a Scarlet D

It’s my blog I can cry if I want to.

When it comes to my care stuff, I’m the teachers pet:

• Always early for appointments
• Can’t remember the last appointment I missed
• Take my meds religiously
• Take the meds that address the side effects of my other meds
• Take the meds that help me sleep at night
• Take the meds that keep me awake (and jittery) during the day
• Battle pharmacies and insurance to get the meds and therapy I need
• Suffer the pain of cystic acne, the VNS firing a knife into my neck, and the tremor that won’t let me do close up crafts any more
• I follow the care team advice that leads me to new programs or therapies
• Always did my homework in DBT (no small feat)
• Open my cupboard and see all the food that I don’t want to eat
• Throw out the food that spoils because I didn’t eat it
• Don’t drink alcohol because it makes me attempt or self harm
• Watch my savings recede as I pay for the care and meds that don’t seem to work
• Stay at home because the anxiety and following depression doesn’t allow me to do more than two hours of “real world interaction”

Yet here I am, as bad as ever. In DBT they talk about a “life worth living.” I don’t even know what that would look like anymore.  Mine doesn’t feel like that.

Don’t worry, I’m safe for you right now. But I’m not happy about it.