Yeah, so I couldn’t make it past Day 11. I’m home.
Thanks for all the love and support (and mail). For those that sent something I didn’t get, I’m hoping they forward it on to me.
For now, I’m just not feeling much like doing anything, including Twitter and Facebook. I’m sure I’ll slip into the groove again at some point.
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
Day 3 of 28.
So I finish treatment on July 13, according to my advisor/therapist here. I’m already counting the days. Not that it’s a horrible place, but damn. My schedule is not in line with the schedule they have me following here.
See, I’m a guy who goes to bed at 1 or 2 in the morning, sleeps till 9 or so, has several cups of coffee before even thinking about food. That shit doesn’t wash here.
Our first gettogether – the "community meeting" – is at 8am. Breakfast is served from 6:30-7:45 in the morning. Lunch from 11-12. Dinner from 5-6. You don’t eat when they’re serving, you’re fucked. (Some would say that even if you do get to eat, you’re fucked. The food reminds me of chow hall days in the military.) This resulted in me awaking this morning at 5:45. OK, that’s not entirely accurate. I GOT UP at 5:45. My roommate (oh, yes, there’s a roommate) got up at 3:00 (in the MORNING) and was packing his stuff up since he leaves tomorrow.
He’s a nice guy, my roomie, but I’d much prefer a private room. They do have a few of them, but I didn’t get the luck of the draw on that one.
The day is pretty well packed with classes and groups. Aside from meals, the biggest break of the day is from 8:30-9:00 AM. After that, you’re fortunate to get 5 minutes between each session. It’s all individualized…I have a schedule that’s highlighted with the sessions I’m supposed to attend each day. Naps? Well, those have been severely curbed. I’m dragging a bit, but surviving.
As for logistics, I had no idea what to expect coming in. As it turns out, we’re allowed to keep all our meds in our room (under lock and key in our personal locker), unless you’re taking a controlled substance (which I’m not). I even have my insulin and syringes in my room. Wasn’t expecting that. Yes, we can have shoelaces and belts. Someone asked me about that beforehand and I didn’t have the answer till I got here Tuesday morning.
There’s a rec room with ping-pong table, pool tables, foosball, games, etc. There are 4 different TVs spread throughout our wing, each with DVD players. Just finished watching "Regarding Henry" this evening. Tuesday night was "Avatar," which I hadn’t seen but really enjoyed.
We can have visitors on Saturday afternoons, though I don’t really expect anyone, except maybe my Mom.
They’ve changed up my meds a bit. That’s one of the better things about the experience thus far, since I wanted them to do something different for me. (As if being in a residential program wasn’t enough of a change-up.)
The guys here are (for the most part) really cool. We have youngins who served in Iraq, all the way up through old-timers who served in Vietnam. Then there’s me, who served during the first Gulf War. Full spectrum. As much as the social aspect of this place scared the fuck out of me ahead of time, it really has turned out to be okay. Not surprising, it’s just that I tend to blow the hell out of everything in anticipation.
There’s one washer and dryer to serve about 100 or so people. And it’s not an industrial washer/dryer, either. You sign up for 2-hour blocks of time on a sheet, and the washer has the temperment of Sybil. Not Sybil Law…Sybil, as in you don’t know which personality you’re gonna get at any given moment. Sometimes it works fine, other times it just keeps starting and restarting its cycle over and over again. I look forward to Saturday, when I’m signed up to do my laundry.
The mops they supply for us (yeah, we clean our own rooms and bathrooms) are primitive at best. There are room inspections daily (feel like I’m back in the Air Force already, except for the part where I don’t have to shave and I can wear cargo shorts). We have bed checks, of course…which really isn’t a big deal. It’s not like I have anywhere to go after hours.
And there ARE computers with Internet, which I wasn’t expecting. Thank God. Course, I don’t have much time to sit in front of them. Most of my day I’m relegated to my iPhone, which only gets a signal outside (as I mentioned in my last post).
There are several wings here, ranging from people with mental health probs to PTSD to substance abuse. For the most part, everyone gets along fine, though there are occasional "disagreements." Rumors abound and word has it that someone is getting kicked out for starting a fight today. I don’t get it, you’d think people just just calm the fuck down and treat each other with some respect. But I admit there are a couple of guys I wouldn’t mind getting punched. Not by me, of course. I’m a pacifist. Mostly.
