I have decided that today I’m going to chronicle my struggle with (hashtag) Mental Health. This may be the exact purpose of this blog. Right now only my family knows about this place, so this really just may be for them.
What I need to talk about is the fact that I have wanted to kill myself for approximately twenty-five years, but there have been good times, and I think that sensation is going away. You know, with my anxiety tempered by my benzodiazepine friend, Klonopin. Fairly certain that I’m addicted to my 0.25 mg daily dose, and I’m afraid not to take it, with the sole purpose of being able to go to my job, until I’m old enough to retire.
I’m learning how not to feel as if everyone hates me, and I’m so positively-affected in therapy it’s hard to get anything done for real. I work really hard to act like I’m enjoying life, and I’m learning how to do so a little bit more effectively so as to seem like a sweet girl. I don’t know, everybody always tells me I’m sweet. I cuss a lot, despite my sweetness, but that’s only for those close to me, and I’m trying to edit that feature as well. I always think that I’m letting everybody down, that I say the wrong things, and that I act like a meanie. But I actually am pretty sweet, and do so love my fellow man (except for myself sometimes) because we are all so fearfully (?), rather, wonderfully made.
But yes, I’ve been taking psych meds for the past twenty-five years, except for a few trials on vitamins and my own positive attitude. I actually might do well with a support group, but instead, I’m trying this silly blog. This is basically because I always try to help everybody else in a support group.
What has really been my problem is that I think that everyone can hear exactly everything I’m thinking. Meditation has helped me to calm this down, and my job is helping me to not have time to worry about my thoughts, because I’m always afraid that my thoughts are bad, like a smelly fart. If I could really make art, and make beautiful things, this sensation would probably go away. Hopefully.
That condition is called, “thought broadcasting.” I’m getting over it, thanks to the really effective yet exhausting medicine that I take. Would give you the recipe, but not today. This little bit has taken a lot out of me. I am loathe to express my condition, but at the same time feel as if this might just heal me to do so, like all of the other memoir writing psych-patients, who contribute to the healing of millions, for sure. Not a very good writer, though, just heart-felt and true. That is my problem, constantly naked heart and mind. That is why I always want to hide, but nobody actually really abused me, and it’s just an illness of my precious body/mind.