There are fourteen more days until my appointment with the psychiatrist. I can hardly wrap my mind around that number - it seems like an eternity away. While I wait it becomes more difficult to imagine that I'll really make it. This hell that has become my life seems to have completely buried any sign of the old me.
I thought if I force myself to do things that once brought me joy than the joy would somehow return. I can't seem to make it happen. It seems the more I try the more numb I feel. I have tried to read but concentrating for more than a paragraph or two is almost impossible. I forced myself to spectate my son's sporting events this weekend. I saw him but felt no connection to what was happening. Simply being amid the "crowd" was a struggle. It took all my effort to stay put and watch through to the end. I used to like to listen to "talk radio" but now it came across as an annoyance to me....kind of like nails on a chalkboard.
There is no sign of the me that used to be me.
I think one of the most mysterious parts of this illness (besides the loss of appetite and sleep disruptions) is how physical contact bothers me now - I was an affectionate person who gave and loved to receive affection. Now, there is no feeling to any of it. I keep waiting for something to change....for some hint of myself to emerge. As time moves forward though, I lose hope. I keep imagining that the therapist who sent me away (with an appt for 4 weeks away) will reconsider and see me. I actually wrote her a letter practically begging her but she must not have heard the pleading scream through the paper. Well, if I don't make it through this she'll probably recognize her mistake.
At least there is you.......my lifeline in cyberspace.