This is rambling and long-winded and all over the board, I know. Guess I just wanted to check in and say I’m ok. I’ll be better come July 13.
I put my mailing address in the last post if you feel inclined to write. If not, no biggie. I understand that you’re too lazy to write me while I’m in the looney bin. *sniff sniff*
WHAT I *CAN* USE: We sit in the atrium quite a bit, smoking, me and the guys. Lots of jokes get passed around, so if you know any really good ones, I’d appreciate you commenting here with one or two. Laughs most welcome, and the guys who’ve been here for weeks are always expecting the newcomers (that’d be me) to bring new jokes with them. Much appreciated.
I’ll post when I can. Thanks again for all your comments, Tweets, messages, texts, and emails. Again, I wish I could respond to everyone, but it’s just not feasible right now.
Hasta lasagna.
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
Two days left.
Two days for me to get my fill of Twitter and Facebook and blogs.
Two days to wonder how good the cell signal is there.
Two days to wonder if I’ll be able to blog. I’m definitely bringing my journal and notebooks to write in. It’ll be blogging from my phone, if at all, since I’m told there’s no wifi and no Internet.
Two days to get my laundry done and choose 5 sets of clothing that’ll last me a month. Two days to figure out what shirts I’ll take with me.
Two days to squeeze in phone calls.
Two days to figure out what books I want to bring with me. Hell, two days to drop off my library book because I can’t renew it beyond my stay in the inpatient program.
Two days to fill my iPod with music to last me a month.
Two days to enjoy my own bed. Do I bring my own pillow?
Two days to stay up as late as I want. And attempt to sleep in as late as I want (9:30 AM is usually as far as I can get).
Two days of having my schedule be whatever the fuck I want it to be. Eat when I want, test my blood sugar when I want, give myself insulin when I want. Something tells me my schedule will be dictated much differently…in two days.
Two days to wonder if I get a roommate while I’m there. I’m assuming I will, because I can’t believe I’ll be lucky enough not to.
Two days to clear off as many shows from my DVR as possible.
Two days to be thankful that “Lost” finished before this wild psychological experiment. Maybe this is my “sideways timeline.”
Two days until I have to watch what everyone else is watching (Lord, let it not be “Jersey Shore”).
Two days to gather toiletries.
Two days to get a haircut that’ll last me through a month. Considering a crew cut. It’s only gonna get hotter in Florida for the next several months. And a crew cut seems appropriate for scenes that may match “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
Two days to let the anxiety build and fester.
Two days to keep telling myself this is voluntary and I can leave whenever I want. Two days to keep telling myself this may be the only shot I get at an inpatient program, so leaving prematurely would be asinine.
Two days to wonder why asinine only contains one “s.”
Two days to freak the fuck out.
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
Who's scared? Not me. *cough*
So I just called to check on my inpatient status. Looks like I’m in.
I start Tuesday – yes, THIS Tuesday – report in at 8am. Which means I get to leave my house no later than 6am to make the drive.
“Bring 5 sets of clothing,” the admissions person said. Hmm. Wonder how I’m supposed to settle on just 5 t-shirts. Would it be in poor taste to wear my PSYCHO WARD shirt?
I can have my cell phone (thank GOD). Though when I mentioned texting, she said, “You won’t need to be doing any of that while you’re in treatment.” Um, speak for yourself, lady.
Apparently, I’m not allowed to bring the Matrix Therapist with me.
The kicker? It’s 28 days long.
Fuck. I’m about to be in a Sandra Bullock movie sequel.
Hold me.
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
I’ve been through a metric shitton of therapy, both individual and group, to varying degrees of success. Spent two years in an intensive outpatient program (IOP), in fact. Grief recovery and suicide prevention was the main focus. Most everyone in that group – and I saw people come and go over time as I became the senior member – probably suffered some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (amongst other maladies).
I recall my very first day of IOP. I’d had a nervous breakdown and couldn’t work. Showed up at the encouragement of my individual therapist.
There might have been 6 or 7 others there that first day. I had no idea what to expect. The first (of four) hours of each day was check-in time. Everyone in group spent 5 minutes “checking in,” telling the therapists what was going on. Because it was my first day, I got to check in last. Which seemed to be a mistake.
As each stranger reported in on their life, I heard stories that made me question what the fuck *I* was doing there.
Jesus, I don’t have any fucking problems compared to these people. What’s my deal?
