I’ve decided to start on a new project: one of self-awakening. I’m hoping this will serve as both a motivator for myself and a vehicle of understanding for those it reaches.
The past few days have been, in a word, brutal. A hard to explain brutal. I’ve spent so much time within mania’s breast that I’d forgotten the harsh winds which effortlessly lift and guide her, permitting her to cut gracefully through the air. I had knocked on wood, sheepishly wishing for mania to swoop me up, coaxed with false promises of peace and rest. I dreamed foolishly of safety from the angry swirling sea, now below. But the higher I go the softer the water looks.
It has been brutal. A falling into a fitful sleep, just to wake two hours later and realize that’s the only rest you’re going to get, brutal. A finding out it’s only 3 pm and bursting into tears because it’s so early still in the day, brutal. A waking up my parents sobbing at 3 am because all I want to do is sleep, but I don’t know if the pain is coming from the inside or the outside, brutal. Waking with cheeks already drenched in tears, brutal.
Sweats, shakes, vomiting, agitation, brutal. Seroquel I hate you.
To better explain: with permission to finally quit taking the anti-psychotic drug, Seroquel, I was excited to reclaim my body; I didn’t realize I’d be looking at at least a month of withdrawal. My only consolation is that after three weeks I must be reaching the end of this horrid withdrawal period. Though just this morning I had to choose between continuing to puke at my feet (with an all too curious puppy hanging around) or aiming the rest of my stomach contents in the general direction of our pool and spa. I scored in both. Only thanks to acid does my family have any comfort in the future sanitation of our leisurely swims.
This, I’m learning, is yet another dirty side of mental illness. And it deserves just as much exposure and understanding as the rest of it.
Everyday Thoughts and College Life 