This is not an exit*

this is a post from my old blog that I have decided to move over.

I am an outspoken supporter of mental health education and clarity. On the outside I am open and honest with the struggles that I face, and the emotional strain I too often put on my family. I blog, I talk to other mental illness warriors, and on the outside looking in, it seems like I have a good grasp of my own conditions.
This is a lie.
The face of me having myself put together is a mask, a well developed one, that helps me avoid what I really feel by sounding educated, speaking eloquently, and essentially, talking about myself in the third person – though I don’t refer to myself by name.
The unmasked truth is this: I haven’t seen my doctor in weeks. I am hiding. I am tired of tests and leaflets and questionnaires. Some days I would wear the mask to appointments, dealing with everything peripherally is generally much easier than accepting that these problems are coming from deep within me.
Lately I have been having trouble maintaining my mask. I am avoiding the medical professionals that could help me because I am afraid of finding out what lies in the bottom of my mind. Writing helps, of course, but typing down a thought and saying it aloud to someone are two very different experiences.
My prescription refills run out soon, and I will be forced back to the office to reevaluate my situation. Have I mentioned how tired I am of evaluation? When did this become my life? I know that my medication needs to be altered, perhaps changed completely; but I hate the transition phase between drugs. I don’t have time for malaise or rashes or changes to my appetite. At the same time, I can feel that my meds aren’t working the way that they should be, and it’s a slippery slope between medicated sanity and under-medicated madness.
I went so far today as to google the phone number for the mental health services in my city, but I convinced myself not to call and instead I folded more laundry. (Not normally my forte).
My biggest fear of having to speak out on my own behalf is this: I’m not ready to tell a professional that I want to give up. I want to be heavily medicated, maybe a medically induced coma, for as long as possible. I want to completely check out and cease to be for just a little while. I know that when I say that, they’ll tell me that I can’t just rely on medication, and remind me that I have a family to look after who doesn’t need a drugged-out mom. I’m not saying that I want to check out permanently, but I’m so tired of fighting. I need a break from myself, and no amount of meditation or counting all of the things I can see, hear, touch, and smell, is going to give me the relief that my whole body is screaming for. There is no escape from my own thoughts. (If I were a wizard I would’ve failed occlumency).
I have no current plan to fix this. Having no babysitter definitely helps when they call to schedule appointments, but my husband will be home soon, and I will have limited excuses. I’m losing my composure, and it would be nice if someone would step in and hold my hand through the appointments and interviews and quizzes, and at the end the could spoon-feed me a cocktail of sedatives and tuck me into bed, but it’s not going to happen. So in approximately 20 days I’ll slither back into the doctors office and either ask for more intensive outpatient treatment, or have him refills the meds I’m on and continue to stew in my thoughts for another 60 days. The mask I wear knows what I should do, it always knows what everyone should do, although I’m starting to wonder when it truly has my best interests at heart. A mask is for keeping up appearances, and I’m realising that I need more.

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