I really need to delete my facebook, I guess. When I’m feeling manic and pop on just to be barraged by blatant racism, sexism and ignorance I want to bash mine (read: others’) heads in because how the hell could you still be so when you literally have the worlds largest wealth of knowledge at your damn fingertips? I usually don’t say anything because my loosening grip on coherency is amplified under the pressure of a real-time exchange.
But I won’t. I hoard in real life and I hoard online too; there is a goldmine of memories hidden in my conversational tabs and with how my hippocampus is going I can’t really afford to lose it. Or should I say, I don’t really want to. Need to find another time sink than passively observing such a promising study group.
During my last session, my psychologist inquired as to whether there was anyone else in my family with any sort of mood disorder, and I answered to the negative. Today I find my 29 year old sister pulled a knife on her (now ex) boyfriend, much like she did on her ex fiance during a heated argument.
Last time, her fiance called the police and she was admitted to a ward for two days - this time, her boyfriend contacted our eldest sister and asked for help (which among other things like a display of extreme trust); an act of kindness towards my kin. If he had brought the police into the matter, she would’ve had a record/another stint in a mental facility/possible probation if not straight jail time.
Maybe that would have been worth mentioning. Oh, not to mention another sister thinks it’d be best I stay with her for the time being until she sorts out her living situation and to be perfectly frank with you I’d be fearing for my life every moment in that household. We don’t have the best history.
I have absolutely been wanting to sit down and write my little heart out, but the fear always seems to set in before I can extort a word or two. I’ll see if this one makes it past the printing presses. It probably hasn’t even been that long since I last wrote in; however way it feels like an eternity to me. I’ve run out of MXE and very low on benzos, I haven’t been so close to total chemical deprivation for such a long time that it’s definitely left me slightly panicked and one minded. Coping mechanism, or something.
I saw my psychologist again recently, and he knows I haven’t improved one bit in the months that have passed. Despite this, he always ends the sessions telling me that I’m stable - and I guess I am stable and dependable in my mania and delusions and constant depression, but I’m not entirely sure it should be a focal point of praise - I’ll probably be thrown the rhetoric that “things could be worse”, but in a time where just about any situation one finds themselves in ‘could be worse’ it’s not much to be thankful for (nor does it help soothe any wounds).
I don’t know. He had an odd stature and expression when I came clean (ha) about some things that have been happening to me recently and I think if I continue to indulge like I probably should be doing about what’s been happening to me both inside and out I may be sent away. I guess I’ll find out in good time.
I’ve been all over the place lately. I should be seeing a psych or my GP at least again, maybe it’s time to come clean about my drug use? The failure of a huge hit of MXE straight to the muscles didn’t work out as intended last night and I got pissed, absolutely chugged days-old opium tea and enlisted my poor, amazing, unfortunately-tied-to-me boyfriend to cart me over to a friends place where I had a debt to pay. That aside, he was lovely and welcoming as ever…. After getting a little too high (considering the amount of opiates in my body), I sat still for a good hour hunched over eyes shut, on the nod. I’ve done this before, at least — I’ve had these feelings before, way back in a 24/7 hour diner deep in the city — and before I knew it, I stood up and blew chunks over his pretty hardwood floor.
It was repulsive. I am repulsive.
Amidst the “FUCK“‘s and the “SHIT“‘s they herded me to the bathroom to wash off my face and feet who had been caught in that bile/vile crossover. I’m a mess lately. Then with their aid, straight down the stairs and strapped into the car for a ride home. I feel terrible; funnily enough just as terrible as I felt before this all anyway. I remember him telling me to not smoke cigarettes (which I didn’t) because nicotine and opiates apparently don’t mix, but now I recall that he spins his weed with a good cigarette’s worth most of the time anyway. Was that it?
After I force this meal down my shrivelled throat (I’m three bites down and already full) I’ll probably shower and get back to lying down with all the regrets and mistakes I’ve ever made in my life as bedfellows. I need to find out what’s wrong with me… Despite this, all I want to do is get high again.