Oh, but the seas are rough, my friends

Saving castaways

I don’t feel well.

If I were the person I was several years ago, I would stop taking the Kayoed and tell my doctor I was still taking it. I feel that bad on it.

But the thing is, I have bright spots in the day when I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Everything’s in order. I can keep it together. Nobody knows. It’s all an elaborate system of straps and pulleys, making it appear as if I have it together. Sooner or later I’ll move my arm a little too fast to the right and it all comes crashing down in a heap of tears and scaffolding at my desk. It will take me an hour to pick my way out of it, and another hour to make myself presentable.

I think I’m decompensating on it. The Kayoed, I mean. Oh, is it clear that I don’t want to tell you what I’m on out of shame? Because I don’t. I don’t want you to know because I fear you’ll judge me. Because it’s a drug that’s a little more than Prozac. So I make up names for them. This one, it means I’m back to sleeping for twelve hours a night, so I’m KO’d (knocked out, if you never played Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out). If that wasn’t clear. I feel I’m not connecting well with the humans any more. I feel I say nothing right and do everything wrong.

Yeah, it’s a rough day.

If I can just make it to Friday. Friday, when I see the head doctor. Who will probably increase my dosage, because that’s how it usually goes. I feel terrible on a medicine, so she makes me take more of it. (Drink more, it’ll reverse the effects! I know that game, Doctor. It ends with me vomiting in someone’s car. Or in someone’s bed. Or–never mind, we don’t have time for me to name the places I’ve vomited.) Not every doctor did this to me. But most of them do. Most of them don’t listen to me. Understandably, I’m a little wary of them and don’t trust them. My first doctor who got me stable took me off of things I didn’t do well on. I don’t know why they don’t all do that. But I’m not a doctor. It’s not up to me. I must resign myself to the process.

The process fucking sucks. I am tired of the process. I don’t have a lot of choice in the matter.

Choices:

  • The process of pills
  • Going crazy
  • ???
  • Profit!

Well, I don’t know about the last two.

I feel like I’ve been here so often the past year or three. Like it’s never going to change. I am so tired of being sick. I don’t want to be an emotional cripple, always so moody and vulnerable, likely to break into tears five times a day.

I am worn the fuck out. If you see my disorder, tell it I hate it. Yes, I know it makes me who I am, but I am tired of that today, too.

Fine: you’re curious? I’m only telling nine people. Schizoaffective disorder. (Ah, you thought I was bipolar, didn’t you? I am, sorta. Muy caliente.) Look it up, if you want to. I hope you’re still here tomorrow after you have.

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