Horror stories, some of them. If I weren’t so polite, I might have just sat there with my jaw hanging open, listening to it all.
Turns out, as I’d learn over time, there were more than a handful of distortions I was clinging to. Everyone’s problems are different, everyone’s life is different. Trying to compare your struggles to mine isn’t a fair comparison most of the time. Apples and oranges, etc. Or, as I tended to say, one person’s savior is another person’s pair of lead boots.
We had these sheets we’d fill out called Trauma Sheets, where we’d discuss traumatic events in our life and “process” these things with the group. The first time I told a story from my past, I was stunned. Mostly because my group members were stunned and more than one of them were left with their jaws hanging open.
“What?” I said. “That’s not normal?”
Come to find out lots of things from my childhood weren’t “normal.”
You can’t spend five days a week, four hours a day, with a small group of people and not make friends. Some of us hung out outside group, spending even more time together. Naturally, there were rules in IOP. We weren’t allowed to engage in any sexual activity with each other. Group members weren’t allowed to loan or borrow money. (The group represented most cross-sections of society…some of us were poor and relying on food banks, others were pretty damn well off.) These rules were meant to keep the group a safe place. There was already enough conflict and stuff to deal with – didn’t need to create more drama between us (though there was some of that, too, because not everyone followed the rules all the time).
Lots of group therapy stories, but I ramble enough already. Oddly, I left group and quickly lost track of most all those folks. Haven’t been in a group therapy situation since.
So when the Matrix Therapist suggested yesterday the notion of group therapy, I said that I didn’t have a problem with it. EXCEPT that the groups she was suggesting were at the main VA facility in Tampa. Being in Sebring, there’s only a small clinic here…most anything specialized requires a visit to the main hospital, about 2 hours away from me.
“Depending on how often these groups meet,” I said, “that could be a lot of traveling.” I mean, two hours there, one or two hours of group (I’m assuming), then two hours back home? That’s a full fucking day. And even once a week, that’d add up pretty fast to lots of gas money.
Which is what led the Matrix Therapist bring up something I’ve never experienced: INpatient treatment. Meaning: you stay in facility instead of staying at home.
Whoa.
But let’s face facts: whatever I’m doing now ain’t working. I’m stuck. Again. Stagnant, even, and I find that to be the equivalent of a 4-letter word. The meds aren’t doing their thing (so far). Being in-house would let them aggressively play with meds while I’m under their watch. Plus, there’d (presumably) be a lot of structure with the group situation.
What terrifies me about this (much as I can see the potential good in it) is that I’d be totally outside my comfort zone. The likelihood of there being unrestricted Internet access is slim to none. And most all of my friends are living inside my computer. Yikes. Sure, they’ll probably let me keep my iPhone, but I’ve been to that hospital and the signal inside (as is true for many hospitals) sucks ass.
I’d be not only hanging with strangers – and sharing lots of stories/events with them – but living with them, as well.
*ring ring*
Hello?
Hi, Karl, it’s me, Social Phobia.
I don’t know how long this inpatient thing typically lasts, but the MT said yesterday it could be as little as 3 or 4 days.
“No way,” I told her. “That’s not enough time to do shit with medication.” Hell, we’ve been playing this round of the Pharmaceutical Game for many months now. I’m no stranger to being a lab rat. Meds that mess with the brain take weeks/months to gain efficacy.
My educated guess for how long I’d stay is something along the lines of at least 2-3 weeks, if not more. Which, in Karl Time, is like 2-3 months of not sleeping in my own bed, not being able to get online any time I want to, not being able to stay up till 1 in the morning, not being able to walk around in my boxers all the time. The list goes on.
That’s a long time to be outside my comfort zone.
Nevertheless, I told the MT that I’m not averse to the options. So this morning I went back in and, after getting blood drawn for my diabetes, met with the Matrix Therapist again to fill out a qualifying questionnaire.
I should hear either today or maybe Monday from the VA about if I qualify and, subsequently, where I fall on the waiting list. Then I can ask questions like:
I don’t have answers to any of these yet, but hope to soon. If anything, as Sybil was keen to point out last night on the phone, I should get some decent blog posts out of it.
So there’s that.
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
So the big concert on Saturday (OK Go) was a wash, thanks to a dead car battery the day of the concert. Thankfully, it didn’t happen in Orlando. Had I got out of the show at 11′ish Saturday night, and my car wouldn’t start, I would have been fucked royally. Instead, it happened in the short span of time it took me to get cigarettes from the smoke shop Saturday afternoon.
