I’ve been sad for much of the day. Issues at work prompted this sadness, but they are actually issues, I have a tangible reason for my sadness. That is odd, a good odd.
It only dipped into the familiar sucidal thoughts occasionally, not the constant and debilitating thoughts Im use to
I’ve been on Lamictal at 200mg for over two weeks, it is definitely helping. Today, knowing it was going to be rough, I also took to much Adderall, out of fear and desperation. I don’t want to go back to the non-functional state of just a few months ago. I’m not going to tolerate constant thoughts of suicidal anymore. So, instead I’m using drugs.
After twelve hours Lamictal stops helping. Always. And I know the second it stops. Yesterday I reached out to grab a cup, brushed against my stomach that has lost all trace of the decade long earned six-pack of six months ago. As my arm pushed against the new fat, my thought, “You have turned into a fat disgusting unfuckable shit. Kill yourself.” Yep, my mind at work.
That is where I am. Not sure if tonight if the coming down from a substantial dose of Adderall is also contributing, it does sometimes but not always. And I do dip at the twelve nourish point. Technically, I’m fairly close to my the six-week mark, the point it is entirely in your system. Lamictal has been a godsend.
However, getting twelve hours of peace, knowing how a brain can work, entirely foreign to my own, the depressive streak in my nights is even more unbearable. I debate, well you’re not only thinking of suicide. You did have thirty seconds of thoughts on that video game, that you decided not to play. It could be worse, I could not even have passing thoughts.
I could be back in the pit. The pit of being immobilized by the depression, suicidal is my only and constant thought. So, hey, my nights are fine. No they aren’t. Fuck I am sick of wanting my brains on the wall, on the ceiling, anywhere other then my head. Fuck. Fuck you. You weak pathetic faggot. Fuck. You worthless god dramatic fucking bitch. Worthless piece of shit. Fuck you.
And yet — Much of the past week has been good. I treasure the time I function, I don’t want to write a bitch pathetic blog, I want to use that time to accomplish normal life tasks. Sometimes I can even go to the grocery store without stress. How depressing is that? I feel the need to pat myself on the back for nothing worthy of celebration.
As has become routine, I’m posting when I just wish I had to the balls to fucking end this. I don’t. Something that makes me feel more pathetic and ducking worthless.
More beer now and a sleeping pill or five in an hour, then waking not up to a Lamictal. And my thought typing that line, “I hope I don’t wake up.” Fuck.
And dear god, don’t respond with some life is worth it horse shit. Rationally I understand this. Unfortunately, my mind doesn’t allow me to be just rational. If you get this, you aren’t naive enough to think a virtual “hug” or “positive vibes your way” does anything. In fact, it is depressing that people can think and validate themselves on prayers and hugs, I tried to help. Fuck you.
This state makes me to wish I never told my partner about my mental struggles. That way we could have a gun in the house. I’m not capable of killing myself. But I’d enjoy pushing an empty one into the back of my throat. Just to let my body know if I keep being a bitchy shit, I’m going to opt out.