I'M IN A GLASS CASE OF EMOTION.

I can't sleep and I feel like I'm going to throw up. I want to express myself in poem:

T'is the night before the psychiatrists and all through the flat
not a creature was stirring except a yellow house cat.
And then awoke Sarah, racing thoughts in her head
about diagnosis and fear of ill-working meds.

Yeah.

You see, I'm almost positive that medication will probably change my mind forever and turn me into some freaking mutant. No, not a cool mutant like the Ninja Turtles. I'd be some genetic fuck-up like Quasimodo. I am completely convinced that this is the only logical scenario.

I deal with extreme paranoia like this on a daily basis. The most frustrating part is knowing that it's fucked up, but still believing it anyway. Take this real-life example of a recent run-in with paranoia:

The Scene: One thirty in the morning. Boyfriend's apartment. Bed.

Boyfriend: zzzzzz
Sarah: O_O ican'tsleep
Boyfriend: "mmmwhat? *sharp inhale, yawn*
Sarah: O_O ican'tsleep i'vebeenawakeforever
Boyfriend: mmm...why?
Sarah: Someone is going to steal my car.
Boyfriend: No one is going to steal your car. Go back to sleep.
Sarah: How do you know? You're asleep. You can't even see my car. Someone's going to break into my car. They'll hotwire it like I saw on Full House.
Boyfriend: zzzzz...
Sarah: WAKE UP. SOMEONE IS GOING TO STEAL MY CAR.
Boyfriend: *long groan* Babe. Go. To. Sleep. It'll be fine.
Sarah: ...Oh shit. I left my biology book in there and it's a rental. No one will believe me that my car got stolen . . . they'll think I'm a thief! Everyone will hate me!
Boyfriend: *probably pretending to sleep*
Sarah: Heey. HEEEEEEEY. Would you buy me a new car?
Boyfriend: . . . Sarah.
Sarah: Right. . . Ha! But I remember I'm almost out of gas. Oh man. Won't the thieves be PISSED when they find that out. By the time they even realize it, I'll have already called the cops. Do you think they'd be so mad that they'd find me and kill me? Or would they be in jail a while? That'd give me enough time to change my name and skip the country. . .

And then I continued to plan my escape from the United States with the smug satisifaction that I had stopped a couple of thieves by never driving on a full tank of gas.


Ok, I hate my thought process, so maybe medication won't be that bad. Maybe I'm Quasimodo right now and I'm just trying to fit in with the normal people. You know, those people who can actually fucking handle shit.

What I'd give. What I'd dare. Just to live one day out there.

Every small thing is the end of the world

Daily tasks feel like the twelve labors of Hercules. Today I did the impossible: I performed normal-people duties. I went to the bank, paid my cell phone bill, called and yelled at Verizon for said cell phone bill, went to class, and set another appointment with my therapist.

Exhausting.

I keep telling myself I am going to do all these things. All these great and wonderful things that will make my life so much easier. I'll comp! I'll read! I'll study! I'll get a second job! Things!Things!Things! But, getting out of bed, putting on (clean) clothes, and making myself look mildly presentable feels like enough effort for one day. Why should I bother trying? The more I try to make things better, the worse it gets in my head. Don't believe me? Chekkit:

No money = Sad. Therefore, new job = more money = Not sad. Right?

Wrong.

New job = less time for school. Less time for school = worse grades = sad.

Then,

"I don't work on my schoolwork anyway so I should get a job."= guilt = sad = immobilization.

And then I never get anything done. Equals sad.

I stay up until 2am every night for no reason and chastise myself for not doing work. I am consistently exhuasted and forever breaking down. Still, I have always been like this, so shouldn't I know how to handle it? Shouldn't I know how this works? I'm familiar with the pattern: Failure, guilt, shame, depression. Depression, shame, guilt, failure. So on, so on, so on.

I feel no more qualified to be a regular human-being than Sarah Palin was qualified for Vice-Presidency. Perhaps it is an overstatement, but I don't think I deserve to even be here. Maybe depression is evolution's way of weeding out the bad genes (even though, evolution more than likely does not work this way). I think about that shit. And I'm talking until like four in the morning. I think about if my pen-pal from third grade ever thinks about me and if I made her mad when I stopped writing in the sixth-grade because I was too sad. Yeah. Not kidding.

My thoughts are maddening, constant, and consuming. Yet, I feel dull.

Some wounds you can't salt though, huh?

Fuck.

It's the second day of classes and I'm already overwhelmed. Should I read for my 0-level biology course? No...I should probably curl on the couch and be sad. What's worse? I can't even bring myself to tell my professors what is going on. It's not that I don't trust them, I'm just terrified of three specific and very rational scenarios:

1. They will judge me. After I confess that I am superfuckedup, Professor A,B, C, and D will give me the worried, folded-hand look. S/he will say, "I'm sorry to hear that." In reality, Professor will talk about me behind my back and tell every one that they know a crazy person and it is just so hilarious. Rational thinking.

2. They will tell me to "keep my chin up" or to "persevere" and I will still be held to the same standard as every one else. Ok, I don't want or expect special treatment, but it would be nice to consider that maybe I am having a little more difficulty completing small tasks. Oh god, and I'll be told to fucking stick it out. Mental illness cannot be "stuck out". Christchurch.

3. They will ask, "What's wrong?" To which I will reply, "I'd love to tell you. Do you have about seven hours and a healthy amount of sanity?"


Truth is, it doesn't matter if I tell them or not. I'm still fucked. Totally and completely fucked. Therapy twice a week. School five times a week. Work two-three times a week. Plus comping. I am trying to see how this is conducive to getting well. But neither is taking off school. Or quitting my job.

Fuck.

I'll try harder this time.

I checked myself into therapy a little over a week ago. It would be heroic if it wasn't so damn overdue. I don't know exactly when I snapped, or even if I snapped. Maybe mental illness isn't a sudden spark of insanity, and that's the most frustrating part. It surfaces slowly. It lies just under the surface of your skin and begs for you to itch it until, finally, you give in and scratch. You expect relief but relief never comes.

The thing about mental illness is that it never leaves me the fuck alone. It has shown it's ugly face many times. It entered every aspect of my life and I didn't even see it come in. I can't pinpoint it. I don't know why I can't handle being alone, but still feel tense around people. I don't know why getting out of bed is a battle, but sleeping is a struggle too. I don't know when I stopped caring who I am, who I was, who I could be. I don't know when I stopped being normal or if I ever was. Hell, I don't know when I chose the worst coping methods on the face of the fucking planet.

I want to get better. I want it now. I crave normalcy. I need help, I need help, I need help.