lamentations and contemplations.
Perhaps I'll start updating this thing again. I am sleeping less, and thusly have more time to write. I've been failing to keep in contact with those I care about, partly out of apathy and partly because I am ashamed--I'm not progressing, not succeeding, not really doing anything with my life. So, I suppose on these late nights when I am overcome with lonliness and that sense of isolation, it's really of my own doing. Funny, how self-imposed our own misery can be.
I regret to say I'm not doing especially well in general. I fear I won't have enough credits for my first semester, and therefore will be placed on what my school calls "supervision"--regular phone calls, attendance checks, stricter schedules...so on and so forth. While I am an honours student, my attendance and schoolwork is erratic. Then the school counselors call with the usual how are you, how are you feeling, haven't seen you in awhile...what I want to say is the truth; that I was scared to leave my house because I was being tormented by the idea that I was going to trip on the sidewalk, skin my knee and contract flesh-eating bacteria. But instead I say I'm fine, I've just been sleeping in the past few days....because really, what's worse? Being considered lazy, or being considered crazy?
I haven't been taking my medication for awhile, perhaps a week or so. Occasionally, I take Effexor, my primary antidepressant, but I've completely neglected to take the medications that are specifically for my OCD. I have no reason why, and I recognize the foolishness of neglecting to take them. I have yet to decide which is worse--the side effects of taking my drugs, or the subsequent withdrawals from not taking them. Sometimes, you have to choose which hell you'd rather live in.
I fear the depression that I had been able to fend off for so long is returning. When I wake up in the morning, I have to convince myself that it is worth getting out of bed. At the end of the day, I am left with the pervasive sense of emptiness that had been so familiar to me for so many years. I have not hurt myself since March, but I find myself thinking more and more lately of the relief that the bite of a cold, steel razor through soft, warm flesh used to bring. I fight these morbid notions, but truth be told, I've grown tired of fighting.
That's all I really feel like writing for now.
I regret to say I'm not doing especially well in general. I fear I won't have enough credits for my first semester, and therefore will be placed on what my school calls "supervision"--regular phone calls, attendance checks, stricter schedules...so on and so forth. While I am an honours student, my attendance and schoolwork is erratic. Then the school counselors call with the usual how are you, how are you feeling, haven't seen you in awhile...what I want to say is the truth; that I was scared to leave my house because I was being tormented by the idea that I was going to trip on the sidewalk, skin my knee and contract flesh-eating bacteria. But instead I say I'm fine, I've just been sleeping in the past few days....because really, what's worse? Being considered lazy, or being considered crazy?
I haven't been taking my medication for awhile, perhaps a week or so. Occasionally, I take Effexor, my primary antidepressant, but I've completely neglected to take the medications that are specifically for my OCD. I have no reason why, and I recognize the foolishness of neglecting to take them. I have yet to decide which is worse--the side effects of taking my drugs, or the subsequent withdrawals from not taking them. Sometimes, you have to choose which hell you'd rather live in.
I fear the depression that I had been able to fend off for so long is returning. When I wake up in the morning, I have to convince myself that it is worth getting out of bed. At the end of the day, I am left with the pervasive sense of emptiness that had been so familiar to me for so many years. I have not hurt myself since March, but I find myself thinking more and more lately of the relief that the bite of a cold, steel razor through soft, warm flesh used to bring. I fight these morbid notions, but truth be told, I've grown tired of fighting.
That's all I really feel like writing for now.