I'm not going to get emotional with this. At least not too emotional. Hell, who knows.
The last several days, weeks probably, have been bad. And getting worse. Two weeks ago I took pills. Not too many - 3 xanax, 2 ativan and one klonopin. I was unconscious for over 12 hours - it was considered an overdose though I didn't go to the hospital. I talked with my therapist about it. He talked to my hubby about it. My pills are under my hubby's control and hidden. All the razor blades are gone. The keys to the gun safe are hidden.
I kept telling myself that it was okay, it was no big deal, it happened so let's just move on and forget it.
But the depression got worse. I became more withdrawn, irritable, empty and hopeless. I tried to hide it. I did a good job until 2 days ago. I was too tired. Too mentally and emotionally exhausted to keep the facade up. I had to work, of course, and I did okay with my patients. I hid the rest of the time, avoiding coworkers. I was thankfully able to leave early last night to see my psychiatrist (let's be honest - if I didn't have someone to cover me, I would have left anyway).
My psych doc is starting me on prozac and trying to get me an appointment with a specialist in Boston. Which is fine. I'll try the prozac, and I'll go to Boston. Anything to make this feeling go away. All I want to do is curl up in a ball and not exist. I don't know why I can't just do that. Why can't I stop existing? The pain and the hollowness is too much. It's all too much. I'm at my breaking point and I don't know if I can go on. I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of wearing my mask and pretending everything is okay when I'm crumbling inside. I'm tired of the pain and the emptiness and the anger and irritability. I'm tired of everything I've been going through.
So I'll take the prozac, and I'll go to Boston if I can get an appointment.
I had therapy today. And it was rough. I was in a very bad place this morning. And therapy was good . . .until I walked out the door. I lost it. Completely lost it. Leaning against the wall, sobbing. I couldn't control myself. My therapist walked out and found me. I, of course, tried to stop and hide it and convince him I was okay. He didn't buy it and suggested that I may need to be admitted. The tears poured again. I told him no. I pleaded no. I told him I'd be okay, I'm always okay, I always push on. I know I didn't convince him, but my hubby was home and he could keep watch, and so he let me go. I went into the bathroom and cried and cried until I was drained. I was so frustrated. I punched the wall. It's plaster. I punched it again. And again. It hurt like hell. I punched again. I did nothing more than take a small chunk of the plaster out . . .and bruise the hell out of my knuckles. Battle scars, I guess.
After I composed myself, I went downstairs out to my truck. I sat there for awhile, staring blankly out the windshield. I opened the center console and pulled out the multi-utility tool and pulled out the knife. I turned it over in my hands, watching the sun glint of the sleek metal. I pushed the tip of the knife into the tip of my pointer finger. I thought about using it as I spun it around, just shy of puncturing my fingertip. I could end the pain, it could stop. I wouldn't feel anymore . . . .
Except I don't want to die. I don't want to die. So I put the knife away and left. Dropped off my prescription and went home. And the rest of the day I've been trying to recover. And that's so hard to do and I'm so tired. And I'm hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. It has to be a better day because I can't go on like this much longer. I don't have the stamina, I don't have the drive. I don't have the will.
I have to stay strong for my hubby and my son. I have to keep trying for them. They're the only ones keeping me alive.
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