The insomnia is definitely a thing. Couldn’t get to sleep again last night. No weird sound-induced head trips though, so that’s something. Also, still rash free. Bonus.
I couldn’t brain enough to figure out to hit snooze on my alarm when it went off this morning. The information had apparently gone dormant in my mind and we weren’t finding it today. I was only an hour late for work, that’s not so bad right? (Side rant: Daylight Savings. It takes me weeks to get my system and sleep schedule back in order when we move the clocks. I was finally, finally, finally making progress on developing and maintaining a proper routine and had whittled my wake-up time down to 7:50 am instead of 8:45am. Still not where I want to be, but progress. Now that’s pretty much all fucked and for what? THE COWS DO NOT CARE WHAT TIME YOU MILK THEM. If you want that extra hour of sunlight so badly, wake up an hour earlier and let me fucking sleep! ARGH)
I laid in bed for a long time staring at the clock and trying to muster up the will to get out of bed and go to work. I did, eventually. Then I did the same in the shower. I think it was just sleep-stupor lethargy, but it’s something to keep an eye on.
Had a long conversation with Shaynna last night, a former roomie that now lives in Australia. She didn’t come out and say as much, but I know that she has some reservations about medication. And she’s not sure that the major depressive periods I went through after I left my ex actually count since the situation was such a mess. She thinks I actually handled the situation very well and did an admirable job of keeping myself together, and I guess I can see how it may have seemed so from the outside. I’ve never questioned that I have an array of valid reasons to choose from to explain why I’m so fucked up, but this impulse to retreat, to hide, to cut myself off from my friends and family isn’t healthy. The suicidal ideation and fixation isn’t healthy.
I don’t do the things I used to love anymore, I don’t scan the posters looking for interesting bands to see. I don’t splurge on markers and spend happy days playing with them. I don’t haul my iPad to a cozy cafe and write like a motherfucker. I don’t answer my phone. I don’t lose myself in ink and charcoal and step back amazed at what I’ve done. I don’t get giddy with excitement for new animated films. I don’t browse the internet looking for courses and dream of taking them. I don’t read books. I don’t throw myself into editing and thrive off the process of helping my closest friends make their work better, pornier, funnier.
I’m a hollow version of my happier self. I have no joy. If I stay like this, it will not end well for me, though it may well end.
I don’t want to be this way anymore. And if the drugs help me get to a point where I can get some of this back, then I’m willing to try. I have to do something.