I was counting on the show to break me out of my funk, even if only for a few hours. But no. The universe had other ideas for me, apparently. After not being able to jump-start the car the first time, I left it in the parking lot and came back a few hours later with a friend. It started up fine the next time, with help of Mom’s car battery.
Got the car back to the house and I stayed home Saturday night, feeling especially melancholy when 8 o’clock rolled around (show time). Sunday I went to the auto parts store to get the battery tested. Surprisingly, when you hook up your battery to a charger – and acid starts frothing out of the top of said battery – it’s not a good thing.
Far better that it was the battery than something more expensive, like a starter or alternator. Still, my weekend was fucked, as was my mood.
I totally forgot about Kevin coming to Orlando this week, too, so when he reminded me Monday via Twitter that he’d be at Downtown Disney Tuesday night, I was like, fuck. Suddenly, not only was I miserable for missing OK Go, but I had to message Kevin and let him know I’d have to bow out. A 90-minute drive, mixed with overpriced dinner (no matter how enjoyable the company), was out of the question.
Sorry I couldn’t hang, Kev. Hope you and Katie are having a smashing time in Florida.
Yesterday, I met with the Matrix Therapist. Didn’t feel like going, much like I haven’t felt like doing most anything lately.
As she ushered me toward her office, she uttered the words “Temple of Tryptophan.” (NOTE: the new design has been up for just over a week now.)
Me: Oh my God, you’ve been to my blog.
Matrix Therapist: It’s not the first time.
Me: Oh my God, you’ve been to my blog…again.
(NOTE TO SELF: Don’t ever write any dirty dreams about the Matrix Therapist here.)
I explained to the Matrix Therapist just how bad the anhedonia is.
Me: Every time I use the word “anhedonia,” I inevitably have to explain to people what it means.
MT: So stop explaining. Tell them to look it up.
Me: I linked to the Wikipedia definition the last couple of times. Doesn’t seem all that difficult to figure out. I mean there’s hedonism – people seem to know what THAT means. Put “an” in front of it…hello, prefixes, ever heard of ‘em?
MT: So what’s going on?
Me: I can’t enjoy anything. TV, music, books, computer. I tried making that list of shit to get out of the house.
MT: And how did that go?
Me: Much like throwing bricks in the Grand Canyon. I went to the movies…
MT: What did you see?
Me: Iron Man 2.
MT: You went by yourself?
Me: I have nobody else to go with.
MT: How was it?
Me: It was okay*. But I found myself wanting it to be over long before it was. Like I’m itchy to move onto something else, though nothing else is satisfying, either. I was just going through the motions.
MT: What else did you try?
Me: Bookstore…more motions. Gym, karaoke…motions, motions. Then, I drove in the pouring rain yesterday to go to the library. Got there and they’re fucking CLOSED Sundays and Mondays.
MT: Were you mad?
Me: Frustrated, but it seems par for the course. In my opinion, the library should be open on all days we have mail delivery, but then, no one ever consults me. So I just said ‘fuck it’ and went home.
It’s this isolation I feel that is part of my paralysis. Once again, I’ve put too many of my eggs into one basket. I lost my best friend recently – one of the only local friends I have. I have other close friends, but they’re all living in my computer, so to speak. And though I do answer my phone most of the time, I rarely reach out by calling them first.
Hate dragging people down into my muck.
In the first of these mugshots above, I was optimistic. Everything was great. I loved 2010, a far better year than 2009 had been. I had a girlfriend, a best friend, the Year of Resolutions, my life was back on track. Or so I thought. Within weeks, no girlfriend, lost my best bud, Mom broke her kneecap, I went manic, fainted twice from low blood sugar, lost my job.
Me: I’ve been ready to write this fucking year off for months. And it’s only getting worse.
MT: Have you thought about going back to school?
Sure, I’ve thought about it. But here’s the problem: go back to school for what, exactly? I’ve often said that the next time I go back to school, it’ll be only classes I WANT to take, as opposed to taking courses toward a degree.
Then there’s all the headache associated with getting a hold of all my previous transcripts. I’ve been to more than a handful of schools (Air Force traveling).
MT: You don’t need that stuff just to take a class.
Me: Oh? Hmm.
But this is how I approach everything, really. I think of something that might be even remotely interesting, then I flashforward and talk myself out of it because whatever it is is insurmountable.
