Starting Something New

After 2.5 months on Abilify it needed to be changed. Initially I felt like it was working but after 3 or so weeks things got worse, especially once she upped the dosage. I can’t focus on anything. I’m constantly irritated by absolutely everything. Worst of all, I have the energy to do things but no interest in doing anything. It’s like mental hell. More so than cycling through everything is awesome and I just want to die.

Why do I think it didn’t work?

Probably because no medicine treats everyone with bipolar the same. We’re all chemically different so there’s no way one chemical can fix us all, right? I wanted it to work so bad though and apart of me feels like it’s somehow my fault it doesn’t work. Maybe I can’t be fixed. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with me and being miserable with breaks of sunshine is just who I am. Maybe it’s everything that I’ve experienced that’s made me the person I am today and theres nothing I can do about it. Or maybe I’m just an overly emotional adult baby. Either way I’ll try what the doctors ordered.

Now its seroquel at bedtime and lamictal in the morning. I’m excited and scared to try this new combination. Excited because maybe it will work, I just really hope I don’t have negative side effects again. I just want some peace. I just want to feel like my old self again, so bad. I’m tired so tired of feeling like the moods have abducted my mind and are controlling everything about me. I just want to be happy. Please.

“We are all alone, trapped in these bodies and our own minds, and whatever company we have in this life is only fleeting and superficial.”

Jennifer Niven, All The Bright Places

Abilify

So tonight I start abilify. 

I finally caved and saw a doctor about what’s going on within the synapses of my brain. The ups and downs are getting sharper. They’re coming harder. Leaving my home is a terribly anxious ordeal and it’s making my body feel like a sore sack a stiff muscles. My lungs feel smaller whenever I leave my house and it’s difficult. Knowing and accepting is difficult. 

Telling the people in my life is interesting. There’s like 3 types of responses:

1. It’s great that you’re dealing with this. You’re doing a good thing here.

2. You don’t even look like there’s anything wrong!

3. You’re not depressed. Shut up.

The 3rd type particularly pisses me off because I’m just like “who the fuck are you to know what I feel in MY head?! Right?! You’re not inside me when it feels like everything comes crashing down or when I suddenly feel tense and can’t breathe. You’re not listening to the mean voices constantly putting me down. You don’t know what it feels like when sound irritate you physically so it feels like you want to scratch your skin off. You don’t feel like your blood is actually mud and you’re walking through wet cement. So shut the fuck up and go be happy somewhere else.”

Sorry. I’ve been holding that one in for some time.

So anyway I have been prescribed Abilify. As with most medications there are a shit ton of side effects. And nothing works for everyone so I really hope this has more positive than negative. I’m tired of not being me. Or being this internally ugly defected version of me. I miss having energy and motivation and a desire to just breathe.

So here goes my metaphorical head-first cliff dive into a antipsychotic med journey.

Lost in my future

I love being alone at night because it give me peace and tranquility and full bed space to spread my legs and cuddle with Payge.

I hate being alone at night because the darkness is like my own personal therapist making me open up about shit I don’t want to talk about.

Last night I had a session with myself and here’s what was accomplished:

I feel so alone and would rather not exist because I truly feel like I can’t prevent my inevitable failure. I won’t amount to be shit but a poverty level Spanish girl from Brooklyn. Girl. Now woman. I still can’t see myself as an adult. And yet, I keep meeting new people who are beginning their careers – not jobs, but actual careers. What they have a passion for. What they want to actually DO in life. And they’re fucking younger than me. I’m 28. I thought I had a few more years before I felt like I was missing my chance at succeeding.

I always want more. I want to be happy. I want to be happy with what I have but being happy with what I have is accepting failure. Or putting it in a better note, accepting my accomplishments at what they are. Two bachelors. And awesome daughter. A rent controlled apartment in Williamsburg that I only have because I am the first living child to come out of my mother who is no longer here. Whoopie.

I am struggling mentally and yet it’s all beneath the surface.

What do you want?!

I want to find my purpose and it’s taking too fucking long to figure it out.

You like art. You’re an artist. Maybe that’s your calling?

Yeah. Right. I don’t have my own distinct style. No imagination. And no patience.

You love reading. You should get back into writing.

What the fuck do you think I’m doing. Plus, this isn’t going to make me money or successful. Im tired of the fucking routine dude. I’m bored!

I’m tired of you yelling at me.

I’m tired of me yelling at me.

… I’m going fucking crazy. I just want some happiness and a little sanity to go along with it. Who am I? I feel like I need to do a little Eat, Pray, Love and figure it the fuck out but I can’t because I’m broke and I have a kid who needs to be in school.

I think I lost myself a few years back and now I’m struggling with only half my mentality, thinking about the future. And I’m lost there too.

Side note: Walking outside my house feels like such a task because I know I have to interact with other humans and while I look decent from the outside I really imagine myself looking like Oscar the Grouch:

Oscar_the_Grouch_3

This is what I’m truly thinking I look like when I smile and say Hi.