Day 232

5PM:

I just came back from a run.  The run helped me figure these things out, even though I went running for the wrong reasons.  I went for a run to avoid my hunger pangs.  To avoid the feelings, the natural feelings, the natural emotions, the natural… that’s what I went to do.  Bringing it back to the food system, the portions and the allotted number for the day, I would rather be hungry during the day than potentially hungry at the end of the day (I say potentially because who knows?  Perhaps my body, my soul, my nature will know what it needs?).

As such, I went running to avoid feeling this hunger, this potential fear later in the day.  However, that’s when these thoughts I’ve been having get to be worst.  The feelings of dread and hopelessness and death and overwhelming and drinking way too much (and for very much the wrong reasons), the feelings that this isn’t worth it, this isn’t worth the pain that it inflicts.  This is when I am most vulnerable to the blackness, its screams.

This can’t be all there is.  This can’t be it.

I need some happy, even for just a little while.  I am over at my parents’ house, getting ready to have dinner with some family members.  That’s not important.

What is important is the happy that came out of it:

I got a hug from my brother.

Not a hug with my brother.  Not a 50% hug (which was the best I’d had up to this point), but a true, actual hug.  Fuck, I even had a beer with him.

He’s back.  Today showed that the him the blackness took away is back.  Yes it took medication and therapy and five months, but he (along with a supportive system) crawled out of its clutches.

Don’t fuck with your meds again kid, I love having my brother with me.

I love that I got a hug from my brother.

There is hope and love in this, the same that he needed.  The same that I need right now.  The same that shows me that this is not it, that this isn’t all there is.

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Day 76

11AM:

The magic pill – the glorious gift Family Doctor feels would make my guilt go away, the wondrous worry-waster that would soothe my woe-begotten mind, the nourishment that would nix the nasty necromancer that I call the blackness.

Staying up at night spinning out of control = gone.

Worrying about what I look like in the mirror = gone.

Not appreciating the wonderful things that life and my world present to me = gone.

Overthinking decisions that otherwise should be routine = gone.

Attacking myself for wanting to sit down or read or rest = gone.

Not having the strength to follow through with my food-decisions to not skip meals or not eat too much bulk = gone.

The debilitating amount of effort it takes to look up = gone.

Not being able to find quiet, calm, peace = gone.

It is an amazing proposition.  It would take the strain off my relationships, take the focus off me so we can focus on our marriage, take the distractions away so I can look up.  It makes sense that he would be adamant about it given my brother’s diagnosis (mental illness can be genetically connected) is significant, my previous use of pills and his “wheelhouse,” but it really does sound too good to be true.  I am not confident yet with taking this on ourselves.  Taking this recovery in our hands seems dicey and therefore, I am shaky, I am wavering and I doubt.  That is probably from where the “gone” statements arise.  So when I have a trained professional tell me that pills will be the end to my troubles, the lack of confidence and self-worth listens.  It still is talking as I write, as I’m trying to find the courage to battle through and stay the course.

Occam’s Razor: entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily, or in less confusing terms, the most likely explanation is usually the right one.  The magic pill is a nice dream, but I have never been an unrealistic dreamer.  I am a realistic dreamer too full of heart and so I avoid unrealistic dreams to avoid disappointment, sadness, unfulfillment.  This magic pill is something I let myself unrealistically dream about, which is why I can’t let it go, why I can’t brush it off, why it hurts my heart so fucking much.  “Some people care too much. I think it’s called love” – A.A. Milne.

Day 70

8AM:

I feel calmer this morning, more than I have in a bit.  The end of the day may not progress in this direction (ADDED AT 6PM: it didn’t, got spinny and loose-lipped).  Good sleep, possibly more food than usual (but probably not, because I was hungry around the same time and to the same degree in the morning), great night with my wife, no counting (which did cause me to be spinny about it between dinner and after dinner yesterday, but who knows if this is just an exposure thing that we could get over if we chose the no counting route)…  uh oh, not sure which one.  I want to just say, “fuck it, enjoy it,” but I would also like to know for future reference – maybe we need to add boxes to the system or ditch the system or…

It seems like spinning, but it’s not, I’m just trying to find my happy, my calm, my quiet.

Family Doctor thinks that I need medication to find this quiet and take the edge off.  I really don’t blame him, to a degree.  When I have a drink, the edge comes off.  When I exercise, the edge comes off.  When I find therapy, the edge comes off.  Perhaps with a mild medication, the edge will come off permanently, before the acuteness and before the sharpness.  I didn’t take my medication regularly for over a year before stopping completely, so I feel like he is working with false data – I have shared the truth, but my brother’s mental issues are statistically and diagnostically significant.  It is another example of doctors and therapists being excellent in their fields, but they don’t have a ME field to get a doctorate – that’s why it is us that are trying to find my happy, my calm, my quiet.