MT: Let me ask you this…what do you feel is lacking from your life?
Me: Local friends, companionship…
MT: OK…
Me: But what do I have to offer a woman? I’m 43, unemployed, living with my mother, and I’m about as much fun lately as The Meat Thawing Network.
And again, we come to this impasse. So the MT starts talking employment, and that’s a whole other kettle of fish. Working. I haven’t worked in a “real” job for 10 years now. That was a 4-month stint as a technical writer in the corporate world, where I started having another breakdown toward the end of that gig. Two years before that, the Great Nervous Meltdown of ‘98. All I imagine when I think about working a “real” job again is freaking the fuck out and having another breakdown. I lack confidence in my ability to work a normal job.
So the MT suggests a few non-traditional things, such as research studies and mock juries. Oddly, she never even brought up gigoloism. She also suggested working in the local bookstore. And while the bookstore might seem a natural fit (I’ve worked in one before, albeit decades ago), the thought of “normal” working hours, having to get dressed and presentable and leave the damn house, gives me the heebie jeebies. Research studies may be the way to go. Put me in a giant maze and make me chase for cheese or some such shit.
I’m simply lost. Overwhelmed and mired in shit. And nothing I do feels right, let alone fun. A total lack of engagement.
Where's the Cheese?
Hmm. Perhaps there’s no pressure being a lab rat. After all, I already feel like one.
* Iron Man 2. SPOILER ALERT. Decent flick, not as good as the first one. Robert Downey, Jr. is great, natch. But I felt it was too slow in many places, lacked a lot of the charm from the original. The action sequences were too few and far between, and the last half hour was just spastic with too MUCH happening. Watching multiple Iron Men duking it out sort of takes the “special” out of Iron Man. And seeing Mickey Rourke – some muscle-bound semi-dreadlocked tattooed gold-toofed Russian – as a nuclear physicist was stretching my disbelief beyond normal limits…even for a comic book movie. Overall grade: B-
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
First of all, admire the new digs for SecondHand Tryptophan! Thanks to the lovely Rent a Geek Mom, the design went live last night and I’m really liking it. Hope you do, too. Caitlin did a great job. My bud, Mic, drew the header graphic for me, so a big thanks to him, as well.
If you see anything wonky or notice some weird behavior on the blog, please let me know.
Second, for all my mom friends, hope you had a wonderful Mother’s Day yesterday.
"I'd like to say hi to SecondHand Karl and congrats on the new design!"
So I started watching “Live with Regis and Kelly” (sorry, Shannon) this morning, and then President Obama sees the need to preempt everything at 10:00 AM to announce his new Supreme Court nominee. Snore. Why can’t Barack get a clue and start his press conferences at 7:00 AM or noon, when nobody gives a fuck about what else is on TV? Or maybe 6pm, when the news is ALREADY ON?
Sure, this Elena Kagan (whose last name is close enough to Kegel to make me giggle) may be helping shape the very laws of the United States one day. But she’s already irritating me by interrupting my morning TV.
For future reference, major flood or earthquake? Local tornado warning? Plane crash? Mud wrestling in the Senate? Karl winning the lottery? All fantastic reasons to interrupt TV with an announcement. Short of that, fuck off and wait until the noon/evening news. Or hey, how about showing that shit on the channels I expect to see news on, like CNN or MSNBC?
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
Random blatherings.
I went to church again today. It’s weird. They say if you want to find God, the first step is always to be looking for Him. But the fastest way to find love, so they say, is to NOT be looking for it. Yet God IS love, so…
and some alternate universe just exploded
Again, I felt nothing. Just went on Autopilot, mostly. That’s one thing about going to a Catholic church (no matter which you choose): consistency. Mass is Mass, anywhere you go.
The priest doesn’t give sermons. I like a good sermon. Medium, please, just a teeny bit pink in the center.
Seriously, I think I need to hear something that speaks to me. A message from Above. No burning bush, please, that’d just piss off the neighbors. I’d totally take a visit from Roma Downey, but hey, I’d settle for a phone call or some IM’ing.
AlphaOmega42: Please press ‘1′ to pray for faith, press ‘2′ for inner peace, press ‘3′ for world peace, press ‘4′ for Other Requests…
Me: OMG, I finally get You online and You send me to voicemail hell. This is probably going to be answered in India somewhere.
