Writer’s block

I’ve been suffering from writer’s block for a while, mostly because of the numbness I’ve been feeling ever since I started taking the antipsychotic, Latuda. It feels like all the remaining life force I had has been sucked out of me. It did its job by silencing any hint of hypomania, though. What it’s left me with, however, is a shell of a person. I’m going to be discussing discontinuing it the next time I see my psychiatrist because I don’t think the benefits outweigh the consequences.

I’ve been revisiting the audiobook Undoing Depression by Dr. Richard O’Connor because I remember it being meaningful in the past. As a fellow sufferer, he writes and narrates in a very compassionate and empathetic tone. I can believe and confide in what he says. I have regrettably forgotten much of the helpful material since my last listen, however.

I almost dread facing each day ahead because of its vacancy. I have been working on continuing education credits toward renewing my pharmacy technician license so that I can practice again. It’s the only real credential I have since I don’t have any degrees.

And I enjoy pharmacy. I had to learn to let go of the impression the last place I worked left on me. I couldn’t please that pharmacist no matter what I did, when I knew my performance was up to par at other locations I had picked up shifts at. But losing my employment, coupled with my still last break-up, sent me into a depression that’s lasted a very long time, and only since this year been treated with respect to the bipolar.

I’ve been struggling with therapy my last several sessions because I feel like I’ve hit an impasse. It’s like I’ve been lifted up above the clouds, waiting to jump out into the sky with whatever I have picked up along the way as my parachute, but I remain in the cabin. The way I’ve been feeling, I’ve almost regressed with obstinacy; staying in the cabin is too safe to leap from.

I don’t know how clear I can make it that I’m suffering. It is the most obvious thing I allow a few people to see. Ongoing depression isn’t something I care to burden others with. I try to notice the moments a smile or a laugh cracks through. I try to repeat whatever did that for me, whoever brought it out of me.

I try to not keep ruminating and romanticizing the past, to try to stay conscious of the moments I’m making in the present. I rob myself of every day by ruminating on what’s been. If I’m not doing that, I’m zoning out in front of the television, numbing myself. Isolating. Not wanting to burden anyone. Waiting to breathe and laugh again with someone, the ones who will have me.

It has taken so long to get any words out again. Writing has always been so cathartic for me and I regret whatever has been blocking it. This is one of things I try to hold myself accountable to because it’s such an integral part of my healing and processing. Hitting an impasse, going so long without a breakthrough, has made it hard, though. My inability to celebrate small victories holds me back, too. This post is a small victory.

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