Looked my old therapist up online.
Saw her face. Experienced a short but very intense burst of borderline murderous rage.
She told me so many nice things. Lies, lies, lies, lies.
And the one lie that took another huge piece of quality out of my life-- "Our psychiatrist is different. She'll listen to you. I really do think it's safe to give medication another try..."
Been off the Zoloft for a year (after I quit "noncompliantly," because said psychiatrist wouldn't give me permission to stop taking it even though I was royally f****d up). Still no motivation, no joy, no pleasure in living, too many days with no strength, not enough "go" to clean my house.
Tried to move a woodpile today. Had to move one piece (12 inch pieces, no more than six or eight inches in circumference, maybe 7 pounds a piece for the really big chunks) at a time. MY EIGHT YEAR OLD DAUGHTER carries two!! Before that goddamn drug, I used to pile half a dozen on my arm and carry them inside.
Sly, it doesn't matter if anyone reads it or not. It's like screaming into your pillow, or telling your sins down a well, or writing in a journal. It's a place to lose your s**t, so you don't keep it penned up inside and you don't lose it on the people you have to live with.
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"Alas, our dried voices when we whisper together are quiet and meaningless, as wind in dry grass, or rats' feet over broken glass in our dry cellar." --TS Eliot, "The Hollow Men"