Coro-Yuki

Decided to check myself into the psych ward back on Jan 17. It was.... not... a great experience. I was weaned off of two bad meds, one being my sleeping med, so no sleep for over a week. The doc was like "I am FURIOUS you are on these meds. And also you're bipolar how has no one seen that?" which I had no fucking idea for all this decade and a half. I'm never going back to that old psychiatrist. She was horrible.

I had to deal with a very mentally unstable woman who latched onto me because I am, of course, a very nice and empathetic person(Fact, not bragging) and therefore was thus to her. She kept trying to come into my room which aside from one's roommate is forbidden and at one point she gave me a picture of something she colored and, like a psycho, in RED letters wrote "Blood sisters for ever and ever." Yeah. After that I told the nurses because I was wigged out by that. They moved me to a different ward where the more long term patients are, soo for a couple days I could have a quiet room to retreat to when I needed peace. The place was also quieter because there was a lot of noise every night in the original ward. Well, it was quieter for one night. Then the next night the night shift nurses were all laughing really fucking loud until like midnight or so?

After that when I came back she was less clingy and I made sure to keep strict boundaries on her trying to enter my room. But then one guy started hearing voices and conversing with them, and then swearing and yelling and punching walls at night. I complained for two days straight(They fricken put me across the hall from him!) before the night shift actually got off their butts and went to deal with him and calm him down on the third night and maybe even gave him something to help him sleep.

Yeah, felt *really* safe there./sarcasm

But I guess I learned some coping skills...? I dunno. Despite attending group sessions I guess the fact I wasn't quite suicidal and the new med made me feel a lot better, I was out by Friday the 26th when I thought I would be there for like a month or something. That first day with my stomach hurting and nauseous was the longest day of my life. It was incredibly unreal and such a nightmare. I felt like I was insane. Did I mention one med was making me have a gag reflex that turned into being so nauseous I was nearly throwing up food? Yeah. The anxiety made it so bad I felt awful all day long even when I didn't eat anything, which I couldn't for the first four days aside from a little dinner. And was on my period so couldn't even have coffee.

I don't feel too much like I learned anything to help me cope really but at least I now know I'm bipolar(Not in an extreme manic manner) which, when looking back, makes a lot of sense why I could be feeling pretty okay for a week or month and then sometimes without even a trigger just break down sobbing and feel like a waste of space.

I'm not sure if the event was traumatizing or not but... yeah... I'd say needed because at least I got off bad meds and am now seeing a new psychiatrist who was much more encouraging.

Depression affects everyone differently I’m sure. I’m not too sure. All I know is what we have in common. The despair, the pain, the crying, the wish for it to end one way or another, get better or stop existing. Go to sleep, dream a dreamless dream, and never wake up again. Or wake up decades later and be better, suddenly wake up and smile at the new day rather than frown and hide back under the covers wishing I was dead.

Depression took the teenage years of my childhood from me, it took the ability to fight, focus, and win at University. It took my ability to fight, focus, and win at Adulthood.

I was almost better. I thought I was… Finally an Adult, like my older siblings and younger siblings were. I moved out, but only kind of because I went from my parents’ house to my sister’s.

I moved out of there but only kind of because my sister was just down the road, my younger sister was in this house with me we were renting, so I was… I dunno. There was an illusion of support that I fooled myself into thinking I had.

Depression. It takes away your ability to say, “Hey, I need to vent,” because you’re busy listening to everyone else vent, being the “sane” one in the household while the three teacher roommates gripe about their day and don’t ask me how I’m holding up because I’m the sane one, the one who gives them relief because I’m… whoever I was to them. The “not teacher” roommate who could talk to them about things that weren’t school so they were happy.

It’s good to be appreciated. So much so you set yourself on fire just so others can tell you how much they appreciate your warmth because for years no one appreciated you because you couldn’t do anything for them.

Has anyone, any of my siblings, my friends, set themselves on fire for me?

Tell me because in this fog I can’t see it. When were you there to just say, “Hey, tell me about how that depression you’re struggling with is going. Meds working? Sleep still bad? That’s rough, can I do anything for you? Wanna talk about it, get a coffee?”

Nobody cares. You can’t see depression because we look away and lie that we’re okay while other people know damn well “I’m fine” is the biggest lie in history, that everyone says even when they’re dying inside. They say it themselves and somehow don’t make the connection that when you have depression, you’re never fine. There is no such thing as fine. Just some days are a little better, but they’re never fine.

It was never fine, just a couple years that were better.

I wanted to be competent, reliable to the point I went the extra mile and then five more while I was at it because I just wanted to be able to do things because everyone always seemed to think I was lazy, not so depressed it physically hurt so I slept all the time to escape the pain. You think the mental equivalent to broken legs is lazy, huh? You think fibromyalgia didn’t exist?

You thought I, who has strived to always be honest, was a liar? Your sister? Your own sister?

I feel like I’m writing a suicide note. This kind of venting to no one, laying out my misery. Should I send it to anyone? Let people know how fucked up I’ve felt for the majority of my life?

You thought I was lying about being in pain even when I pulled out the word fibromyalgia and explained over -active nerve pain over and over? You thought I was a liar?

Is that what you thought? All this fucking time?

