I’ve been feeling like the Effexor is not doing as good a job as it used to. I get withdrawal symptoms, even after a full dose in the morning. I feel a pressure popping in my temples and ears. It feels like “explosions in my head.” As my Moo would say.
I’m struggling to keep my enthusiasm for life, and maintain a decent work ethic. It seems to me I’ve been doing badly at my job of late, and could use some “stepping-it-up” mojo or something. I seem to lack a staying-power, an endurance that has begun to wear dangerously thin…
I struggle for equilibrium, and find only tumult. I make mistakes, and beat myself down about them. I am overweight, and feeling like I need to make dramatic changes, but simultaneously; mired in a progress-less hatred of myself.
I wish I could rise out of my bad habits, my mental decision-making is fraught with miserable thoughts and confirmed with shameful actions. I spiral, slowly, in darkness consuming.
I don’t like where this is headed. I’ve been aware of it, and am still struggling to fight this downward-slide. I want to write poetry, and can’t taste the creativity I used to feel for it. I want to rise out of my state, but I’m losing my way.
I have had a change of therapists, and now only see one every 2-3 weeks. I feel like I have no release for my anguished thoughts, so, I’ve come back here, to make myself aware that things are going awry. That my comfort level has fallen to the taxing strain of depression. I am confused in my natural state, and longing for some form of respite from my errors, my demeaning thoughts, my conflagration of souring actions…
I hope to make myself aware, that THIS FEELING is a natural part of my disorder. That I have no choice, sometimes, to feel these symptoms; and to occasionally drown in sadness. I don’t know whether it will abate naturally, or whether I should be doing much more than I have been, in order to fight this thing harder. I’m not doing a good enough job right now, and it clearly shows.
I am best equipped to survive this: as I have been in this muck before. I have forged roads out of my dark-places before, I just need to find the trail back to the sunlight again.
But my guts are cold, like I’ve been swallowing ice-cubes. My heart thumps slower, barley pushing enough blood around to keep me alive. My operations are at an all time lethargic crawl. My fate turns on a tilted path, binding me to uncertainty, pain, and promise.
And I will not stop pushing forward, even in the face of so many critical steps backward. Keep trying. Trying.