Mental Illness Is a Thief.

I canceled all engagements for the week, including the party I was to attend with my fiancé’s girlfriend (we are polyamorous) while he is out-of-town.  She may not understand.  I don’t care.  I accidentally got high on Clonidine, which my new psychiatrist prescribed to help with debilitating withdrawal symptoms from an anti-depressant.  Although, the withdrawal feels more like something that comes with opiate (i.e. heroin) withdrawal.  Not that I know personally, but I saw it often during my time as a substance abuse counselor.  I am unable – emotionally and mentally – to cook my standard eggs and croissants for breakfast.  I am unable to take care of my dog (although people are helping me).  I am unable to clean my house.  I am unable to do anything.  My fiancé emails the head of a volunteer committee I am on – because I am unable to clearly form the words or I don’t have the energy to do so – to write her and explain why I am missing committee meetings.

I am drowning.

I vape and listen to the same album on a loop (“Out in the Storm,” by Waxahatchee).  I am still not tired of it after nearly a week.  When I get tired of it for the moment, I listen to Cat Power’s “The Greatest” album one time, and then switch back.

The worst part is, I am getting married in 33 days, and I don’t have the ability to feel excited about it.  Or happy.  Or sometimes, feel anything at all.

Mental illness is like a thief; it steals from you.  It is the thief in the darkness of the moonless night, sneaking in and overtaking your brain.  It hijacks my happiness and banishes it. It breathes white-hot despair into my soul.  Mental illness is a thief.

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked…”

-“Howl,” Allen Ginsberg


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