I find myself on another blank page, wishing it to be darker than it is as even with the screen brightness turned down it sears into my eyes. Part of me wanted only to write in my Worthless document to escape whatever distractions I would be poking at on my phone in bed until the sun rises, but it feels inadequate.
Worthless is a reflection upon myself, a document started to work through the worst and relieve the pain in an outlet that was not physically harmful. Later it was contrasted with Worthy, although considering my current state of mind, Worthy is very, very far from the correct place.
So here we wait.
Before getting up I sat in bed, elbows buried into my thighs, hands clasped, pressing my knuckles into my forehead, then my chin. Phone games felt inadequate. Distracting videos felt pointless. I would waste two hours and then accept that reaching for medication would be the route taken. Felt it easier to move toward the medication, open the laptop back up, maybe write.
The series of losses started in late 2014. Somehow it feels like nothing and everything to say it was 7 years ago. Only 7 years ago. A whopping 7 years ago. There may have been one or two exceptions, although the first of the years was traumatic in other ways, and memory does not serve well enough to know for sure if the second one really didn’t have a loss in it. It does not get easier when one does not have the time to truly process the loss, the events, the trauma.
I was sitting here, although perhaps in a different chair, when I recall telling myself that things would only get worse. It was late 2018, and there is little I loathe more than being right about something so terrible. Everything had come down to one of two options: remove myself from the planet, or try to seek help. Something pulled me toward the latter, although at that point I was unaware of how beneficial it would be. Many things that frightened me ended up insignificant — worrying over nothing.
In a sense, the perpetual worry puts those of us with anxiety into a place where, when things begin to go awry, we can step into a level-headed position. We have prepared, constantly, to be able to take the mantle and lead ourselves into safety. Alongside an increase in energy to accomplish menial tasks, it is one of the only benefits of this never-ending anxiety.
So what, then, does one do when no action can be taken? When we worry over something very real?
In my case, and the case of an immediate family member, we have found what little solace we can in the use of medication. There is hardly anything else to be done, when nothing can be done on our ends. We clean, find an entire 13 gallons of garbage to throw out, we organize, reorganize, clean the floor, finish the floor, clean the floor, finish the floor… and we medicate.
They pray. I do not. I find no worth in talking to an entity I have no personal connection to. Some part of me finds a realm beyond our own believable, that connections can be ridden by our brains to others. I talk, instead, to the one I am terrified of losing. I beg. Hold on. You do not want this to end, I am not ready, I am terrified and I just want you to hold on. Even selfishly, please hold on for me. We have more memories to make, more time to spend. Please.
Desperation has set in. Pleading, bargaining. Grief merely while existing through the trauma, although I am too far away to experience how truly terrible it is firsthand.
Hold on for her. She already lost her dad, she cannot handle this right now. I want more time with both of you together, as the last time lives fondly in my brain as an excellent experience that was only far too short.
In part, my current status is driven by hormones. Amplifying anxiety and depression, the beast sits on me as I remove the distractions and bury myself in a nest of blankets and pillows to succumb to the realm of half-death. This, knowing that dreams are regularly nightmares, provides some degree of respite from the information spit out in reality.
I medicate. We wait for it to take me.
This is done again, as it was done last time. I have spent time counting my pills to determine how many I could take within a certain time-frame before the next refill. Given circumstances, it could be possible to get more, or at least a substitute, were I to run out. Granted, given circumstances, perhaps they will be unnecessary again until the next time my body decides to turn on itself.
I sit here in a very similar mindset to the one from 2018. The suffering could certainly be drawn to a close, but that is not the correct route. I am needed, so I must get healthier. I must build up the strength to carry others on my shoulders when necessary, and it may become so. This feeling is temporary, whereas the pain inflicted on others by potentially ending myself is perpetual and terrible. I could not do that to anyone. The reptiles won’t mind tremendously, although now it is becoming foolish to think they do not have preferred people, that they do not bond in some way. All mammals, however, will feel it. I just cannot do that.
While there was a very clear path to take in 2018, there is not one now. Even that is arguable, as there are a number of ways to help, or to seek help. Some are halted by lack of funding, others only have an internal barrier. I filled one trash bag, there is little stopping me from filling another, although now is not the time for that. Oddly, it seems as though very little has actually been done.
It has not been long enough, but clarity and focus are disappearing.
My heart is heavy and wounded. It, too, must be strengthened. I will have to take the physical now, as the metaphorical seems just out of reach.
As that idea fades into the void, so does everything else. I must retire.
