My mouth feels like it is packed full of cotton. Only the cotton is my rambling inner dialogue. This dialogue has come back in full force today. It has been what feels close to a year since there has been an urge like this. I can feel the words spilling out of my ears. I am driving and the thoughts are reeling. They want me to write. They want me to explain. They want me to fill the pages with something.
But now I am here and I feel empty again. It is the same craving I have to have a social life. I am jealous of those who have friend circles. They visit often and they share everything under the sun. They bond over their similarities and differences. Same with families. I want to be able to spend time with my family members. But the thought of trying to find words to speak to anyone right now is so frightening. I feel like I have run out of words.
I feel as boring as a piece of wet cardboard. I feel like I forgot if I ever had a personality. This goes right back to the question of where my mental illness and personality intersect. Which part of me is actually me?
My doctor prescribed me progesterone because he thought it would help my chronic pelvic pain and spotting – which I have not written about because I do not know how to find the words. It has been happening since June 2019. The spotting stopped with the progesterone, but not the pain. What came with the injestion of this hormone was a darkness that I have not seen since probably the winter before last.
It is not welcome here, but it seems to want to stay. The darkness has setup camp inside my mind. It is trying to tell me that I am boring. That I shouldn’t be in school. That I should not be a social worker. That the next 5 years I have planned out are a waste of money. That I have no actual personality outside of my mental illness.
The thing is, the darkness never remembers that I have seen the light before. It does not recall me fighting and winning. It only knows a joyless future. I know what I felt like before this cloud came back and I am willing to bet that I will feel the joy again.
But for now there is no joy.
Becoming Brave 