So, I have some mild good news. I bought a pill splitter and started cutting my Abilify and Klonopin in half and taking them with my Prozac. This has been somewhat helpful. I’m far, far from 100%, and still don’t feel like I’ll ever be back to where I need to be. My crisis of faith is far from solved, and probably never will be. I still feel sort of permanently broken in many ways. But I do feel more functionally so. There been a reduction in the anxiety and obsessiveness from the medication. Sometimes. Somewhat. This is tentative, at best. I don’t know how long it’ll last. I have been able to do some thing I enjoyed again, if not with the same level of passion. I still feel somewhat numb, dulled to what used to make me happy. But my parents live with me, and they and my friends seem to feel that I’m doing a little better. It’s a small victory, possibly a temporary one, and there’s still a long way to go. I had another slip-up today, and with each of those, I fear backsliding more and more. I get cocky every now and then, and wow, do I pay.
I’m still tired of fighting and hurting. My anxiety, obsessiveness, and depression are particularly bad at work. Now, while we’re in the middle of a major remodel that’s really upsetting customers and making some aspects of my job a lot more difficult, it’s worth noting that in some way, things have improved. Again, it could be temporary, but new management do seem to have been running things better, so I wish I knew why I felt MORE stressed.
Now, to the very bad news. My 83 year-old grandfather is not in good shape. He’s hurt himself a couple of times getting up and wandering around the house at night. Bluntly, he needs assisted living, and he and my family are being stubborn about it. I don’t know what the hell do, but I’m worried that he’s going to hurt himself more seriously one of theee days. I live in fear of losing him every day. I don’t know what we’re going to do, but we’d better come to some decisions. I’m very scared, and don’t know what to do or what will happen. This is the kind of thing I should be worried about more than my selfish, stupid bullshit.
The medicine has me sleeping more, but it’s also putting me to bed at more reasonable hours. I secretly like sleeping more than I think that I should, because it’s my best respite from my mind and my problems.
Sorry for the rambling. Just wanted to vent a little. Progress is a dangerous mistress. For all I’ve accomplished, I feel like there’s still so much further to go. And that’s not counting my REAL problems; being a 30 year-old virgin living with my parents working a dead-end job. I need to work on THAT too, and I’m desperately running from it.