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