AO42: Heh, just fucking with you, Karl.
Me: I KNEW IT! I *knew* You were fucking with me! The universe is laughing at me!
AO42: Not like *that* idjit.
I can’t believe I’m watching Glee. I think the Testosterone Society may revoke my testicular license.
Told you it was random.
- written on my iPhone
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
Desperate times call for desperate measures, so they say. Which is why I found myself today at church. It’s been so long, I expected a Monty-Pythonesque Finger of God to come out of the clouds and squash me like a bug before I could enter the building. No such luck.
God only knows the last time I went to confession. Oops, I mean reconciliation. I have enough material to cause a priest’s ears to spew smoke with the sound of a 1,000 pressure cookers going off at once.
But I need help, and something tells me God already knows all my shit, so I took a chance and went, anyway. Maybe 10 people were at Mass, whole thing lasted 20 minutes, which is like SpeedMass or something.
I got there about 10 minutes early, so I could reacquaint myself. See, God and I have a very tenuous relationship. My doing, not His. Like the story goes, I’ve been rather distant from God. God’s answer: “Well, guess who moved?” Yeah, that’d be me.
I don’t feel Him at all these days. Used to, a lot. Nowadays, I’m too busy being miserable to notice Him. I feel like God’s Punching Bag.
So I did the proper standing, kneeling, sitting, standing again things. Took the Eucharist and hoped for miraculous healing. Did my best to pray in my head (“God, I know it’s been a long time, but Holy Crap, do I need help so please do Your thing and erase all the bad shit in my head and make me feel better…”) but heard no response.
And when I walked out of the church and got back in my car, I felt no improvement…just the furnace heat that Florida is producing of late. Then I heard this song come on my iPod:
Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
Having watched a lot of B- and C-grade schlocky horror movies, there’s one theme that I find myself cringing at time and time again. It’s where someone is administered a dose of curare (or some other paralyzing agent), which renders them unable to move, yet totally aware and conscious of their surroundings. The killer then proceeds to bury the person alive or some other such nightmarish demise, all the while the person can’t do a fucking thing (including scream).
Cut to them, hours later, inside a coffin, punching and scratching away at the lid, screaming with no hope of being heard. I’ve had plenty of nightmares (and night terrors) that mirror this scenario.
Lately, I feel like that paralyzed dude, laying there, watching while someone who has it in for me digs my grave. I’ll be walking from, say, the kitchen to the living room or my bedroom…and I’ll
freeze
in the midst of walking. Suddenly, I don’t remember what I was about to do, why I was walking into Room X.
My breath catches, I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate, but I don’t. I just stand there, trying to remember to breathe like a normal person, on the verge of tears. The other day, I just dropped to the floor and sat there for about 10 minutes.
Paralyzed.
Don’t know what to do – most all of my normal “escape” routines are stripped from me. The things that I’d usually do to relieve anxiety and stress (TV, music, computer, books, magazines, iPhone) sit there in front of me, not appealing in the slightest. I zip through page after page of satellite guide listings, but nothing looks good to me. Page after page of apps/games on the iPhone, but nothing seems fun. Etc. etc. ad nauseum.
It’s officially May now, when I should be announcing my next big Resolution for the Year of Resolutions. Yet I don’t give a flying fuck, especially since the ones I’ve chosen thus far have all gone to shit.
Paralyzed. Must breathe.
I don’t think I have to strength to hit bottom (again). Course, at the moment I don’t feel I have the strength to get a single thing done. Consider it a miracle I went out to Office Depot and got Mom a new wireless mouse for her computer this morning. And I got it installed. It feels ridiculous that this is likely going to be all I accomplish today.
I feel pathetic. Every move seems futile, even if I’m just pointing the remote at the TV to pause it or turn the volume down.
Everything is stifling, oppressive. Every little task is this giant thing…making coffee, putting a sandwich together, making a phone call. I go to text someone, or (God forbid) call them and that’s futile, too. The loneliness weighs upon me, yet I don’t know what to say. I’m a broken record, everything coming out of my mouth is this repulsively sick depressive verbiage. Why impose that on my friends, just to drag them down with me?
I hate it. And the negative shit running through my brain, the suicidal ideation, hits hardest at times like these. (I’m safe, no worries about that shit.) I don’t deserve to be here – on this planet – I add nothing to the universe but misery. Sad, sorry little man.
Fucking paralyzed.
a
Comments for Men