Lost Mind, Lost Soul: A Diary Of a Sickness (Pt. 4)

‘I was hoping I’d be doing better by now.’

That is my most recurrent thought. It’s been more than 3 months, but every apparent sign of me getting better was just a moment in a fluctuation, or so it seems.

Or maybe it wasn’t, and I’m just seeing everything negatively because I had different expectations. To be honest, I feel a little bit better. Sure, I have not been able to spend 24 hours by myself, but I also never had to take psych drugs again, no matter how sick I felt.

What really bothers me, I guess, is that I was hoping I could use my recovery time differently. Maybe I had underestimated what the concept of recovery implied. I was hoping I could read, study, write, publish reviews and essays, explore my opinions and ideas, and a lot more. Basically, I think I was hoping to be sane and with a lot of time on my hands. Unfortunately, my issue is deeply linked to the same things that I’d like to be doing.

So, I have to spend my days doing all those things I had always hoped to completely erase from my possibilities. It feels like I’m slowly poisoning myself and all I ever believed in. Every day, I need to entertain myself with something mindless, that would just not let me think, because if I think things start to go badly again. And every time I read that “entertain”, it seems to me like it means that I need to be numbing myself down. Anaesthesia. Videogames are my psych drug, I’m already high and taking my full dose of meds, killing my brain cells and my personality by the minute.

Surely, I always strive for a compromise, for the best within my limits. Every time I feel good enough for it, I start reading again, and my videogame choice always tries to include something intelligent. But I’d lie if I said I didn’t feel bad about myself. I would not befriend myself if I saw my own Steam profile, and I simply despise the thought of acting like I am; I despise who I am becoming, even though I can’t seem to do anything different.

My psychologist made me notice how my anxiety conveniently gets a lot worse every time I start planning to do something concrete, every time I try to cross something off my To-do list, rendering me unable to do those things. I know it now, and I have stopped trying for now, but the length of this “for now” scares me. I don’t want it to be another excuse that I’ll keep repeating over and over again.

Some days I feel so stuck, I lose all hope and I just want to kill myself.
My life right now isn’t worth living. I’m only still alive because I hope in a better future.