Here We Go Again…







I’ve entered outpatient treatment again for my depression.  I’m having trouble sleeping  (last night I woke up every hour) and I can’t focus on things I have to do, like housework.  I’ve had real difficulty remembering to take my medicines, which just exacerbates things.  Right now, I’m feeling like not much will help aside from me just pulling myself out of all this.  But I don’t know how to do that on my own.  I’ve decided to chart out all my symptoms and find coping skills that will work for each of them, something physical I can pull out and look at when I’m feeling lost within myself.  Maybe that will be a start.

Some days I feel like I’d just be better off institutionalized.  I’m more comfy in the hospital setting anyway.  Just give me a magic marker and a piece of paper and I’m happy as a little lark.

But for now, I’ll do my best to maintain my routine.  And go to group.  And go to church.  And pick the boys up from school.

I know part of what I’m struggling with is establishing an identity for myself that’s separate from my work identity.  I was used to identifying myself as an employee of Such and Such or as a Mom or as a Wife or whatever.  And I am still a wife and mother.  But my identity is much bigger than that and I know that.  Maybe none of it matters.  I’m a creative human being.  That’s starting to become enough.  Not quite, but it’s a start.

They reminded me that I was diagnosed with PTSD a year and a half ago.  I’ve pretty much stopped identifying myself with that diagnosis when I talk about my illness because it feels irrelevant.  What does PTSD mean?  I’ve been through some s**t.  What’s to be done about it?  Nothing now.  Depending on the therapist I talk to, some say my memories must be skewed.  And I don’t even know what exactly they diagnosed me as having PTSD based on.  The mindless rambling from my inpatient fit-weekend?  I vaguely remember what I was babbling on about and I have no conscious memory of those events occurring.  I’ve expressed as much to all my professionals and they shrug me off.  My main pdoc says it’s like asking someone who’s been to battle to recall the names of the people they hurt in battle.  I suppose I should talk to the doc but I don’t have the energy.  Not that curious.

I just want to be able to have a good full night’s sleep.  I want to eat relatively balanced diet with little sugar indulgence.  I want to have a regular exercise routine.  I want time to journal.  I want time to play with my kids, time to play with my pets.  I want some little structured time to do what I have to do chore-wise around the house and I want to have time to do other self-care things besides journaling, like my artwork.

For now, I struggle and just sit in the recliner most of the time.  Sometimes I cry, but mostly I just sit around and remember things I have no business focusing on.  The past is dead everywhere but in my mind.  My mind, though, is like a living museum to my past.  I haven’t forgotten a thing.  I re-live it every day.

Whatever.  As if it matters.

There’s anger.  There’s sadness.  There’s quiet desperation.  Because at least where I would have it, there’s no resolution.  I did ask for an apology.  I don’t even want punishment for the man.  Just a simple apology.  He’s not even human enough for that.

So I backtrack.  The silence makes me re-think myself.  I find myself apologizing, anything to make the silence go away.

Closure is a dream that never comes.




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