For Now is an Onion

One thing about E.D. and recovery is that it is like an onion and once you work through the top later of flesh and skin and weight and keep going you keep going, and keep going and start to find out all the things you are really terrified of and you don't just find it and work it out and then, Bam! Done!..you do it again and again and again and some days it gets easier then it gets really hard again and once you pass the point of going back to just engaging in symptoms you feel a terror and then a breeze and its the same trudging along a treacherous path within you and without you. Honestly I don't know what is scarier the inside or the outside but either way you are alone. People may love you and care about you but ultimately when the panic attacks begin or the silent black darkness of depression sinks down on you its just you and IT. Like being born but without your mother. The shock of the New. The terrible wonderful unknown except its not wonderful, i just threw that in there so as not to look like a negative creep or boring little sheep. I wish i believed more in the wonderful of going off into a void of UNKOWN and i am sure it is exhilarating for some of you with like, less cortisol and more dopamine but the best Wonder i find is in a leaf. and the little caterpillars that climb on it. Or those shells that dig back into the sand after the waves peel back. I am operating under Anxiety. I am operating under the house but near the roof. I am unpeeling an onion. I am crying and I am not stopping. Not yet. And people are coming and then they are going and I am sitting here unpeeling and then not sitting but running along beside you and then stopping. and then spinning and then unpeeling. Just wait, I will be right here. For Now.

 

This is no day at the beach, let me tell you

She is gettin worse.

She isn't doing well. She needs to go to the hospital. She isnt doing well. 
She won't talk to anyone, except the therapist whose methods we question with grave concern. This woman advocates the silence...its best if we don't say anything. It is? It is best to just let her slip farther and farther away from us? best? better than what?

She is always in my dreams. Little blonde head. I never knew her really.  I spent almost every second of my life with her until I moved out. Even then our dreams were always intertwined..the same neurtoic tendencies bursting out in visual subconcsious images...moving along the same sad lines.

Sometimes I think about who will be the one to tell me that she is gone. If it will be my dad or a strange policeman. A doctor or a therapist. I'm sure my moms hysteria will require hospitalizatin of some sort.

Its been over 5 years of this. Well, five years since the depression has rendered her literally unable to function. Before that she hid it carefully under....I don't know. a really cute smile. and haircut and a busy array of friends. Half of whom i am sure were the wicked mean girl types... but if i go back far enough I am sure that i inflicted more emotional damage on her than anyone. Me being closest in age, me hoverein over her in a bassinet, in a crib, learning to walk, holding hands at night growing, growing, changing, leaving, returning, leaving

She is always asleep. Her blonde hair sticking out of the covers. I nudge her, holding my breath, pleading with the universe that she is breathing. She mumbles and flutters those gorgeous blue eyes...so flat and empty with the sickness. I know that eventually I am going to hate myself for not barging into the doctors office, for not screaming and yelling and fighting for her. I feel frozen. I dont know that it will help, they tell me to trust them, to trust her. I don't. I've been to the some nasty depths of depression myself, the only reason those demons let you live is to torture you more. Its a hard fight.

I didn't even fight it, really i think i got a good med package. Her meds are sedatives. They make her worse. I want to call him up, Dr Celebrated Shrink, you are making her WORSE.

I imagine she will o.d. on the pills he prescribed. She is 30 years old, no one can deem her unfit to make her own decisions. yet. not until it is too late. Really, world, is this as far as we made it into treating mental illness? I don't know who I am even angry at anymore. Certainly not her, not my baby bird. My self I guess. Our bad chemistry. She feels like heavy lead in my heart that i love so desperately.  I can't fix it and I can't set her free