ColorlessTrees
Stuck
- Jan 4, 2022
- 261
I don't know why I'm posting this; it must be the erratic, careless euphoria hitting again. If you choose to comment, please be kind; I am vulnerable.
Living with my condition is like living half a life, exactly half with scary precision and predictability; the emotions are illusionary, spun from nothing but my brain's allergy to my own hormones. For two weeks, I am a passionate ball of sunshine, able to see the good in everything around me, inside me that I hate so, to push through my difficulties, to search then trek new paths. Sometimes I even succeed, but then comes the dip, at times with foreshadowing, at times all at once.
It is debilitating; stitches weave linearly and loosely in lines of hope, beckoning the thread towards recovery, but just when all has turned golden, the darkness returns, tearing through the seam I was sure I'd held together with steel. The thread abruptly moves back and back, until the opposite seam is nearly complete, but before I can cut the final end off of the knot, to finish off my necessary evil and free my soul, the crimson wave yanks away the scissors, tearing up my certainty in frantic euphoria. My hands rush to the next resource, the next project, the next reason I can surely make it in life.
But no matter if it's recovery or rope, I struggle with finality. I continue to begin, over and over again, until its crumbled by my own will; and no matter my failures, great and many, no matter my knowledge, my understanding, the primal emotions dance and deceive: it will always be euphoria, fear death; it will always be despair, crave death.
Alas such a half life isn't enough for this lost, naive little girl to make a decision.
Moral of the story, right now I'm bleeding, and this illness (PMDD) is a fucking monster. I'm exhausted every month, not only emotionally, but physically; one it's chronic suicidality peaking before the end of my cycle, and the next it's death anxiety of me, (and always my loved one) all the way through. My confidence teeters on a seesaw, coming down with a slam each time.
My head is a mess. I know who I am, and I know where I stand. When I can see through the bullshit, I know I have a good head on my shoulders; nobody can ever call me crazy enough to take that. But I also cannot cope with the barrage of mental fuckery, untangling when my feelings are real, and when I am just being a psycho bitch who would favor running away, crawling out of her skin, burning down the house. Knowing how irrational it all is, and that I would never act, but feeling it so intensely I want to.
Who is the real me? Where do I stop and illness begins? How am I supposed to function, to be who I wish to be, to contribute what I wish to contribute before I make my exit, with my ultimate intention to postpone that?
This is all such a jumble. My heart is pounding. The paranoia haunts me. And I feel utterly pathetic, trapped between hell, holding onto the ledge of earth for a glimpse of the last angels walking amongst its ground. I've seen them, I know them. I want to be one to walk amongst them.
Living with my condition is like living half a life, exactly half with scary precision and predictability; the emotions are illusionary, spun from nothing but my brain's allergy to my own hormones. For two weeks, I am a passionate ball of sunshine, able to see the good in everything around me, inside me that I hate so, to push through my difficulties, to search then trek new paths. Sometimes I even succeed, but then comes the dip, at times with foreshadowing, at times all at once.
It is debilitating; stitches weave linearly and loosely in lines of hope, beckoning the thread towards recovery, but just when all has turned golden, the darkness returns, tearing through the seam I was sure I'd held together with steel. The thread abruptly moves back and back, until the opposite seam is nearly complete, but before I can cut the final end off of the knot, to finish off my necessary evil and free my soul, the crimson wave yanks away the scissors, tearing up my certainty in frantic euphoria. My hands rush to the next resource, the next project, the next reason I can surely make it in life.
But no matter if it's recovery or rope, I struggle with finality. I continue to begin, over and over again, until its crumbled by my own will; and no matter my failures, great and many, no matter my knowledge, my understanding, the primal emotions dance and deceive: it will always be euphoria, fear death; it will always be despair, crave death.
Alas such a half life isn't enough for this lost, naive little girl to make a decision.
Moral of the story, right now I'm bleeding, and this illness (PMDD) is a fucking monster. I'm exhausted every month, not only emotionally, but physically; one it's chronic suicidality peaking before the end of my cycle, and the next it's death anxiety of me, (and always my loved one) all the way through. My confidence teeters on a seesaw, coming down with a slam each time.
My head is a mess. I know who I am, and I know where I stand. When I can see through the bullshit, I know I have a good head on my shoulders; nobody can ever call me crazy enough to take that. But I also cannot cope with the barrage of mental fuckery, untangling when my feelings are real, and when I am just being a psycho bitch who would favor running away, crawling out of her skin, burning down the house. Knowing how irrational it all is, and that I would never act, but feeling it so intensely I want to.
Who is the real me? Where do I stop and illness begins? How am I supposed to function, to be who I wish to be, to contribute what I wish to contribute before I make my exit, with my ultimate intention to postpone that?
This is all such a jumble. My heart is pounding. The paranoia haunts me. And I feel utterly pathetic, trapped between hell, holding onto the ledge of earth for a glimpse of the last angels walking amongst its ground. I've seen them, I know them. I want to be one to walk amongst them.
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