Yall. I am inundated with spam comments. If you’ve left me a comment recently, I’ll get to it as soon as I’m done deleting my 7,000 ads for C1al1s and V1Agra.
I’ve not been in a particularly fantastic state of mind lately – I had a recent hospitalization and partial hospitalization program which helped some, but as always the problem was my meds ceasing to work properly. My shrink put me back on lithium, so I’m currently fairly dopey (no real surprise there), and took me off the dreaded brainfuck Trazodone, which can actually cause early onset dementia.
I’m ok on the lithium so far. Certainly dopey and none too sharp, certainly sleepy and my social anxiety seems to be a little worse, but it’s livable.
Right now it’s 3:15 in the morning and I am up because I have inexplicable heartburn, part of the joys of getting old, and I am waiting for my Tums to do their antacid work.
I have a lot of fear right now – fear that I will never be NOT depressed and/or manic for a substantial amount of time, fear that I will die old and alone in a state home, fear that my hallucinations will overtake my brain and that I no longer will be able to distinguish what is real from what is not real.
I have lived with Bipolar I since my teens and Schizoaffective Disorder since I was three years old. I hid the schizoaffective disorder since 2019 – when I finally, tearfully, confessed to my shrink that I had visual, auditory, and tactile hallucinations – and was promptly loaded up on antipsychotics.
These drugs have dumbed me down in a wide variety of ways. I have an incredibly difficult time writing anything substantial. I lose concentration when performing even the simplest tasks. Often my hygiene is poor. I forget everything. My diet is horrible . My interpersonal relationships are strained.
Mental illness affect every facet of my life. It has since I was a kid. I’ve been in the mental healthcare system for almost forty years. Some doctors just don’t care. Some do but are far too overworked. Some will just plain not take a case like mine. This leads to a lot of frustration on my part, and I’d imagine on their parts too. I’ve been on huge lists of meds – huge doses that have left me zombified and staring at the wall, manic and frantically bouncing off of the walls, and sleeping for days at a time. I’ve had the side effects – the weight gain, the irritability, the heavy tiredness, the brain fog, the tremors.
Sometimes I ask myself whether it is all worth it. Then I look down at the eight inch scars on my arms and I know that it is. I look down at the medallion around my neck that reads “Flecti Non Frangi” in Latin, which means “to be bent but not broken”. Based off a Victorian wax seal, it also bears the image of a raven, which signifies hope and is believed to have keen vision that pierces all darkness.
I am bent, but I am not broken, and I will get better.