I'm supposed to be working, but I'm having a hard time working up any drive to do so. In fact, the last few weeks, working up energy to do much of anything has been ... let's say difficult.
One of those things most people don't understand about BPD2 is it's a paralyzer. There are days — even with proper medication and talking doctors — when getting out of bed is an agony most people would not be able to take. They're an extreme minority, but they still happen, and there's really not a damn thing you can do about it except breathe in, breathe out and move on.
My lowest point was before I finally decided I needed help. I couldn't get out of bed. Absolutely refused. I couldn't face the thought of going in to work. I'd been building toward that day for weeks and it was the day my wife decided enough was enough. She pushed me into the car and drove me to the psychiatric ward at one of the local hospitals where I spent a week off of the world trying to find out what the hell was wrong with me.
Since then, it's been years of changing drug cocktails to get the combination that'll work "this time" (I go in for another visit in a week, and it's probably time to adjust my dosage again.). Eight talking doctors later, I'm in a "good" place for the most part. The last one released me, but reminded me I might need more therapy in the future.
I'm looking at a pile of press releases that I'll take back to the office this afternoon (I'm in the unsupervised Granville office this morning, which is the only way I'm getting away with this.) and type to keep busy.
I've mentioned before, but I'm certain I'll repeat often, the worst of this is people tend to look down on people with a mental illness (I refuse to call it a challenge. A challenge means you can beat it. This is not something that can be beat; only met.). Somehow, a mental problem is "our fault." It's a defect that makes us "inferior" and "unfit for inclusion in human society." Apparently, mental illness is the modern-day version of leprosy.
A note to the rest of humanity: I'm sorry if I don't fit your idea of "normal." I apologize for the fact I can still function in society well enough that I can still have a job you think you deserve because you're "normal" (although often, if our employer finds out we're "damaged goods," we may not keep that job, as some excuse will be manufactured for sacking us. It does happen, and proving it's because of our illness is tough, especially since doing so opens us up to further ostracization because it's then publicly known you're "damaged goods," and if your attempts to get your job back are unsuccessful, then you've given other employers a reason to be creative in their way of denying you a job. Yes, it happens — may Lee Studstill rot in the flames of Hell.).
More news for the people who don't like the way I am: I don't either. If I could wake up tomorrow, lop off my left arm and therefore be free of the drugs, the therapy, the days when I can't stand life (or myself) and the crippling depression and highs that come with BPD2, I'd grab a rusty dull half-inch pocketknife and gleefully saw away. But it doesn't work that way.
Today (and possibly for the next several days), I'm going through the motions. I'd rather be anywhere else but work, but I honestly couldn't tell you what I'd rather be doing; my "GAF" button is not only stuck, but the repair crew can't fix their own, let alone find time for mine.
That's why the rum is gone...
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