Also known as Operation Try Not To Have A Breakdown.
Ever since I said good bye to the psychologist ten days ago I have been all over the place and tempted to do all sorts of stupid, self-destructive things. I am trying very had not to. It’s a war on many fronts.
At first I thought I had it handled. Yes there were all these voices and feelings stirred up by the session, but I was being positive and active. Going for walks, seeing friends, writing, making art, keeping the house clean. I fell into the old trap of believing I could sustain that forever, but of course it didn’t last.
Then there was the whisky, the beautiful, beautiful whisky. Half a bottle a night, drunk neat, drunk fast. It made me sleep, and I needed sleep. Then I damaged my laptop falling off the sofa and realised what I was doing. I still want to drink – I have just been to the shop and was tempted to get a bottle to drink now – but I am refraining.
Then I didn’t go to get my medication, and I’m not even sure why. I was going to go and visit my family while in acute withdrawal from five psych drugs. Smart plan, Sagey, smart plan. But I came to my senses on that one, cancelled my trip, and am going to call my CPN tomorrow morning re the depot. Doing something that is only going to make me more unstable at this point in time would be stupid and self-sabotaging.
When it comes to other things, food could be worse. I’m living on chocolate soya milk, cereal bars and bananas, so I’m getting some nutrition, and I haven’t lapsed into out of control bingeing and purging, which would make me feel disgusting.
Spending not so good. I have to get a grip on that.
Now I’m getting obsessed with sex, which is certainly a good distraction in some ways, but becoming overwhelming.
And what really bothers me is that these things are taking centre stage, and there seems to be no room for the self that writes and makes art. I am not being creative at all. I feel I am back to trying to survive the shit my mind is throwing at me instead of living, and I hate it. I am currently camped out in my front room, where I am bruising my bones by sleeping on the floor despite having an extremely comfortable bed and an acceptably comfortable sofa, and I am surrounded by chaos. I would like to do something productive with the rest of the day, but I suspect I won’t because I have no idea how to access the part of myself that makes it possible.
On writing that, I felt I wanted to die. It’s too hard, it’s too hard, calls out that pathetic little internal voice. I don’t know how to deal with that except take benzos and zone out, which is a strategy that makes me frustrated and I suspect won’t work forever.
So it’s up and down, to and fro, some little victories, some defeats. Why do I find being a grown up and taking care of myself so hard?