Into the void...

2004-01-13

12:48 p.m.

God. I’ve felt so jumpy lately. Every time I try to relax, I find myself just looking around and moaning, trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. I’m sad about the bunny still, but I guess that’s okay. The thing is, though, I feel completely overwhelmed by work, and I know it’s not because I have too much to do. It’s the same old story.

I just hate work.

If I ever stop to think about the way the world works and the things I must do in order to survive, I tend to get extremely unhappy. We all know this already, but it’s amazing how it continues even as I gain age and wisdom by prolonging my stay on earth. I find that I have completely resigned myself to a life of hating all of humanity, and it’s not necessarily all because of a chemical imbalance in my brain. It’s the brain itself.

It’s ME.

I maintain that I must be on medications to be alive. So I keep taking them although I hate it. I’m currently on five prescriptions: one for depression, one for mood swings, one for anxiety, and two for allergies. I’m practically a walking pharmacy.

And I still hate the world.

I hate the fact that I can’t breathe all the time. I can’t see straight all the time. I can’t think all the time. I feel shaky and unhappy, nervous and unnatural. I feel dirty, too. I appear to have developed a sudden hatred of dirt. Everything seems dirty, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I try to keep the apartment clean, but I don’t have enough time to keep it as clean as I would like. Besides, it’s never completely clean. There’s no such thing as completely clean. There’s always dirt, always dust, always stuff making me feel uncomfortable and dirty because there’s no such thing as clean.

I’m on the brink of OCD.

I feel this strange desire to be constantly busy, constantly doing something to ensure that my time, my life, and my talents are not being wasted. And yet I get nowhere. I come to work, I go home from work, I pay the bills, I snuggle with my blankets and my stuffed animals, and, of course, Rob, but I still feel icky. That’s what it is: icky. I feel icky like I want to just brush the lint of depression off the front of my clothes, but it’s not on the surface, and that’s what’s scary.

I’m concerned.

The most concerning thing I’ve noticed recently is that noises seem unusually loud to me. I hear things, and I want to cover my ears because I feel like I can’t take the intrusion of the world into my head like that. I have to hide my head from Rob’s music, from the TV, from my coworkers, from my own thoughts that seem to reverberate like organ pipes in the hollow of my head. Everything’s too loud.

And this is when it gets bad.

I remember when I first went on the meds, I was sitting in a pizza place with my ex-roommate, and the background music in the restaurant sounded so ridiculously loud that I couldn’t concentrate on the conversation we were having. Yet, I knew that the music wasn’t at all loud, it just sounded loud to me.

I’ve read somewhere that background noises seeming overwhelming is a symptom of mania. Unfortunately for me, my manias do not generally come in the form of happiness. Why? Because the world sucks, and to be happy in the midst of these horrors would be completely against the entire existence my body and mind recognize as life.

I hate it. And there’s nothing I can do.

I can go through more unnecessary doctor visits, trying to adjust medications, but it seems like every time I try to change medications, I end up in the hospital. I really don’t want to go to the hospital. I hate hospitals. And I hate medications. But what the hell am I supposed to do?

Suffer, I guess. So here we go again.

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