I've been reading on the interwebs and what I'm experiencing is indeed depression. the feeling of being totally disconnected and numb. I didn't know that was a depression symptom, I've been blaming it on the Seroquel. But it seems I may need more Cymbalta.
My psychosis is really under control. I haven't flown into a rage in a while. The hallucinations are all but spectres. The voices are quiet. And I've stopped rocking back and forth all the time. So the Seroquel is right on. Working the way it should.
It's this depression that has me in its grip. Like a giant with me in his fist. Squeezing and squeezing. He squeezed me right out of my body. I've spent the last few months sitting on the chair in the corner of the dining room watching me exist. People have been talking of asking me how I live with my illness. And I've given it a lot of thought, I don't. I survive with it. I am still very much in its clutches. And at its mercy.
When I see my doctor next month, I will address these things and see what he has to say about it. It's not a despair kind of thing, just a don't give two shits kind of thing.
The validation I need to know I'm still alive and real, I've been getting from Twitter. Mostly by being a smart ass. Because otherwise, I feel like I've stopped being. and that is a desperate feeling. If my hands aren't on the keyboard, am I really here?
No thoughts of hurting myself. The epiphany I had this summer about my scars and people judging me when they see them has put me off making any more. I've, over the years, branded myself a crazy person. Tattoos of desperation with raggedy edges.