You already know where the stress is coming from, so I won’t even mention it. (Also, as I’m sure most of us are right now, I am feeling incredibly self-focused right now, so apologies if this comes off as conceited.)
I feel so desperately alone. I feel so alone, sometimes I wonder if I am better off completely and utterly alone. I have my roommates and partner around constantly, but I cannot let myself be vulnerable around them, even though they are right there. I haven’t let myself be. I am extremely envious of friends reaching out to friends, messaging and calling and video chatting. I feel so fucking alone, I can’t stop the intrusive thoughts that no one cares about me. And then my poisonous “logical” side comes out, and tries to make it worse by pointing out the lack of comforting from others, that because I haven’t had anyone be there for me during this, that it’s true that I’m alone, that no one likes me, or ever will. And I hate myself for thinking like that. I hate myself for being angry about that. I hate myself for not having anyone that cares. I hate myself for not being someone that anyone could care about. I hate myself for thinking that no one would ever care if I did die. I hate myself for even thinking about it.
The only person that seems genuinely concerned is my mom. And isn’t that funny too? A tumultuous relationship turned into the strongest.
I am stuck in a constant state of terror. Having my anxiety unmedicated right now is a burden I don’t know if I can bear, and the resources I have access to can do nothing against a huge, visceral fear like this. It’s so big. It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever felt (and believe you me, there has been too much fear in my bones for this lifetime). Nothing I do helps. My doctor is on leave so I can’t get any prescriptions. I feel like pulling my teeth out and wrenching my guts from my core at every single moment. All I can do for respite is play games. Being alone with my thought process is like fighting a losing battle.
The 17th or so, I saw a psychiatrist, and that visit shook me. An hour and a half long appointment. A man who told me nothing but about himself. He listed off questions like it was just items to get checked off. He counted the psychopaths, murderers, rapists, terrorists, incredibly mentally unwell he’d treated like they were his achievements. I was made to feel I didn’t belong, that my mental state surely wasn’t sour enough to warrant seeing a psychiatrist. I left with three scraps of paper, and a dull ache in my chest. I now have a working diagnosis for what the hell is going on with me, which is good. But the whole time then, and afterwards, all I can think is, “what if I was faking it? Have I been faking it this whole time? Am I just a great con artist? Am I just looking for a dangerous enough diagnosis, to get prescribed dangerous enough medication, to get out? Is that what this whole thing has been?” And I have to remind myself that my experience with myself and my head is valid. But is it? Even now, I find myself triangulated between the two. God, my heart is beating out of my chest just thinking about that. I think I’m afraid of myself, a bit.
And I still haven’t been able to grieve. I miss you so much. We had your funeral, and then everything happened, and I haven’t had a single moment to sit down and process. I want to believe it’s a cruel joke. I want to believe you’re not gone. I can’t even talk to my counsellor about you. I can’t form thoughts about you. Even writing this is hard. I can’t think about you because of the pain, so I can’t formulate thoughts or feelings other than intense grief, so I don’t know what to write. All I know is that we lost you, and this situation currently plaguing the world is giving me more time to dance around my feelings. I know I need to process this, but I don’t know how. I miss you. Fuck. You mean the world to me. What can I do?
Everything is so much. It’s so much. I need to open my heart to someone, and have someone there to receive it. In the meantime, I’ll just be floating.