As usual, I’m beginning this entry in hopes that I don’t fall asleep in the middle of writing it, as I often do. So keep that in mind.
I spend my days all day alone in a dark room, lying in bed with my little dog named Puzzle. I cry a lot. I don’t sleep much. Not even at night. I drift in and out of sort of a semi-sleep, semi-wakefulness. During the day, of course, since I haven’t really slept, I feel very, very tired.
I don’t enjoy anything. Nothing is fun at all. I often ask myself if I’m going to drift off and die, but I end up not dying, and that pisses me off.
The phone rings occasionally. Almost always it’s a recorded message. Lately, it’s been from the town saying there’s no parking on the street for the day cuz the snow’s so bad. I don’t drive, so I hang up.
I did get a phone call from someone, I guess today. When he called, actually, I was on the verge of passing out, but I didn’t say that. He recommended medical marijuana for sleep. He said once the clinics open in Massachusetts, I should be able to get some. He hinted that it might make me eat. Someone else I know said marijuana made her binge horribly, so really, I might be wasting my money, or falling into yet another living nightmare.
This lady at the suicide hotline said I should go into my psychiatrist’s office and demand that she find me a therapist. Just insist. What do I need another pill for? Why am I a number on her roster when what I need is caring and compassion? Where is love?
I feel like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for something to piss me off and send me over the edge. But no, what happens is I end up surviving, and carrying on.