Fuck mania, or mixed episodes, or whatever the hell this swing I’ve been stuck in for days is. And fuck not having access to Mental Health services because I don’t have the right insurance, and fuck anyone who can, with good conscience, turn someone away when they’re practically begging for your help. The only option as this point would be to go the ER for an evaluation, but even then, fuck that, because sometimes they’ll stay turn you away (because they obviously know what you’re going better than you do, right??) and also, they make you sit in the most depressing room for fucking hours on end. Honestly, it’s fucked how the only way you’d actually access super-immediate intervention is if you actually hurt, or try to kill yourself. What kind of fucked up Mental Health system is this?
Also, fuck the health clinic that tried to refuse me services today because I’m on pain medication. Without even asking why I’m taking this kind of medication, or verifying if someone else is prescribing me, just assuming (I guess?) that I’m going to show up asking them refills. Surely I couldn’t be trying to schedule an appointment for an entirely different fucking reason, but nope, she’s on pain medication, we don’t want to deal with her. The fucking druggie. (Not their words, just how they made me feel.) All I was wanting was to have my psych meds evaluated, and to help them get me stable since I can’t get in with an actual psychiatrist at the moment. After I explained that the pain medicine is being prescribed by my rheumatologist (for a serious, chronic and very painful disease, might I add), they agreed to take me on as a client, but honestly, I’m almost to the point of saying fuck it, because why would I want them to manage any of my care at this point? The judgmental fucks.
I forgot how therapeutic writing can be. I honestly did. I’m always so busy analyzing every little thing I say, and how I say it, the words I choose, the punctuation I use, every single little fucking thing, because I have to be prefect, or else there’s this unrelenting anxiety that nags and nags and nags at me until I edit edit edit and re-edit and edit and edit and then just end up fucking deleting it, because fuck it. (Why do I even bother?) But fuck it. Because with the mania (or whatever) raging, I just need to fucking type some shit out, release these thoughts into the world… so suck it, OCD or anxiety or whatever the fucking fuck you are. I hate you. Stop taking the good things from my life. Stop holding me back from EVERY SINGLE THING.
Also, I’m not so completely delusional as to understand that I’m probably sounding somewhat unstable in this entry, or at the very least I feel fucking unstable as I’m writing all this shit, but… ya know. Better to get it out than to just leave the thoughts to twist and multiply and swarm like these annoying ass angry bees. FUCK.
I don’t feel like myself. I don’t know who this girl is, but in some ways I guess maybe I like this me better. I don’t know. But I’m finally not holding back and it feels good. I know this mania-mixed-episode-whatever-the-fuck is not good for me, I know, and I don’t feel great, it feels really awful, but this part, the writing, and doing something other than the same old shit feels good. It’s like, I’ve been falling falling falling, and now, my fingers are flying flying flying over the keyboard and it’s so incredibly fucking freeing. Like a breath after I’ve been under the water for so so long. Maybe I should go all out and try to write a fucking book while I’m at this, because if ever there was a time, maybe it’s right now.
And I could go on and like this for fifty more paragraphs I’m sure, but there’s probably other things I could (should?) be doing that might help me tame this better, because at this point maybe this is fueling a fire a bit more than when I started, so I don’t even know.
Also, I’m not proof-reading this, which is a first. And I’m sure I’ll be back to do so at some point, but for now. Nope. Not happening.