I apologize for the nonstop bombardment of pure joy and excitement that is my blog these days. I’ll try to bring the optimism down to a manageable level.
But seriously, I am still depressed and it fucking sucks.
My previous two hospital extravaganzas left me feeling renewed and filled with purpose. My near-death (but not really) experiences had caused me to achieve enlightenment, and I couldn’t imagine ever overdosing again, the world shiny and sparkly as it was. Tonight, a small part of me is considering asking for a psych admission. Like on purpose. I honestly don’t feel much better than I did when I got myself into this mess, and that’s a scary thought. Something obviously needs to change, because I can’t keep spending my weekends in the ER.
Again, maybe my meds need to be changed, or maybe I need a different type of counselling. Most likely, I need to start eating more again. But without the piece-of-an-eating-disorder I’ve been toting around, I will truly be alone. And then the ground will come out from beneath me, and the world will just open up and swallow me. Obviously that’s a bit dramatic, but I swear that’s how it feels.
I suppose there isn’t much I can do to fix my life in the hospital at 1am. Except sleep. Oh right, sleep. Let’s do that.