happiness is an ongoing battle, and I wonder if it isn't one I'll have to fight for as long as I live. I wonder if its worth it.
I start to feel like I can't maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong.
Maybe something about how stupid my who life is. I don't know.
(skipping the dream part)
In my waking life I'm constantly tired. People say it's Epstein-Barr. But I know its the lithium, the miracle salt that has stabilized my moods but is draining my body.
and I want out of this life on drugs
I am petrified in my dream and I am petrified in reality because it is as if my dream is reality and I am having a nervous breakdown and I have nowhere to turn. Nowhere. My mother, I sense, has just kind of given up on me, decided that she isn't sure how she raised this, well, this thing, this rock-and-roll girl who has violated her body witha tattoo and a nose ring, and though she loves me very much, she no longer wants to be the one I run to. My father has never been the one I run to. We last spoke a couple of years ago. I don't even know where he is. and then there are my friends, and they have their own lives. While they like to talk everything through, to analyze and hypothesize, what I really need, what I'm really looking for, is not something I can articulate. It's nonverbal: I need love. I need the thing that thappens when your brain shuts off and your heart turns on.
And I know its around me somewhere, but I just can't find it.
What I do feel is the scariness of being an adult, being alone in this big huge loft with so many CDs and plastic bags and magazines and pairs of dirty socks and dirty plates on the floor that I can't even see the floor. I'm sure that I have nowhere to run, that I can't even walk anywhere without tripping and falling way down, and I know I want out of this mess. I want out. No one will ever love me. I will live and die alone, I will go nowhere fast, I will be nothing at all. Nothing will work out. the promise that on the other side of depression lies a beautiful life, one worth surviving suicide for, will have turned out wrong. It will all be a big dupe.
I don't really know why I felt like putting this here...maybe becuase it puts into words what I havent been able to for so long. Lots of people tell me they dont understand how I feel.. well maybe this'll give some insight.
Anyway, that's enough downers for today.. its christmas eve eve for pity's sake.
Anyway, Uncle John and Suellen gave me this book, Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel. I have to admit that I was skeptical, as everyone's been giving me books or recommending books about depression/bipolar/suicide/self help/etc. I'm actually almost tired of it. Part of me doesn't think that reading a book is going to give me any better insight into myself, and in a lot of ways I'm tired of looking into myself.
Anyway, giving it the benefit of the doubt, as I do every book someone recommends to me, I opened the cover and checked out the bit. Boy was I amazed.
I start to get the feeling that something is really wrong. Like all the drugs put together-- the lithium, the Prozac, the desipramine, and the Desyrel that I take to sleep at night-- can no longer combat whatever it is that was wrong with me in the first place. I feel like a defective model, like I came off the assembly line flat-out fucked and my parents should have taken me back fro repairs before the warranty ran out. But that was so long ago.
I start to think there really is no cure for depression, that happiness is an ongoing battle, and I wonder if it isn't one I'll have to fight for as long as I live. I wonder if its worth it.
I start to feel like I can't maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong.
Maybe something about how stupid my who life is. I don't know.
(skipping the dream part)
In my waking life I'm constantly tired. People say it's Epstein-Barr. But I know its the lithium, the miracle salt that has stabilized my moods but is draining my body.
and I want out of this life on drugs
I am petrified in my dream and I am petrified in reality because it is as if my dream is reality and I am having a nervous breakdown and I have nowhere to turn. Nowhere. My mother, I sense, has just kind of given up on me, decided that she isn't sure how she raised this, well, this thing, this rock-and-roll girl who has violated her body witha tattoo and a nose ring, and though she loves me very much, she no longer wants to be the one I run to. My father has never been the one I run to. We last spoke a couple of years ago. I don't even know where he is. and then there are my friends, and they have their own lives. While they like to talk everything through, to analyze and hypothesize, what I really need, what I'm really looking for, is not something I can articulate. It's nonverbal: I need love. I need the thing that thappens when your brain shuts off and your heart turns on.
And I know its around me somewhere, but I just can't find it.
What I do feel is the scariness of being an adult, being alone in this big huge loft with so many CDs and plastic bags and magazines and pairs of dirty socks and dirty plates on the floor that I can't even see the floor. I'm sure that I have nowhere to run, that I can't even walk anywhere without tripping and falling way down, and I know I want out of this mess. I want out. No one will ever love me. I will live and die alone, I will go nowhere fast, I will be nothing at all. Nothing will work out. the promise that on the other side of depression lies a beautiful life, one worth surviving suicide for, will have turned out wrong. It will all be a big dupe.
I don't really know why I felt like putting this here...maybe becuase it puts into words what I havent been able to for so long. Lots of people tell me they dont understand how I feel.. well maybe this'll give some insight.
Anyway, that's enough downers for today.. its christmas eve eve for pity's sake.
