Well, I drank yesterday. I’m really disappointed in myself. But I know what it felt like, I remember, before I started. The depression. Needing to feel better, desperately, or else just lying there dying in my mind. I did what I had to do. But I’m not proud of myself.
Above all else I want things to be natural. What does that mean? Without resistance. But nature can resist? Why would you exclude that? I don’t know. I know what I mean but I don’t know how to communicate it. But perhaps my idea(s) is/are flawed? I don’t know.
I texted mom this morning. She comes home from work soon. She’s finally retiring! I think we settled on March of next year. Yay! Then she can enjoy her free time and garden, paint, write, spend time with cats. Yeah. I hope she doesn’t get depressed like I do without work.
I miss the days of college. I vaguely remember them, not all to clearly, sitting on the living room floor of someone’s dorm room working on physics homework together. That was my little demo of the academic world. The view into higher education. The fascinating topics to learn learn learn. Learning. What a concept. I miss college. I don’t know. It was too short.
Grad school was a fucking nightmare. My psychosis schizoaffective disorder went unchecked for a few years there. I didn’t see a psychiatrist until it was much later on in the game. And then after I graduated with the pity master’s, as they call it, I didn’t keep up on my meds. I don’t remember what happened after I graduated. I just remember living in a delusion that my mother was torturing me in bed (nonsexually) for three months, through the wall, psychically/telekinetically. It was three months of torture, at home.
Why is home never comfortable to me. Why do I not appreciate this luxury? What’s wrong with me?
My psyche is very jagged. The antipsychotic, though it decreased the probability of a psychotic episode, puts me very on edge. I can’t relax. My brain never feels “soft”. Life is harsh, not pleasant. It’s not a good reality to have.
My psychiatrist encouraged me to journal and the report the results to her at our next meeting. Mostly she doesn’t want me spamming her so much. I spammed my previous psychiatrist and therapist a lot. I couldn’t resist. I don’t know why. I am starting to think I have some sort of compulsive disorder, where I HAVE to do things and can’t stop myself. That sounds dangerous, doesn’t it? What if I compulsively start needing to hurt others, or murder? I feel under control. It’s stupid things, like sending my doctors unnecessary updates, or drinking lots of coffee (decaf).
Well. Well. What now.
I desperately need to meet people. Someone on reddit offered to be my accountability buddy. They said they feel, reading my thoughts I posted on the site, that they have a very similar experience to me. Difficulty with motivation, goals not being reached. But I don’t think I’m going to take them up on the offer. I don’t think I’m even going to respond.
I slouch so hard at the computer. Why? I want it to be solved naturally. I don’t want to have to like practice sitting up straight, or forcing myself, or anything unnatural. What the fuck. Why are there never natural solutions to problems? It reminds me of the U.S. military. Force and brutal intervention. Nothing elegant. What happened to elegance? I am reminded of them because, I saw a video of some of the evacuation of Khabul on Reddit. Wow. Valuable footage.
There’s so much wrong in the world. So many humans suffer. And just think of being a wild animal. You could be eaten by a predator at any moment. You have no control over your life at all. What kind of existence is that? I hate being helpless. I don’t want to be an animal. I hope Buddhism is a lie. I don’t want to be reincarnated. When I die, I just want to rest. Not exist. Is that so much so ask for?
All these theories. All this speculation.
We should recap, though. Take a look back. It was my goal to make my blog posts “longer”, because I was microposting for a while. Again, the compulsive behavior (microposting, in this case). That has since stopped. Look at me! See how long this post is? It just shows that the complexity of my thoughts is increasing, which is such a good sign.
Mom’s home. I love writing here but I don’t know what to say. I never know what to say.
As a bagger at the grocery store in Davis, CA (where I went to grad school) once told me, “Keep improvising.”
Keep improvising, folks.