("It" being "The Crazy." Or in this case, "The Cryptic." It probably won't make a damn lick of sense to you. Blah.)
It has not been a good week and a half.
My meds are being switched and my doses upped. I'm coming off one antidepressant so I can start a new one tomorrow. Hopefully one that will do a bloody damn thing. I'm doubling my dosage of the mood stabilizer that was already kicking my ass pretty convincingly. I'm "a little ball of nervous tics," as my doctor observed, and am preparing for "four to five days of feeling like total shit." (Also my doctor's eloquent words.) My head is buzzing, my limbs are trembling, I feel nauseous and tired and am this close to total nuclear meltdown at any given moment.
In the three days since I've been back from Miami, I've managed to wreak absolute havoc in my life and in the lives of several people I care deeply about. Feelings are hurt and wrists are bandaged and I am closer than ever to losing my tenuous grip on reality.
(And how are you? Jesus.)
Right now, I'm feeling an acute sense of loss. My skin is stinging with it and there's a scooped-out portion of my chest that I would very much like back. Decisions had to be made for the sake of my own diminishing sanity. Tough decisions. Smart decisions. Closing doors on certain relationships and refocusing energies on others.
One particular door was closed today and it was The Right Thing to do. On one hand, I feel hopeful. For the first time in awhile. Things will be okay and I will get better.
On the other hand...well, it kind of feels like the other hand was caught in the doorframe when the door slammed shut.
Why does doing The Right Thing have to hurt so damn much?