I went to this emergency psychiatric center last night. I was able to get a prescription for Zoloft which I can pick up today. Afterward, I tried calling and leaving a voicemail message for Bean updating her. I was so spacey and out of it that I couldn’t even continue speaking, I kept losing my train of thought, kept having to apologize, and ultimately ended up hanging up and having to call and finish the message later. Then later on when my partner came home, I couldn’t speak when she greeted me. And it wasn’t because I didn’t want to. I felt trapped inside my own body, watching helplessly as some other angry and shut down part stomped around and ignored all attempts at human contact by my partner.
However, today I’m starting to think that I’m fine. A-okay. Don’t need to go on any medication. I woke up feeling fine, happy, and more or less okay. How is it that right now is the only reality. It doesn’t matter that the last couple nights have been torturous and nightmarish. All that matters is that I’m feeling fine now, and therefore I’ll be fine forever. Maybe this is the curse (but also the blessing?) of a fragmented mind… A curse because when I’m in that hellish state, I tend to forget that I am okay, that will be okay, that I’ve been okay before. A blessing because when I’m feeling good, like right now for example, I forget any and all remnants of ever feeling bad. However, this makes it very hard to maintain a balanced, broad view of things. When things are rough with Bean, I tend to forget that things were ever good, that I ever trusted her, that I ever felt a connection to her. When things are good with Bean, I tend to forget that we ever had any problems, that she ever did anything to upset me, that there was any distrust there. I guess this is the black and white thinking that results from early childhood trauma? However, I tend to think that it’s more than just that. It’s more than a way of thinking -it’s a way of being. A way of operating in the world.
When I was younger, my dad would always grill me about my “goals.” What my goals were. Goals? What does that even mean? That word is meaningless to me. My life is about survival, first and foremost. Managing to stay alive, to stay sane, to stay afloat. Try to make connections. Try to have fun every now and again. When I hear people talk about their goals, what they want to accomplish, what they want to achieve, it’s as though they’re speaking in another language. For me it’s always been about getting through the day, and if I can do that, I’m happy. And if there can be some enjoyment along the way, even better.