Stuff

Everything feels so out of control lately.  Nothing makes sense. I'm on and off of my psych meds. I know it's not affective or good. The stomach pain they awake in me and the nausea...it feels like it's not worth it at all. The pain, the nausea and the dry heaves sometimes make it hard to focus at work. It doesn't matter if I eat before or after I take the medication, it makes my stomach turn for a good few hours before it works itself out. I want to curl up and die when I'm dry heaving over a cup or the toilet. 

 I just want to curl up and sleep, but even that feels like it's draining the energy out of me. It's the strangest thing. I feel like I'm falling into a deep depression again and there is nothing that I can do about it. Could I take the pills again? Sure. But do I want to feel like my stomach is dissolving? No. Do the pills always work? No. They changed my thoughts for some of the time, but I've come to the conclusion that it was just me deluding myself with situations around me. 
I feel like I've built up this imaginary world where I'm welcome and wanted. I want to just lay down and not wake up. I'm tired. I'm always tired. I could sleep the day away and still sleep the entire night through. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I still affected this bad by bipolar depression? Why does it feel as if it's just getting worse and I'm not recovering? 

 

Sometimes I sit and think about all the stuff that's all over the world and it feels like I'm suffocating. There is too much around me. So many things in storage all over the world and for what? What is the attraction to all of these things? I know I'm guilty of it. I think of my bedroom with all of the shoes I own stuffed into two over large boxes. I think of the trunk filled to the brim with things that represent memories I can't even recall anymore. The boxes in the closest hold pain and misery, but they are things that I'm too afraid to get rid of; if I get rid of them, then maybe the pain wasn't real. I need to know that it's all not just one big joke or hallucination on my part. 

T-Shirts I've never worn hand in the extra closet. I'm not even sure why I never wear them. I'm caught up in the comfort of what I know. I wear the same few shirts over and over again. Drowning in the comfort they afford me. I like the way they feel against my skin. Soft and loving. It's like every movement in them is a hug. Sometimes I like to wear his clothes. Just curl up in them, breathe in his essence. It helps me when I'm having a panic attack. I'm hiding inside his clothes more and more lately. I'm wanting to just run away from the digusting thoughts in my head, the suicidal thoughts and the thoughts of worthlessness. Feeling connected to him helps to quite the roar of the noise, but I'd much rather his hand under my shirt, against my skin. But at the moment it's not possible. It feels as if I will never know the feeling of him against me again. 

 

Stacks of books, some I've read, some I've never read, some I'm half through other's I'm only at the start are stacked up next to the bed. Books are loaded onto the small night table next to the bed. I have books I bought over 10 years ago but never started to read. I have books I bought weeks ago that I've read over and over.  There are books on my desk stacked up, piles of papers, documents wedged inbetween the pages like bookmarks of some sort.

Everything in my room is a mess. It mirrors what it's like inside my head. I don't want to get up at all. It's a chore to get up for work. I don't see the point of it all. I just feel like laying there and crying until there is nothing left in me. And that's what I do on my days off. I curl up in a ball, letting the sickness of either being on the pills or coming off the pills chew up my digestive tract while I watch depressing films. Interestingly enough, watching depressive films and shows make me feel okay. They don't depress me further. They make me feel less alone; someone feels the same way, they know what it's like to live like this.