Me who never lied about anything except that I was okay because no one wants to hear you say you’re not because they don’t ask in private. They ask with an audience because they know, you won’t tell the truth in a crowd. They ask when you meet at a party, some social gathering, where you can’t be the real you, where you shouldn’t make it awkward by bringing down the mood with the truth.

No one really wants to know how you’re doing, it’s just some strange formality.

No one ever really wanted to know how I was coping. Chronic Depression, a meaningless word to people who don’t have it, but a life sentence of misery and pain to those gifted the title.

I listened, I always tried to listen and be there, be the person nobody was for me. Listen, empathize, hug, support.

No one but Mom understood, fought for me, asked me in private how I was doing even if she probably knew I was lying sometimes and truthful other times.

And I guess people were resentful that she, what? could see my pain? Asked if I was okay, suggested ways to cope?

Naw, she was coddling me.

Well maybe if you kept taking those pills instead of running out only after a month and then claiming they didn’t help after not taking them anymore for weeks, she wouldn’t be stuck so frustrated she didn’t know what else to do for you.

You’re supposed to take them for at least three or maybe six months before you say, “These aren’t working, I don’t feel better.”

Fucking moron. Listen to your fucking doctors maybe, tell Mum “Hey I’m out of refills.” Like I did before I was old enough and brave enough to handle the phone and call in refills myself.

Yeah, brave enough to use a fucking phone. Do you know what anxiety does to a person? This uncontrollable fear we can’t turn off? The inability to ask for help because outside we’ve frozen up while inside everything is screaming in unbearable pain and fear?

I know. You can’t see it so how are you supposed to know to even ask how it’s going, if progress has been made? Because you can’t see it.

If you can’t see it, then how bad can it actually be, right?

It must be a lie. She can’t really be that tired. In that much pain. Must be lazy. A liar. Because what? Why? You really think sitting at the top of the stairs and bumping my way down slowly while sitting was a lie? A sham being put on? Why would anybody think to go that extra? Why would anyone do that and then cry at the bottom of the stairs when they realize they forgot something upstairs and have to go through that process all over again? In so much pain they literally cannot walk down the stairs? Why would they go that far on a pretense?

Did you think I manufactured the major bruises I got as well?

I thought I was finally an adult, handling my life, my health… but no… I’m not like you guys. You guys who moved out and figured it out and live your lives not dependent on medications and shit doctors who don’t actually care to make you better. You guys who can buy cool stuff and go to Europe on a whim apparently.

But no, you probably think I’m just not working hard enough. Not determined enough, not mature enough.

Maybe I’m not. Maybe some part of me is clinging to the only time I was really happy. So I collect stuffed animals and butterflies and flowers, remembering when life wasn’t shit. When I was happy, when I had friends and life was so simple that we liked the same everythings, we could meet a total stranger kid at the park and immediately have something in common like tag, because everyone likes tag.

Maybe I’m so good with kids because it’s all I can remember of my happiness. I understand them on a level no one else can because I remember how much fun these repetitive little games were back then. I delight in these simple things that everyone else has forgotten.

I just want to grow up but I’m stuck here, going nowhere, eating meds to the point I nearly throw them up sometimes because my body can’t handle it, is so sick of it.

I’m so sick of this. Of failing. Of not being the kind of child who can move out and support themselves. I’m so sick of looking at you all and thinking I’m not as good, I’m deficient, I’m a failure, and wondering if you all think the same thing. That I’m a failure as a daughter, as a sister, as a human being.

You all have it, the adult life, you all graduated whatever school you went to. I tried twice and gave up. I… I’m… the failure.

I’m the failure in the family. The perfectly functioning grown up kid still living with her parents, unable to survive as an adult in the real world.

No, I’m just here with my private hell inside my head and physical pain no one can see, so it must not exist.

So I’m a liar, huh? Nice to be told that after I nearly committed suicide because I guess no one asked me for the truth, just called me a liar behind my back and called it a day.

Wouldn’t it be nice to be asked if I’m lying about the hell I’m going through or if it’s true? Get my side?

Wouldn’t it be nice?

Gosh. People are so condescending to artists for hating the AI program that's being fed *their* work. People are actively stealing their work to feed it to teach it. I tried giving my point of view and just got insulted instead of bein given concrete reasons not to dislike this thing that people who haven't put in the effort can use to make full pictures and undersell real artists.

Just been having so much shit going on in my life, Hurt both shoulders adding stress to the job because I can't perform at full capacity, been hurt other ways, trouble sleeping stress stress stress anxiety anxiety anxiety deeep depression, just shit every which way. I was afraid something would happen even on my birthday and it did. Had to see the dentist to get my filling ground down for the second time because it's too high causing too much pressure on my lower and upper molar causing immense pain. Well, last time it was fine but this time had to have novacaine and it didn't wear off by dinner which smelled fantastic but I couldn't chew it right and couldn't taste it so i just broke down crying and now I'm in my room and don't know if I can bear to come back down if this doesn't wear off tonight. Like fucking postponing my birthday 'till fucking Wednesday I guess because I work tomorrow.

I just want to get well and get back on my feet but I think I have to quit this job.

Meh. I'm just not feeling Inktober. Been tired all the time, only time I do draw I don't want to follow prompts.