I hate myself.
I’m one full-of-shit motherfucker.
Every day, I sit here at my job with a fucking faker-than-fake grin plastered across my face for all of the clientele scheduled at our office. Society forbids anything less.
(Also? I’ve heard before that if you smile a lot, it actually makes you happy. I am here to tell you that theory is complete fucking bullshit. Complete and utter drivel.)
Really, I want to crawl back into my bed, cry and pray for death.
I’d love to slice into myself with a razor or a knife…a car key… all because the beast in my brain tells me everything would be better without me, anyway.
If you don’t know, I suffer from severe depression, anxiety and PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).
Up until about a little over a month ago, I was medicated for my depression.
To give you a little back-story, I see both a talk therapist (who does not prescribe meds) and a psychopharmacologist (a ‘shrink,’ and prescriber). My psychopharm is someone whom I have seen anywhere from twice to four times a year for the past 6-ish years for medication checks. I see her for only a 20 minute appointment.
Her office is located in a town called Wellesley, which on a good day will take me at least half a day’s leave from work and about 3 hours’ commute–round trip–time via public transit. Probably longer now that I’ve moved out of Boston proper.
Kinda doesn’t make sense to travel for that amount of time for a 20-minute appointment, huh?
This is the main reason I have decided to break it off with my psychopharm. Additionally, she tends to cancel appointments at her whim and because of my work schedule, it may take me months to reschedule. Not very appealing to someone who is already anxious about getting there in the first place; then it turns into: “What the fuck? Soooo, now I have to retract the half-day I requested off from my boss, ask for a different half-day off and plan another commuter trip? Fuuuuuuck you.”
The desk staff at her office is neither friendly nor courteous. They are generally a bunch of asshole 20-somethings. Employee turnover at her office seems to be frequent, and I simply cannot stomach the smugness of the office staff.
I almost feel as though they are sneering at me, thinking: “I’M not depressed. I’M not crazy. Good luck with your fucked up life, loser. I’m going to go party with all of my young, fun friends while YOU sit around hating yourself and wanting to die. You’re such a fucking loser, loser.”
In a nutshell, that is why I have decided to discontinue seeing my psychopharmacologist.
I still see my therapist, although admittedly, I don’t want to.
Nothing against her–she’s a nice person and for all points and purposes a good therapist. And let me tell you–it took me YEARS to find a good therapist; from the super-Christian whackjob therapists in Kansas/Texas (Praying does NOT help the crazy, btw. I just want you to know that.), to the money grubbing, self-centered therapist in NYC (a Jewish woman who always wore red cowboy boots even though she had never been to a part of the U.S. where cowboy boots are the norm–a grande poseur, if you will).
I just kind of feel like I’m ‘so over’ therapy. I’m tired of hashing and re-hashing life events, talking about my fucking feelings, feeling like I get jumped and beat up by my emotions/brain/demons once a week in my therapy session.
I need a vacation from myself.
I need a vacation from trying so hard to ‘fix’ myself.
In my infinite wisdom, I decided that maybe I could live without my meds. My antidepressant, to be exact. I had been stepping down my dose for a while and I felt good–great, actually. I felt as close to normal as I ever have. Maybe even better. I thought: “Maybe I don’t need this anymore. Maybe I’ve become strong enough to do this without meds. Without the crutch.”
So, I eventually stepped down to no milligrams. No pill.
The freedom was nice.
Granted, I take a myriad of OTHER meds everyday for my shitty lungs, but the mere thought that maybe, just maybe I didn’t need this one thing…that I could live without it…it was luxurious.
And then the storm hit.
Out of nowhere on my commute to work, I thought that I wanted to call my mom (she passed away nearly 12 years ago), and immediately I reminded myself that I don’t have that option.
And the tears started.
Internally, I was yelling–no, SCREAMING–at myself: “Get your shit together, goddammit!!! Stop crying IMMEDIATELY!!! You can do this! You’re going to be okay!”
And, as I have done so many times before, I pulled it together.
I like to think of it as putting on a mask.
Later in the day, I found myself thinking about how nice it would be to just lay down and sleep.
And then I had that flash of intrusive thought…maybe it would just be better if I ceased to exist.
I arrived at home after what seemed to be one of the longest commutes of my life, and the flood of tears I had successfully fought off all day finally won the battle, streaming forth from my eyes.
The dogs were happy to see me.
But was I happy to see them?
I began yelling at them to “JUST LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE,” and I realized what was happening. I realized that I had unwittingly unleashed the beast within myself, the beast who has two speeds: hatefully, viciously murderous/ugly, and all-encompassing sadness.
In that moment, I wondered which was the real ‘me’? Am I actually the ‘medicated me,’ or is my true nature the hatefully nasty, sad and ugly woman who reared her head this afternoon?
I separated myself from the dogs and shut myself in the bedroom.
Aside from feeding the dogs and taking them out to do their business (also–locating and exhuming a dead rabbit from the snow in our backyard; a better story for later) I remained in the bedroom.
Sewing through the tears (that would NOT stop coming).
When my handsome un-husband (no, we’re not married yet and no, I don’t know when we will get married. Stop. Fucking. Asking.) arrived at home, he found a very tear-stained and hysterical me.
I said to him through streaming tears: “Welcome to the unmedicated demon I truly am!”
He seemed less than exuberant. In fact, he looked sad. Which, I guess is how he should feel, considering his girlfriend is a fucking hot mess.
I spent the rest of the evening spouting off my crazy at him. I told him I felt suicidal. I also promised him that I would not hurt myself…but that hurting others was not off of the table (looking at you, fellow commuting assfaces) and neither was thinking about hurting myself.
I guess, when it comes to crazy, compromises are key.