If anything, I am getting worse than better. Went and saw my new psychologist on Thursday. Nothing accomplished except that I’ll be in group theropy starting Nov 3rd. Yay…or something like that. I have decided that I hate going to see psychologists. They just shell out the same things that I could have read in a book and for the questions that I want/need an answer too, they give me the, “only you can answer that” spiel. If I knew the answers, then I wouldn’t be in your office wasting your time and my money. I so want to give up on the theropy and move on to planning on ending my life; I feel like I would be more productive that way. However, I ave given myself a vague one year time line to see if this will really help me out, the theropy and drugs. Tuesday, I see my psycharitist and she’ll probably bump my doasage of Paxil since it’s not doing anything. If anything, it’s brought me back to the place I was at before I started theropy or worse. It is so hard for me to goto sleep at night, I toss and turn and have wierd dreams, I wake up early and yet it is almost impossible for me to get out of bed. Like today, I woke up at 7am, stayed in bed until 11am and had to roll myself off of the bed just to get out of it. And then I stayed on the floor for another hour before I was able to pick myself off of the floor. I have been late for work for the last two weeks, the only thing that has saved me is that I’ve had to work on the weekend. But since I didn’t this weekend (the painter canceled), I’ll have to say late at work all next week
The question that the docs love to ask me is “What is your definition of happy/happiness?” And I usually give them the smart ass answer of the sun is shinning, birds are landing on my finger and singing to me, flowers are in chourus; a typical Disney scene. But this is yet another one of those questions that I’m sitting on their chairs for waiting for them to answer for me. It’s been so long since I’ve truly been happy that I’m not even sure I know what happiness is. I guess that I have had moments of happiness; laughing at the Daily Show, leveling up on the Warcraft Beta, eating a Krispy Creme doughnut, sexual pleasure (Talk about another thing that is fucked up, thanks to the drugs that I’m taking, but this is already TMI and is probably due it’s own post…). But those seem like they are hollow or fake happiness. That kind of happiness isn’t fulfilling. My soul isn’t happy; these happinesses don’t fulfiill my soul. I look back at the pictures that I am in with others, and I see that I’m smiling and happy. But was I really happy in those pictures; or was I just faking the happiness so that I wouldn’t bring others down and ruin the mood for everyone. I just don’t know anymore. The psych’s suggest that I pretend to be happy and just fake it. Yes, this is the best answer that a doctor with a degree can come up with; just fake it. Maybe they do have a point though. I’ll just fake the happiness and pretend to be happy while I hurt and cry on the inside. And I’ll just hold on to that pain and hold on to it tightly until it finally drives me mad and kills me. Well, I’ve already let it drive me mad, I just need it to finish the job.
Truly, the only time that I can clearly remember being happy is when I was with Suzanne. It’s those memories and thoughts that I hold on to. They are the basis of the fantasies that I have in the morning and the dreams that lure me to sleep. It’s the ghost of her that tries to get me out of bed in the morning has I try to pukk her back into bed for 5 more minutes. It’s the ghost that I pull my arms over and spoon with at night. Is her ghost the reason that I’m still living, or am I still living because of her ghost?
**sigh** From one twisted circle to another. I wanted to break one downward cycle and just ended up in another downward cycle. I assume that most of my friends have turned their back on me and have washed their hands clean of me. And the ones that still try to reach out to me, I continue to push away, and I don’t know why. I do know why, because I feel that getting over my depression is something that I have to do by myself. And so I break my promises to my friends and refuse their offers of help and support. But I know that they can’t help me, or I assume that they can’t help me. But really, they can’t help me. Whose going to take time out of their lives to do it? Who’s going to drive down, pick me up, dry my tears, dust me off, and help me to my feet. No one, that’s who. I’ve had 30 years to learn how to pick myself up, and now it’s sink or swim time. Except, I’m like some kind of rubber ball, just floating on the surface, not really swimming or sinking.
No, all I can do is lock myself in my room and aimlessly surf the net, aimlessly watch TV, aimlessly read, aimlessly play games, aimlessly sleep. I’ve thought about aimlessly becoming an alcoholic or drug addict. It would help me on my way to killing myself if I did it right. And since the dreprssion drugs have shot my alcohol tolerance to hell, I could be a cheap drunk. I’m not sure if I could afford to be a coke head, but I think that meth and crack are cheap. If nothing else, I could be a pot head. Like Dave says,”The day is gone; I’m on my back, staring up at the ceiling. I take a drink, sit back, relax, smoke my mind; make me feel better for a small time…”