Note: Not edited – not even a little bit. From my fingers to your eyes.
Because I’m done and they are continuing to change, I feel disconnected – I feel like a burden on everyone around me. I feel like sharing anything with anyone is ultimately pointless because it won’t change anything – that there’s nothing they can do to help so why bother talking about it.
I’m getting so frustrated going to the headshrinker and not being able to say anything beyond “I don’t know”; sometimes I go blank but sometimes there are a million things I have to say. Sometimes I have an answer but I don’t feel safe saying anything, so words won’t formulate…then I come home and write about it. Terrible system. I’m wasting both of our time. Perhaps I don’t want anyone to find out how lonely/desperate/hopeless I actually am because I can’t anticipate what will happen if I admit it and that’s unacceptable.
But also because my hopelessness is growing, not decreasing. The extent to which I think my life is terminal is at a peak. So where do we go from here? You can’t conjure meaning and I don’t try particularly hard to seek it – I don’t even know if I want to. I might just want to find a nice ice floe and drift along.
Going to the endocrinologist tomorrow at the suggestion of the new psychiatrist – soon enough we’ll find out whether I’m truly and irreparably broken. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve always kept the brain tumor on a back burner partially because I simply don’t want to talk about it and/or acknowledge it, and partially because it’s my out – I can choose not to treat it and use it was my ice floe.
The new psychiatrist asked a fair amount of questions today about future-related things and I have no answers. Can I imagine having a job like I do now for the next 40ish years? Absolutely not. Can I picture anything further than six months into the future? No, I cannot. Because there’s nothing – ultimately nothing is going to change so what’s the point?
Yes, I know that others are going to tell me, “Come on, buddy, everyone has existential angst. You just pick yourself up by your bootstraps and actually engage with the world – it gets better!” But does it? Does it actually get better?
In concrete, less self-pitying news, the new psychiatrist put me on Lamictal. At this moment (decision subject to change), I want to use this as my last ditch med. If this doesn’t work, then I’m going to stop taking medication.