A Quick Recap- Part 1

I feel like I tend to remember to post when I am sick.

I currently have a cold- or at the very least a sore throat.

Some prone to illness pro-tips: Cepacol is probably the most effective brand of cough drops, but also the worst flavored. Vicks infused Puffs are by far the best tissue. Sprite is a Hispanic staple but Sweet Leaf Mint & Honey Green Tea also feels amazing on your throat when you are dying.

I am feeling somewhat better, which has led me to consider that I may be bi-polar. This will be confirmed or denied by my brand new psychiatrist that I get to meet on Tuesday! The whole ordeal of obtaining a psychiatrist has been rather amusing.

It started a few weeks ago, when after my visit with my PCP it was decided that I should probably increase my dosage of venlaflaxine. After about a week on double the dosage I ended up having a nervous break-down at work because I'm generally incapable of dealing with my own life. Which, honestly, is probably something I need to find a way to work on- things have not been the worst right now. I am in school, working full-time, in a considerable amount of education and medical debt, and on the verge of a break-up, but so is like every other human being alive. Although, on the other end of that, suicidal tendencies are becoming quite en vogue, so maybe every other human being is also mentally unstable and I don't really need to feel guilty about my limited capacity to deal? Putting that aside, I was not dealing, left work early, called Seton's mental health division, because it was basically the only number on Aetna's website for psychiatrist listings, and tried to make an appointment to get a better evaluation for proper meds. In tears I waited to speak to someone to be scheduled and was promptly told that they do not accept new patients without a referral. I think this probably should have been the first warning sign that this process was not going to pleasant, but I shook it off and had my PCP send a referral.

That was on March 23rd. I spent the following week becoming increasingly destructive. I was unhappy and shaky and by the end of the day the best idea seemed to be to try to rip various parts of myself open so that the pressure underneath could get out. This is when I realize that kitchen knives, or at least the crappy ones I keep, work primarily through the use of the back and forth motion allowing the serrated part to saw away at whatever I am cutting, and are thus not terribly good breaking skin if you aren't dedicated to the idea enough to saw away at it. Furious scratching and biting were also not terribly effective, perhaps I have thicker skin than I assumed? Or perhaps my brain was only half-way into the idea. I assume the latter because over the weekend I was quite drunk and didn't manage to do anything more than accidentally let my cat out while stumbling in.

This catches us up with the end of my last post in which I mentioned that I lost my cat and, for the most part, my will to live. The order of that was a little turned around, I think, because after settling into this new reality of having fucked up and put this other thing I liked quite a lot in danger I was no longer sad. I was about as upset with myself as always, but now quite concerned that my cat was dead. A mind overwhelmed by the thought of a dead pet has little time to be overwhelmed by life.

The cat was found on Monday and there was relief. Things resumed their course. Sadness resumed it's course. So I called Seton back regarding the referral I had sent a little less than a week earlier and was quickly scheduled an appointment that Thursday.

A part of me felt the process went too quickly and too smoothly for the initial push-back I received when I first called, but I wanted it to be OK so I ignored this feeling. All my thoughts went to how to be as honest as possible about my mental health history- because I was tired of straddling the line and wanted to either stop feeling bad or be pushed over the edge.

And here I think I should perhaps explain my biggest reason for not having committed suicide at this point, other than the fact that my life is really no worse than anyone else's: my biggest fear is that I am already dead. My life has always seemed rather cyclical and balanced in a way that I find unpleasant, but seems over-all beneficial. It's ebbs and flows are tinged with a surreal sense of hope and positivity. Sometimes things seem too bright. Sometimes things seem to have been there or happened that did not. And perhaps it is just deja vu or something else easily ignored, but I have always been concerned that this odd sense is a warning. Or a reminder- that there is no escaping the cycle. So I continue to avoid death because I am concerned that I will unwittingly be reborn into this same cycle and do these same things and there will never be a release. I don't want to be stuck in this part in this Act of time.

To be continued.

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