I'm beginning to understand what it means to be a prisoner of my own mind, at least for me. I'm so very lost. Think of death daily, frightened, want help but no idea what help looks like. Mostly I just want to talk and talk and talk and empty everything out. No drugs right now, weird pain and aching joints, quasi-manageable with Advil but oh so odd. Showed up when i weaned off clonazepam. So a lengthy withdrawal? Did some blood work, first go around showed. Slightly elevated marker(s) for inflammation, my GP looking into fibro, rheumatoid arthritis, asked about bruising (leukaemia) but maybe my body is just brimming with untold stories. I want to talk but no one seems to want to listen, don't blame them, not exactly scintillating stories. Just how many times a heart can be broken. That Sherlock movie where the woman completed suicide because she had no place to put her love, and that was grief. I relate to this, I have love to give or did, now it feels rancid, poisonous. I have no interest in anything, early laugh, no motivation, f to l fear, not. Sl is ping much or well. Saw the ECT psychiatrist this past week, at first was interested but then I though him glib, then read stories of ECT and brain damage. Argh.
Fired the 1st acupuncturist, so many levels of unprofessional. Hurt me several times.
Am I beyond help? Hope is trying to leave, although at times it feels it has left. I'm fading. It's so weird yet familiar and I'm feeling angry and despair and desperate, I want me back but was I ever here?
Diez anos - I had just finished bathing, standing before the steamed-up mirror brushing my hair when it hit me: the fetus inside the belly of one of the sisters whose li...
4 months ago