Thursday, January 3, 2013
*This post has been written, discarded, rewritten & edited over the past week. I've been apprehensive to publish it. There's no humor in it & it's dark. It is mostly how I've felt, though have had some of the best laughs of my life in the past few days with my two best friends. Today feels a little brighter- so there's some good news. This is a picture taken by @ms_sarajay after my very 1st electroconvulsive therapy treatment at the end of September 2012. My eyes were extremely sensitive to light afterwards & I felt like I had been hit by an eighteen-wheeler, hence the shades.
I haven't been writing because I haven't been feeling well. I have some good days but they're often eclipsed by despair. It's frustrating because I thought I'd been making progress. It feels like I've been trying to dig myself out of a grave for the last four months and I'm tired. I can't predict the waves of hopelessness coming and they furiously drag me down into their tide . The person I turn into/am sinks like I've got bricks tied to my ankles. When I'm sick I can't remember that I was ever able to feel glad or hopeful for anything. I'm in the pitch-black and I forget what sun looks or feels like.
I often feel like there are two Claires: the one who is well and the one who isn't. The one who stays sober (by my standards), takes care of her body (with the exception of smoking cigarettes), surrounds herself with positive loving people, is creative/productive and takes her medication properly and health seriously. (The other Claire is the exact opposite, in case you don't follow.) The goal is to be Claire #1 all the time and avoid Claire #2 at all costs. Yet Claire #2 is familiar and very much alive. No amount of meds, therapy (electrocution or otherwise), meditation or other forms of attempted-murdering her/#2, can keep her from breathing deep down inside of me. She's like a Christ or a zombie, constantly threatening to rise form the dead. I can't be in public but I'm tortured alone. I'm exhausted yet i can't sleep. I regret every word that escapes my lips though I won't stop taking/texting/emailing. I'm convinced that no one can stand me then crucify myself for being egomaniacal. I blame the disease but resent my weakness for allowing it to infect me- while simultaneously questioning it's actual existence.
I want to be positive for your benefit and mine. Right now it would be a lie. I told myself I would be honest in my work (writing) so here it is. I'm frightened nothing will help me. I can feel good- I can laugh and be happy, but the cracks in my foundation could crumble headquarters.
Posted by ClaireElyse Brosseau at 11:42 AM