I don’t really know where I am lately, psychologically speaking. I’m out of touch with myself/selves. The voices aren’t very present most of the time since the suicide attempt, except when I debate what to do about therapy/treatment. Most of the time I just feel dull. Not the dissociative numbness I’m used to where I know I’m feeling things, just from a very long way away. This is just…flat, empty.
I’m not motivated to do anything. I haven’t been writing or making art or listening to music. I haven’t even been knitting, which is very unusual for me. I lie in bed with Law & Order playing on Netflix, but I don’t think I could tell you the plot of any of the episodes. For some reason, it helps to have the picture and the noise to occupy my brain, even though I’m not really paying attention. (Don’t ask me how that makes any sense. I’m as lost as you are.) I play solitaire on my phone just to have something to do with my hands. You’d think I’d want to knit so at least I’d be producing something, but I don’t. I’m not opposed to it; I just don’t care.
If I could, I’d just sleep all the time. I’m not even talking the suicidal “I want to sleep forever” stuff. I just feel safest in bed with the covers wrapped around my shoulders and tucked up to my chin. It’s like I almost don’t exist under there, nothing but my face. It’s soft and warm, and nothing else in my world is right now.
But I can’t even sleep. Not very well, anyway. I think I’m almost asleep, but then I turn over and I’m awake again. Then I wake up several times during the night. Then I’m up early in the morning because my colon is screaming at me, and then I can’t get back to sleep. My sleep meds aren’t helping. Even Benadryl isn’t helping, and that almost always knocks me out. I just want to sleep.
I haven’t even been terribly motivated to do political stuff. I have to drag myself. I went to a phone bank this week, and I spent 5 hours canvassing today. And I do well at those things, and I enjoy being trusted with authority and responsibility. But I’m just tired and unmotivated and unexcited. I’d rather be curled up in bed.
I don’t understand what’s going on. I have this intuitive sense that something’s going on with my parts just outside my awareness, but I don’t know what. I should probably be worried, but I’m not, really. I should be trying to communicate with them and find out what’s going on, but I just don’t have the motivation. I can’t make me care enough. I mean, everything is flat–at least I’m not anxious, at least I’m not depressed, at least nothing hurts. I’m worried if I start digging, there could be another suicide attempt. And being here isn’t really so terrible.
But it isn’t where I want to be, either.