I'm scared!

Scared... It’s the one word that best describes how I feel today and mostly every day. I’m at the point where my goal when I wake up each day is to find some purpose to carry me to the next. My current motivation is the guilt I would bestow upon my family if I choose to give up. That is the only thing that is keeping me going. I don’t know who I am anymore or what I’m supposed to be. Obviously I know my name, but what’s in a name? I don’t even know my favourite color, what I want to do in life, or even what I want to do throughout the day. I sometimes choose to sleep (when I can) because it’s a whole lot easier than having to force yourself to do something. While in this state of mind, I am not living for myself. I make decisions based on the opinions of the people who say they care about me. After all, I don’t care, I don’t feel, so my own decision making could be unfortunate.

No, I actually don’t feel or care. It sounds like I’m posing myself as a monster. I guess I kinda am. Christmas was really hard. While I appreciate the gifts and the worry, it’s kind of hard to smile when you’re asking God why he let you wake up in the first place. In any given day my mood is flat. I have reactions when my body convulses in nervousness in normal everyday situations (mostly conversations). I do not feel excited (outside of hypomania), no adrenalin, no happiness, no warmth. I feel like I’ve been gutted and left cold, alone, nervous, and afraid. I have even given thought to how the use of illegal drugs could heighten my senses.

In the past while I have found the need to differentiate between suicidal ideation and wanting to be free of pain. I am not in fact suicidal, but I am in fact suffering from a constant gut wrenching pain that fills my entire soul. I feel empty and alone. I fear two things: being alone and being hurt, and in protecting myself from being hurt, I am forcing myself to be alone. If I could be fixed by some magical power, I would not even consider either option.
10 pills a night. I cringe after swallowing each one. I suffer the side effects. In the slim chance I decide to have kids, I will have to come off medications to spare my youngsters from being defected. 10 pills a night and I still find myself hyperventilating on my parents’ kitchen floor, because I’m scared; because I do not know why I should live each day with this monster inside of my body. I know I used to be outgoing and loving and creative at some point, but I don’t know where she is anymore.

A cancer patient living in excruciating pain which effected the way they ate, slept, and functioned, would be granted society’s blessing to pass into the white light. I guess there’s a double standard with terminal mental illness: we suffer a different sort of pain in which the severity is not understood. Nor is the extent to which the pain effects our daily lives. But it’s ok to tell us retards that we’re not allowed to rest in peace because our pain is all in our heads. So, just exercise, take your pills, and sleep your life away, because Seroquel is the answer to all of life’s problems.