I keep telling myself, “It may be true that nothing can save me from the pain of this moment, but it is only temporary.” I know the pain will subside, even if I am left with nothing but emptiness. At least I can sort of get by when I’m empty, but not when I’m in pain. That’s when everything stops, when I can do nothing but suffer.
The last few days have been empty, which, at this point, counts as good days. When I’m empty I can still go to the store or do dishes. It is difficult, but I can fight through the discomfort and anxiety and accomplish something small. I feel empty because I refuse to let myself feel anything. It’s like all of my feelings–good and bad–are caught in a jar with the lid on. Lots of suicidal ideation, worthlessness, hopelessness, and disgust mixed in with bits of love, acceptance, and happiness. I can’t sort through them though, so trying to feel good means risking feeling bad; instead, I try to feel nothing. I find it unpleasant to be so disconnected, but I believe it is temporary, and an easier way to make it through until I get medicated again.
One of the things I couldn’t do without getting in touch with my feelings was write. I couldn’t think about my situation or how I felt because I needed not to feel. Writing was no longer therapeutic because the positivity was harder and harder to find. But I feel an obligation to continue what I’ve started, so I tried writing today, and all of my distorted feelings came pouring out. I was overwhelmed with hopelessness and worthlessness. I wrote and cried for an hour, and then wept for another hour. I did experience some relief from letting myself experience some of the sorrow I am carrying around, but it was short-lived and replaced with the controlled emptiness.
I feel meaningless, and I feel in too deep, but I’m still going. I know that there is a chance that I can get better, and I know my family needs me to keep fighting. And in this moment, that’s the best I’ve got.