It has been a few days since I last posted. My posts are full of cheer, I didn’t want to post on a bad day. Every word of that last sentence is a lie.
Posts are desperate pleadings into the void. Posts are prays to the universe to solve my problems, no one else can. Well, a gun can. We don’t own any. We don’t because I’m fucking crazy.
One of my favorite thoughts is taking that handgun, pushing it to the back of my throat, firing a bullet into my brain stem and painting the white wall behind me. Leaving that wall as my final statement on the value of existence.
At this point I should say that today is a good day. Yes, good. Taking 200mg of Lamictal (Lamotrigine) is a god send. I’ve been at 200mg for a week and a half.
On Lamictal I never wonder if I’m crashing, I do not fear my mood, I’m not held hostage by self-hate. The most incredible part, it is easy to fend off those bouts of depression.
Not on Lamictal (Lamotrigine) I try to focus my mind on particular tasks. I’ll try not to think about the pointlessness of existing. Attempting to not dwell on the fact that the bulk of humanity’s only contribution to this earth is our carbon footprint.
Censorship doesn’t work. Trying to avoid thinking about a topic, frustrating. I get furious with myself. As a thirtyish adult I can’t stop myself from thinking of suicide. And when I attempt to, I preservate on planning my demise.
During the twelve hours that Lamictal protects me, zero hours are spent fighting my thoughts. Zero. Fucking zero. Those thoughts are gone. Vanished. Absent. Never did I dream such a state possible. It is incredible. I am fully aware that constantly wishing to die is an abnormal thought. My emotions control me but if I could be a bit stronger, maybe I’d stop desiring death.
Knowing that all of those suicidal thoughts aren’t actually me, instead assigning the thought to this disorder, god. Liberation.
Why can’t I have it all the time? I got off work excited to come home and build a computer, all the parts finally had arrived. Around 5:30 frustration set in. By 7:00 I gave up, I felt apathetic towards my new toy.
I proceed to lay down and hammer out the first few paragraphs of this blog. Then I started crying. It dawned on me that I took Lamictal at 6:37am, the reason the last couple hours were so difficult? I was fending for myself. Battling on my own, the darkest parts of my mind always win.
Do you know the last time I experienced excitement? I don’t. Honestly, no idea. Or joy? Or mild contentment? Or… I started to ball. I missed that feeling of excitement I got to experience just a few hours prior.
Why does my shitty mind need drugs to experience that? It is so neat to be excited about something. It is wonderful to look forward to a task, to desire to do something. None of that has been present in my life for years.
Why do I only get to feel human for twelve hours a day? Yes, I’m greedy. Two weeks ago I needed a break. I was overjoyed by the prospect of day with far too much Adderall because it’d be a day without me fucking tearing myself apart. Now I get twelve hours on a regular basis, at least for the last three days, but that isn’t enough.
It is, I guess. But why don’t I get it all the time? Why do I have to fucking hate my pathetic bitching pointless fat piece of shit self for four or five hours a day? The difference between Lamictal “normal” and non-medicated me has become more stark. I’m clueless as to how I didn’t hang myself three months ago.
This is all still shit. But at least I can take a hand full of sleeping pills in thirty minutes and wake up to twelve hours of, of, of contentment? Well, of not wanting to paint my living room wall with a pistol and the insides of my skull.
Morning can’t come soon enough.