I’ve been trying since February to get help from the government with my mental health bullshit that’s been rearing it’s ugly, destructive head most of my life. Since then it’s been nothing but bureaucratic red-tape clusterfuck inanity. After another extended period of no communication on their end, I called today and found out benefits were denied nearly a month ago, but nobody bothered to send me a letter. Social service programs are specifically designed for cases like this, where mental illness symptoms are a significant detriment to successful interaction with society. As in, unless I get the help I need and start fixing these issues, I am liable to flip out and start physically harming hapless, brain-dead members of society. This is why motherfuckers bring a shotgun to work one day.
Title from Buzzov*en, “Shove” from the album …To a Frown
I learned something interesting at my head shrinking session a couple days ago. Apparently, the current medical knowledge of the last decade or so indicates that anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medication has little or no effect on bipolar symptoms, and in many cases can actually exacerbate manic symptoms and trigger manic episodes. This according to a psychiatric professional, so I would assume the information is legit.
So, basically this means the last fifteen years or so of having the entire spectrum of SSRIs and whatnot flunge at me was, as I had come to suspect, doing fuck all for me, and in fact is partly to blame for the constant headcase fuckery cycle of recurring bullshit. All clinical terms, I assure you.
This is one reason I have such a distrust of doctors. Plus they keep trying to harvest my organs for their secret black magic rituals. Just kidding. Probably… 😉
Title from Fistula, “Smoke Cat Hair and Toenails”, from the album Vermin Prolificus
Manic as fuck. This has been building. It’s a frantic race to nowhere. A deranged rat on a hamster wheel. The sedatives aren’t working (“I think I can handle my sedatives, bro…” -Charlie). Cyclical thought experiments. Running through my past transgressions. Recall, revisit, rewrite, restore. This is why the lines get blurred.
Suddenly, focus. Something intense, white hot, piercing, and its all that there is. It envelopes from the inside out, wraps tentacles, consuming. It is all that there is.
It is gone. And there is nothing. Less than nothing.
Fractured psyche, rearranged. The protective cover of scar tissue. Healing. Growth. Change…
It’s been just under six months that I’ve been completely off any sort of psychiatric medication. The last set of meds I was on triggered strange and terrible bouts of manic insanity, and I wanted to get back to an unmedicated baseline to see what that felt like. At no time in the last six months have I felt any better or more stable than before, though I have had a fair share of days that were much worse: my experience with mental illness, much like my experiences as an active drug addict, is that just when you think you’ve reached your lowest point, life is about to show you just how much more fucked it can be.
For the most part, however, being completely off psychiatric medication for me does not feel all that much different from how I remember feeling while I was on psychiatric medication. Which, in my mind, confirms my suspicions that the meds I’ve been on in the past have done fuck all to address my symptoms. They seem to work for a short while, but then…
I have an appointment this week with a witch doctor or shaman of some sort to discuss the possibility of getting back on some type of psychiatric drug regimen. I will obviously be taking the doctor’s opinion and advice into consideration, but as it stands I am honestly torn about whether or not I want to start back on that shit again. The idea of finding some type of relief from some of these symptoms of insanity sounds rather fanfuckingtastic. However, with each past experience with psych drugs I grow increasingly doubtful of the effectiveness of medication at all.
Besides, I’ve grown rather fond of some of my imaginary friends. Some of them. The rest of you can fuck right off! 😉
i named her heart
after a black hole sun
but the truth is
the void is in me
as dense and suffocating
as the ache in
my fucking guts.
i am the chasm
which consumes all things
with a hunger
Perhaps one of the times my head explodes, these spiders will come pouring out. There will be casualties. The truly hardy ones will scatter on remaining legs to those dark corners of existence where few would think to find shelter. The ones who make it back before I finish reassembling my shattered skull will have stories weighty with wisdom they will refuse to tell. Because not everything in this life is meant to be shared.
I’m a man of my word, and that word is always regret…
…I’m trying to be the best man that I can,
Things don’t always work out in the end…
A spider lives inside my head
Who weaves a strange and wondrous web
Of silken threads and silver strings
To catch all sorts of flying things,
Like crumbs of thoughts and bits of smiles
And specks of dried-up tears,
And dust of dreams that catch and cling
For years and years and years…
*I absolutely ripped this device off from a fellow WordPress bleeder, the lovely and talented “Zeebam”. Her unique photography and poignantly emotive writings hit home in a certain way, like this piece here.
I don’t yet know where the Scorn lives. But when it comes out to play, it casts its shadow over everything. It permeates unsparingly, absolutely. The things it feeds on die with agonizing deflation. It feeds on all things. When it is here, it is the only thing that exists, and it will not be controlled. Those which it takes leave their death cries resounding through the air for eternity. And some days that is all I hear.
I think I might be schizophrenic. Does doubt concerning one’s own sanity itself exclude the possibility of insanity? I am definitely paranoid and delusional. As stated here before, I can identify certain things in my mind as absurd and delusional on an intellectual level, but that does not prevent me from believing these absurdities to be true, on an emotional level. It is impossible to form or maintain any sort of healthy and lasting connection with another person when the things in your mind are constantly distorting and perverting your interactions with and perceptions of everyone and everything around you. Paranoia and confusion breed frustration and I only know how to react in anger and desperation. Those closest to me suffer the brunt of my unpredictable and destructive flailing throes of madness even as I doubt the very legitimacy of their existence. How can I make any attempts to resolve my issues when I don’t even know what’s “real”? This life is a fucking joke and I am the punchline.
I feel like my intellect is the only thing preventing me from diving headlong into insanity with utter abandon. Despite much evidence to the contrary, I am a fairly intelligent bag of meat and calcium, and my philosophical background ensures a certain level of logic and critical thinking. Thus I am able to identify and recognize much of this madness for what it is, a product of delusion and mental illness. So, on a logical level, I realize many of the things I think and feel are not “real,” in the sense that they are perpetuations of the sickness inside my mind. However, there is a very big difference between knowing something to be true on an intellectual level, and believing it to be true on an emotional, intrinsic level.
But then, another thought. Sure, I have certain manifestations of insanity that I can identify as such. But what of all the other things, the perhaps truly delusional things, that I don’t recognize for what they are, that I accept without question as “real” and “true” to my accepted understanding of “reality”?
I have been on and off various psychiatric medications for my entire adult life, mostly concurrent with a good fifteen plus years of self-medication with “illicit” drugs and alcohol. Surprise of all surprises, I am also the kind of “adult” who can never seem to get his fucking life together. This instability accounts for my inconsistency with staying on the legal drugs — I lose a job, I lose insurance coverage, I lose my doctor, I lose my mind. In the midst of this, I destroy everything.
Beyond that, I have ever increasing doubts about the efficacy of psych meds at all, coupled with growing anecdotal evidence and research suggesting I’ve never been accurately diagnosed in the first place. But that is a topic for another time…
I mentioned here that, for various reasons and circumstances, I would be going off the current “wonder drug” that I’ve been pumping through…