One day I’ll become easier to love.

I don’t know where to begin. It seems I only come here when my cup runneth over with sadness, fear, anxiety, and anger. I suppose it’s an outlet of sorts. A release that I no longer have in the real world. When is the last time I actually picked up a pen and put it to paper? I haven’t. Not in a very long time. I need to.

I have so many pent up thoughts, emotions, devastations. Maybe if I write them down, I can let go of them. I can start healing myself, repairing the broken pieces. Maybe I just need new glue. 

I find it hard to let people love me, for fear that they will suddenly stop. It has become tiring for my boyfriend to constantly reassure me that he does in fact love me. My brain fights me every step of the way. It plants seeds of doubt in every corner of my mind. “He doesn’t love you. He is only with you for comfort, for safety.” “It’s not true! I am worthy! I love him and he loves me!” I always fight back angrily and try to win. I seldom ever do.

I guess I’m writing this because it’s been bottled in my mind for so long and this is the only way I know how to get it out. It’s much easier to type this, than to write it on paper. One day I might be able to be perfectly normal. To live without sadness or anger. To live without fear or anxiety.

One day I might become easier to love.

Today is not that day.

Anxiety medication with the threat of a therapist.

Wow. It’s been quite some time since I have actually written something on this blog, and for that I am sorry. I do know that there are a few people who actually enjoy what I do write so maybe I will give you something to read tonight.

Let me tell you a story. Since I was about 15 years old I have been a depressed kid. My mother will argue with you and tell you it begin much sooner than that, but we will stick with 15. I can’t really remember anything before that age anyway. The depression got out of hand for my parents so eventually I was made to see a Doctor who then prescribed a medication that made me ill. That didn’t work out for me. I wasn’t going to wake up every morning feeling like dog shit because they wanted some chemically engineered medicine to fix the chemicals that were fucked up in my body. No siree. So I stopped taking them. I worked through my shit like everyone should. I had my outlets. I would write, or colour, or sleep copious amounts of time. Mostly sleep. I was just your normal, average kid battling what most ordinary kids go through.

My parents had filed bankruptcy. I was uprooted from my childhood home and moved to a strange place where I didn’t know anyone. For the entire year that I was 15 I was homeschooled so that I could take care of my dad who had major surgery and couldn’t help himself. That could cause depression, right? I was isolated. I don’t blame my parents at all. I am sure at the time I was a rebellious asshole who thought they knew everything but I don’t blame them now. I can see why they did it and I am thankful. I met some wonderful people and ended up being a pretty ok teenager.

I am 25 now. For some odd reason, after highschool, I became a nervous wreck. Now I don’t really discuss any of this so I really don’t know why I am telling you now. Oh wait…it’s because I work better telling my feelings to blank page rather than a person. That’s says a lot about my personality. My anxiety skyrocketed. It hurt to go out sometimes. It would make me physically ill to meet someone somewhere and if I did, they had to meet me outside. I couldn’t just walk into a crowd of people I didn’t know by myself. At night it got worse. My mind would overflow with irrational fears. Stuff I had never worried about before. It came to the point where my sleeping was deprived because I couldn’t get my mind t ever slow down.

Work could be a disaster. I would get a sudden tightness in my chest, break out into a sweat and I would just want to cry for no justifiable reason. People would ask me what was wrong and I never had an answer. After it passed, I would be exhausted and when I was able to, I would sleep for hours just to regain strength to do it all over again.

People told me to see a Doctor. My mom suggested it multiple times but I was determined to not fog my mind or body with drugs that altered my mood. Alcohol was one thing, drugs were another. Alcohol never really helped anyway, unless I got so drunk that I just passed out. If anything, it made it worse.

So a month ago, I decided to see a Doctor. I decided to tell her how I felt. A Doctor that I trust and adore. I have never had that kind of feeling for a person in the medical field. I am terrified of Doctors so it took a lot for me to even talk to her. She put me on a medication that makes me so sleepy. I can’t take it at work, I can only really take it at night or on my days off. I have peaceful dreamless sleep and it actually has helped me tremendously. I go back for a follow up on Friday. She told me if she doesn’t really hear any progress that she is going to put me on a SSRI and send me to a therapist. I don’t want that, but I kinda do. Maybe I just need someone with an outside perspective. Maybe I need to stop whining.

Maybe I should just keep writing. It’s the best therapist I’ve ever had.