Slipping away

I'm slipping away, to where I don't know, but I can sense the fissures in my brain growing ever wider, ever deeper. It'd be interesting to compare the MRI I had done in 1991, prior to ever being diagnosed as mentally ill and before ever having taken any psychotropic meds, against an MRI of my brain today. I suspect there would be noticeable structural changes. Of course now that I have this worthless VNS implant, an MRI is out of the question, so that will never happen, but it would be interesting to see.

Yesterday was an extremely difficult day and while I made it through, I didn't make it through unscathed. It has become increasingly more difficult to leave the house, especially when I'm alone. Even going to familiar places, such as the grocery store or Target, ignites the anxiety and panic. Last week I only left the house on Monday to meet with my therapist and then on Saturday to do a little shopping with my daughter.

As much as I wanted to cancel my therapy appointment for yesterday, the fear of her calling 911 was too great, so I went. At some point while trying to get ready I must have dissociated because somehow I started running late. So on top of the anxiety of having to leave the house, my obsessiveness with needing to be places on time (more preferably, early) was causing even more distress.

Things continued to go downhill when my therapist became concerned by the vagueness of some of the answers I was giving to her questions and she said something about possibly having me admitted to the hospital. That put me on edge and drove the anxiety ever higher because I immediately thought of my last post. Started wondering if this was going to be one of those times where my perception of the conversation was completely different than hers. I tried to pay extra attention to everything she said and to every answer I gave. I know she was trying to trip me up, trying to get me to admit I'm a danger to myself, but I didn't let that happen.

When she asked if I'd be back next week, I was honest and said I didn't know. I told her that was too far in the future for me to worry about, that I need to concentrate on getting by one day at a time. She told me that if I needed to, I could go to the hospital, which I said wouldn't happen. Then she said I could call her office during the week if I needed to. I would never consider taking up her time outside of my appointments, something I think I've told her in the past, but I think she's hoping that I actually will call her. I think it's a trap.

Upset and panicking, I somehow managed to call my old pdoc after I got home and schedule an appointment. Whether or not I'll keep it remains to be seen because it's not until the 22nd. I was tempted to ask if they had anything sooner because I didn't know if I'd still be alive in three weeks, but I really, really do not want to go inpatient. I had wanted to try and call the other place about their outpatient program, but after making the call to the pdoc, the voices in my head got to berating me for being weak so I still haven't made that call.

By the way, yes, I am aware of the glaring contradictions in what I've written here and how some of this contradicts what I wrote in my last post. I'm aware that a lot of what I write is contradictory. That confusion is one of my biggest struggles. It's incredibly difficult to both know you're sick and yet not know at the same time. To know you're a danger to yourself, yet to also not think you are. I can't control it. I can't pick a side and say definitively, yes I'm sick or no I'm not, yes I need help or no I do not. For every thought, there's a voice in my head spouting off the opposite view. I don't know which to believe, so most of the time, I just shut down and let the voices battle back and forth. That's easier to do than deal with the unbearable anxiety created when I try to figure out which voice to listen to and follow. After all, they are all my own aren't they?