This is an older blog but still relevent.
Someone asked me once why I would chose to blog over having a journal of my own. He felt that I may not be as honest in a public forum, that I might not let everything out. While I can see that view, for me, this is more like having a conversation with random people who may or may not answer back. For me, this is more comforting somehow then some piece of paper staring back at me. Although this entries may be vague, I am being entirely honest. After all, honest is what I am all of the time.
I start my days off taking once little yellow pill. It has become my SSRI lifeboat of happiness, in reality, I have only exchanged for a huge bowl of the good sticky icky that would really do me right. Sober me can't turn her brain off for any amount of time; sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with my heart racing and I don't know why.
I don't like sober me. Sober me can't get her **** straight to save her life. Sober me is like trying to hold a mountain of dominos together while going down a windy road. Sober me is always in a state of flux- she has wild fits of emotions that need piecing back together. It is an exhausting state because I know the pieces fit but in the moment, they seem all dwanky.
Sober me looks at you and can't understand why you seem (insert judgement here). Sober me tracks each judgement down on her hand for her therapy cards that are looked at each Monday. Sober me can't believe that she made three judgments in the space of a minute.
Stoned me doesn't care. Stoned me likes to look at clouds, read books and dream about wild fantasies. I could bridge sober and stoned, I would be so happy.
Someone asks why I am so anxious this morning. He describes it as "a wire coiling tight." The main cause is that I got my blood work back today and seem to be at the threshold of gestational diabetes. I am now analyzing all of the food and drink I intake and desperately searching articles. I am wondering why I can't get a ******* break in my pregnancy. Earlier today I dropped a bowl full of pomegranate seeds because my hand decided it didn't want to hold it anymore. The bowl broke on the linoleum and left red smears when I swept it up. I am becoming convinced that I can't carry anything anymore.
I want a bowl so bad. I want six bowls and three shots of whiskey.
I dislike being pregnant. People never believe me when I say I don't want to be pregnant ever again; they seem to think that I will get baby fever and want another. Listen, people, I have been in therapy since February. I have been sick more times than I can count. I have to be on medication so I don't go ******* crazy from hormones. I feel like I am treated like a glass ******* doll or a time bomb about to to go off. I feel like a liability.
I feel useless.
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