I can’t sleep.
Citalopram is a bastard of a drug.
One minute I’m feeling fine. Happy. I can’t even remember why I am upset. I feel numb with happiness. I can’t stop laughing and smiling But then when I’m alone, it all comes flooding back. The guilt, the fear, the anxiety, the sadness. I gave myself a panic attack about an hour ago because I was scared I would forget to put the right shoes on tomorrow. That’s not ok. That’s not a way to live.
I need to calm down, my whole body is constantly tense and now my forearms are starting to ache as well as my back and shoulders. It’s making it difficult to move, difficult to work, difficult to concentrate.
I’m lying in bed crying. I’m crying for a few reasons. I just reread a post I have written that I am saving because it’s a difficult one for me to post, but also because I’m not sure my blog is the best place for it. But also because I feel guilty. I am rewinding the year in my head and I feel like a fake. I feel I have lied to the people I spend most of my time with. The people I work with, my family, my extended circle of friends. I have told everyone I am ok. And I’m not. I’m really not ok.
I can’t describe how I’m feeling right now. Between the self hatred and the conversation rehearsal going on in my head that voice is back. The one that tells me I don’t deserve to be here, the one that tells me people say things to wash their hands of the guilt they feel for not being able to make me ok. But the problem is, this voice doesn’t belong to anyone else, its not a schizophrenic voice. It’s my voice. It’s me, telling me that I don’t deserve it.
There is a meeting at work later today, I’m not worried, I’m not nervous. I’m not opposed to standing up and telling everyone who works there about my year.
You see, a year ago today I graduated. And if anything I am feeling disillusioned. I am content with my choices. I realised this year that you can’t always be the superhero sometimes you have to be the bystander, the damsel in distress. It’s ok to need to be saved. I can say that, I know it’s the truth. I would tell anyone else that and mean it 100% but not me. Not for me. I have to help people to validate my existence. I can’t be saved because I’m too busy saving others. Too busy grasping at all of the edges desperately dragging them back together as they float apart. I’m being dragged in various directions. I’m being ripped apart by my own brain.
I started this week with an inability to write. But I should have realised that inspiration would hit eventually. It’s the Citalopram. It takes away my creativity and I don’t want to take it. I keep stopping and starting. I haven’t gone up to 40mg yet. I’m grasping at my creativity like I’m on the edge of a cliff. If I take those pills I fall to my creative death. But. Surely the loss of my creativity would make me depressed? Maybe I just need to let the pills settle.
I can’t sleep. I’m not tired. I just want to write, but happiness writes white and that is no good for me. It’s not that I don’t want to be happy. I just don’t want to lose myself. I’m scared I’m losing myself. Maybe it’s just Christmas. Christmas is something I spend a lot of time looking forward to. I can be the saddest grumpiest person all year, but the minute Christmas is in the air I am the human personification of Christmas spirit.
Of course January always crushes me. January is a hard time for me. I hate January. But January is still two months away.
The Elephant in the Room