Lost Mind, Lost Soul: A Diary of a Sickness (Pt. 2)

I haven’t kept my word with this diary. I haven’t been very constant. At all. Almost 3 weeks after I said I would keep a diary, I’m here writing the second page. But, the diary is not the only thing I should have done and haven’t. There’s a lot of confusion in my days and in my mind, a lot of dis-order. I can’t even express myself in words, I can’t vent with someone, I can’t confess my thoughts: it’s all too tangled up, blurred, hard to name, difficult to organize. I often disappoint my own resolutions, even in small, simple things, and I’ve mostly been escaping from all the depression, as well as escaping the awareness that I’m escaping. I’m that good.

The depression is one half of my days, the other one being anxiety. And of course there’s the emptiness from escaping both.

I started off with a lot of constant anxiety, but that numbed down little by little, day by day, for lack of external stimuli. I have anxiety attacks, when something triggers them, but otherwise my days are fine, and I haven’t felt so bad as to need psych drugs again. Luckily.

As anxiety subdued, the latent depression came up, bigger than ever. No motivation to do anything, just sadness, videogames, all that escapism I hate, and the guilt for allowing myself that with the reason (excuse?) that it wouldn’t be a good moment to pressure myself. But my depression runs a lot deeper than that, I can tell. Or, to be exact, I can feel it, but I can’t tell it. There’s a few things I could list (guilt, sense of losing my place, my future, sense of failure for giving up etc) but somehow it feels like I’m always slightly missing the mark, as if I couldn’t find the right name for the elephant in the room, only some of its body parts.

My personal progresses, so to speak, have been halted too, and indefinitely so. I can’t progress down the transgender road with very little time and space for myself, and even less so if I can’t ask for almost any money from my father because the psychologist is already a big weight on our finances. That’s surely affecting me as well, my thoughts keep going back to that, even more often than usual.

Not all days have been so totally flat-lining. At random times I felt some sort of motivation, some desire to work to get better, some will to do something. But, every night I have nightmares, and every day has a bad start, leaving me feeling like I already have something to make up for the moment I wake up. Sometimes I remember the dreams and sometimes I don’t; I‘m afraid my idea of the mechanism of repression and forgetfulness concerning dreams is too simple, but it does seem to make sense of why the days I remember my nightmares seem to be a bit better than the others. Still, even if I go to bed with some kind of energy, it’s always gone in the morning, and I have to start again. I have to start again with nothing in my hands, not even that small will to start again, and fight again.

One of my objectives for the next few days is to make order in my days, find a new routine, so that hopefully my mind will get clearer too. Obviously, writing more of this should help too.


Lost Mind, Lost Soul: A Diary of a Sickness (Pt. 1)

Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I was given a psych drug. Delorazepam. I needed it. I wouldn’t stop crying. I had to spend the afternoon at someone else’s house, as a guest, because mine scared me and I couldn’t stay there by myself. I was supposed to be given Alprazolam, but we had that one handy. Now I’ve got a small phial of Alprazolam on my bedside.

Just two weeks ago I was at university, with the perspective of studying, working, doing my exams, finishing my second year, and spending the summer making a better me out of myself, getting nearer to gender transition, studying, writing, playing. I had all sorts of plans. Now, different country, different home, and a future that has been erased. I’ve done a few questionnaires and seen a few doctors. I always try to be calm, collaborative, lucid, so that I can tell them properly, explain everything and be helped appropriately. But that only makes them think I’m not feeling so bad after all.

In the questionnaires, I write that sometimes I think about killing myself. I hadn’t seriously felt like that in a long time, but they think it’s a symptom, something to be cured along with the rest. (I wonder if maybe they think I’m making it up, exaggerating, asking for attention.) It’s not. It’s not a symptom, it’s a legitimate thought, it’s what I’d have told someone in my position, if you asked me 3 months ago or a year ago. I’m deprived of all that makes me “me”, unable to study or do anything meaningful. I don’t spend my time “doing”, I spend my time avoiding certain thoughts, distracting myself from my sickness and waiting to be cured. My heart, my mind, they have to be numbed, or it’s torture, it’s impossible to live. I hate people like that, and I can only hope that it’s temporary, that i will get better. Otherwise, it’s not worth living.

I’m terrified of psych meds for the same reason. With Benzodiazepines, there’s a risk of permanent cognitive impairment. I really don’t want to use them, and at the same time, I feel like I don’t have a choice. I can’t live like this, and I don’t want to live numbed down. I’ve started psychotherapy today, and I hope that works. But I’m so scared it won’t, I’m scared I’m hopeless and nothing will make this better. Because I’ve had a counsellor for a year, and it took me 3 days to end up so badly I basically dropped out of uni, left everything and came back here, at my father’s home.

My sickness is a phobia. A phobia of insects. And from those, there’s not really a safe place, if my mind decides it’s not safe. Sometimes I realize how stupid it is, how ridiculous I must look at times. Not that these thoughts help making the phobia go away at all; but I understand how deeply can people not understand.

I’m not sure why I’m writing this. I’m doing because I want to write it, because I hope writing will ease my mind, or even make some order. Maybe I want to make something good out of this hopelessness, leave a (last?) trace. I can’t really hope to be helpful for anyone, even though I wish I did. Perhaps because I hope someone will read it, and think I’m not as horrible as I think I am.

(I swear, I tried my best to try my best. And yet, I still feel like I haven’t tried hard enough)