ThoseCleverKids
Greenlighter
Idon'tevenknowwheretobegin
Tool uploaded all their stuff to Spotify a few weeks ago. So that's a good thing.
I guess the reason I'm posting this (assuming I post this) is I had my fortnightly session with the psychologist today, it was crushing, and I've spent the rest of the day failing to fight down the ruminations. They've been getting more frequent, absorbing, longer, for the past few weeks. The basic theme is that I'm never going to get better because I can't communicate, therapy is a waste of time, eventually I'll get properly depressed again and kill myself. Which would be fine with me, if I could get past the guilt over what it would do to my family. But if I could get past that, I would have killed myself long ago.
Background, I guess... I have (I think) avoidant personality disorder. I haven't been explicitly diagnosed as such, but at the last session (which was also horrific, but more productive) the psychologist said she thought it was either that or schizoid personality disorder, based on the information I've given, which included an inventory I forget the name of. I read a bit about each, I think it's avoidant. From what I managed to tell her at that session, she thinks the same. I've always been shy and solitary, got bullied constantly through school, left at 16 (as soon as I legally could). I had a few friendships at school, drifted away from them once I'd left, avoided getting close to anyone since then.
Since then, I've worked in hospitality for 20 years (back of house, natch). I bought all the anti-drug propaganda until I was about 19 although I started drinking (wine, lots, alone) at 18. Then I discovered Tom Wolfe and Erowid and decided that if I'd been lied to all those years, then the opposite of what They told me must be true. So I started doing a lot of drugs. The acid and mushrooms have been positive, the amphetamines have been insidious and destructive, although they facilitated some socializing for a while, the weed and alcohol have been daily for years - I stopped everything about 2 months ago. The last time I did meth was a year ago, it was disappointing, and kicked off the most brutal depression yet. 7 months (how long's that kid been on this boat? Seven months) down the hole, suicidal constantly, rage and self loathing and lots of cuts, some real bad times at work when it go so I couldn't speak or look at anyone.
I finally sought treatment towards the end of that time. I woke up one morning, my day off. Lay there relieved, almost relaxed, thinking the house was empty. Then I heard the sound of my brother walking down the hall and punched myself in the side of the head, hard. It hurt a lot more than I expected, and the despair made me claw at my face, which opened up some unambiguous gashes on my forehead. (remember I will always love you, as I claw your fucking throat away...) They're scars now. At first I was fairly open with the medical people, because I was terrified - I've always had some control over my self-harming in the past, and the total loss of it freaked me the fuck out. But, ironically, the mirtazipine (45mg) has lifted the depression some, I've moved into a place by myself, and being somewhat stable again has taken away the panic, so I've closed off again. I go to my sessions and withdraw automatically, my brain goes white noise, I can't voice my fears or problems, can't engage or answer questions.
I've wondered about benzos to try overcome that and make some kind of progress in treatment, but can't bring myself to bring it up and anyway if they're in the house I'll eat them all. And I can't do that withdrawal again. MDMA isn't even remotely mainstream therapeutically, here (anywhere?), and even if it was, I've developed a horrific relationship with it, from trying to self-medicate with it years back to solve these problems. It didn't break the walls, and then I came down and they were higher than ever.
...
Jesus, did I make less sense than this when I was smoking a quarter a day and a bottle or two of wine every night? I don't know. There's probably evidence one way or the other, somewhere in the bowels of this machine. I ain't looking, not tonight.
Thanks for reading, anyway. I ... something. I don't know.
Thanks.
-TCC
Tool uploaded all their stuff to Spotify a few weeks ago. So that's a good thing.
I guess the reason I'm posting this (assuming I post this) is I had my fortnightly session with the psychologist today, it was crushing, and I've spent the rest of the day failing to fight down the ruminations. They've been getting more frequent, absorbing, longer, for the past few weeks. The basic theme is that I'm never going to get better because I can't communicate, therapy is a waste of time, eventually I'll get properly depressed again and kill myself. Which would be fine with me, if I could get past the guilt over what it would do to my family. But if I could get past that, I would have killed myself long ago.
Background, I guess... I have (I think) avoidant personality disorder. I haven't been explicitly diagnosed as such, but at the last session (which was also horrific, but more productive) the psychologist said she thought it was either that or schizoid personality disorder, based on the information I've given, which included an inventory I forget the name of. I read a bit about each, I think it's avoidant. From what I managed to tell her at that session, she thinks the same. I've always been shy and solitary, got bullied constantly through school, left at 16 (as soon as I legally could). I had a few friendships at school, drifted away from them once I'd left, avoided getting close to anyone since then.
Since then, I've worked in hospitality for 20 years (back of house, natch). I bought all the anti-drug propaganda until I was about 19 although I started drinking (wine, lots, alone) at 18. Then I discovered Tom Wolfe and Erowid and decided that if I'd been lied to all those years, then the opposite of what They told me must be true. So I started doing a lot of drugs. The acid and mushrooms have been positive, the amphetamines have been insidious and destructive, although they facilitated some socializing for a while, the weed and alcohol have been daily for years - I stopped everything about 2 months ago. The last time I did meth was a year ago, it was disappointing, and kicked off the most brutal depression yet. 7 months (how long's that kid been on this boat? Seven months) down the hole, suicidal constantly, rage and self loathing and lots of cuts, some real bad times at work when it go so I couldn't speak or look at anyone.
I finally sought treatment towards the end of that time. I woke up one morning, my day off. Lay there relieved, almost relaxed, thinking the house was empty. Then I heard the sound of my brother walking down the hall and punched myself in the side of the head, hard. It hurt a lot more than I expected, and the despair made me claw at my face, which opened up some unambiguous gashes on my forehead. (remember I will always love you, as I claw your fucking throat away...) They're scars now. At first I was fairly open with the medical people, because I was terrified - I've always had some control over my self-harming in the past, and the total loss of it freaked me the fuck out. But, ironically, the mirtazipine (45mg) has lifted the depression some, I've moved into a place by myself, and being somewhat stable again has taken away the panic, so I've closed off again. I go to my sessions and withdraw automatically, my brain goes white noise, I can't voice my fears or problems, can't engage or answer questions.
I've wondered about benzos to try overcome that and make some kind of progress in treatment, but can't bring myself to bring it up and anyway if they're in the house I'll eat them all. And I can't do that withdrawal again. MDMA isn't even remotely mainstream therapeutically, here (anywhere?), and even if it was, I've developed a horrific relationship with it, from trying to self-medicate with it years back to solve these problems. It didn't break the walls, and then I came down and they were higher than ever.
...
Jesus, did I make less sense than this when I was smoking a quarter a day and a bottle or two of wine every night? I don't know. There's probably evidence one way or the other, somewhere in the bowels of this machine. I ain't looking, not tonight.
Thanks for reading, anyway. I ... something. I don't know.
Thanks.
-TCC