A Face to Face

A lot has happened since the last time I checked in here. Man, that last post was weird. It was random, just had to post it cos I felt like I had to. Anyway…

I decided to get off the Risperidone. It had undesirable effects on my thought processes and thinking. “Undesirable” being an understatement. I felt like I was really losing my sanity. Like whatever grip I had to it was mere inches. It got bad. Really bad. Had to have a friend sleep over in case I do something stupid or lose my shit completely.

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I Don’t God Damned Know

I’m not okay. That’s something I have to say. Acknowledge. Lest I start burying things, thoughts, again. The new meds I’m on makes me feel odd. Less sane.

Risperidone. .5mg for my stuttering. Haven’t been on it for long. Six days. Not enough to feel the effects. Enough to feel the side-effects.

I’m on a strange headspace right now. Even my body feels strange. Foreign. I currently have goosebumps. I’m twitchy. Uneasy. Body’s on auto-pilot. Almost zombie like. Same side-effects I had when I started Escitalopram. I should maybe lay off the Americano.

I was on the verge of another breakdown a couple of nights ago. I set up my tripod and camera to photograph my spiral. Self-portraits. Documenting the insanity. It has come to this. Felt a little bit better afterwards. Who knew selfies could actually save lives?

I miss her. Being around her keeps me sane. In the two days we were together while I was on Risperidone, I felt saner even though I was feeling the side-effects. I felt uneasy, but a bit calmer than without her. Felt like I could make it.

I make it without her. Obviously. But I sometimes feel like I’m deviating from my path. Like I’m losing my mind. Especially when I’m outdoors.

I should stop. Should I stop? Meds can be dangerous, especially when your body is still adjusting to it. But when it finally does what it’s supposed to do, life gets better. I get better. My speech would get better.

But at what cost? I should stay indoors for the time being. Lock myself in my room where it’s safe.

Locking myself in my room…locking myself inside my mind.

Universe, help me.

Six Months On…

We had a massive junk clearing in our house a couple of years back. We were segregating old things we might still have use for or old stuff that’s still of importance and stuff that’s to be thrown away or donated to charity. I found an old folder containing documents that once belonged to my mom. Nothing important – old bank checks and medical documents from when she was rushed to Makati Med for God knows what reason – but I kept it anyway for reasons that weren’t clear to me back then.

This was a couple of years ago when I was still trapped in my own little world. I barely read the contents. Did an obligatory glance, then kept them hidden behind my safe (it didn’t fit inside my safe.) And then it was forgotten. I only remembered the existence of documents a couple of months ago when I started to work on my oh so obvious mommy issues. Heh, but I don’t see it as that. I see it as me wanting to know where I came from. It’s me getting to know the benefactor of my mental illness. It’s me getting to know my mother on a personal level. I still have a lot of questions that may be left unanswered, but I gotta work with what I have.

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I’m Still Here

I’m still alive.

 

A couple of days ago, I suddenly wondered if the followers of this blog (who are not my friends on Facebook or Twitter) think that I’ve done something drastic, like, ya know, kill myself. I have been writing about clinical depression and have suicidal tendencies, after all.

I’ve been meaning to post something since the two and a half week absence. A couple of somethings, actually. I never get to finish what I write. Either I suddenly get anxiety attacks or my mind’s too preoccupied with absolutely everything. I’m at that stage of my treatment where I’m feeling everything again. Even the smallest of things affect me now. I get these wild mood swings that comes out of nowhere.

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The Bravest Thing That You Can Do

“I’ll be honest and say that at first I was shocked and confused as to how you could post things that are supposedly just for you like things about anxiety and depression.”
That was among the contents of a message I received the day after my last breakdown. It was the first sentence, actually. I dialed in on that sentence for a while. I had to understand it. I had to digest it. Analyze it. The sentence that came after stated that the sender did realize how I could do such a thing, how I can be so open about my anxiety and depression to others.
I read the whole message and went back to that first sentence. I kept rereading it like it was a mathematical equation that I was trying to decipher.
“…supposedly just for you…”

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The Aftermath of 3/24/2016’s Battle

It happened again last night. A couple of friends were over. I was with someone who makes me truly happy and calm. I was having fun and enjoying life. We were drinking and just making the most of the time we shared.

I had to leave the festivities for a bit for the saddest part of the night: driving the girl I like to her house. Didn’t want to let go of her hand, but I had to.

I came back to the friends I had over, to the alcohol that was for us, and continued drinking. It was a perfect night. Until they all went home and I was left alone to ponder on what was said to me by one of them.

That’s when it all spiraled again.

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Providence & New Ghosts

I say this with no confirmation as getting it would be impossible at this point, but my mother may have passed her mental health issue on to me. Genetics play a crucial factor in our wellbeing. That’s a scientific fact. Heart issues run in my father’s side of the family. I have one. Nothing major, but it’s there. On my mother’s side, well, that’s one where nothing can ever be known. My mother’s family is a black hole to me, unfortunately.

After my mother’s funeral, her whole family cut ties with us. I don’t know why, but I can speculate. Her sister, whom I assume she was close with, blames my father for my mother’s suicide. We’ve tried reaching out the only way we can: by leaving our contact info to the caretaker of the Marcelo mausoleum to give to the Aunt that is a stranger to me. I may have passed her, or anyone from my mother’s family, on the street and I’d never know it.

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