I wish I could stop crying, stop shaking, stop throwing up and having my body react in ways I didn’t even know it had the capacity to react in, stop whatever it is, just long enough to call my son for our twice-weekly phone calls. It’s difficult enough to have a long-distance relationship with him, the little boy who convinced me I had the capacity to love and be loved, to experience joy and be silly and not be scared of getting wet while running and dancing in the rain. I’m sad every time I hang up the phone, each Sunday and Wednesday, and it takes real effort to dial his number, to steel myself for the emotional toll it will take. But I’m already not only emotionally depleted, I’m emotionally plundered.
Actually, I don’t even know if there’s a word for what I am. I can’t keep food down. I’ve lost five pounds since Thursday, and just the thought of leaving my room (which I spent all day yesterday rearranging, just to get the thought of the weeks we spent here together out of my head) inspires panic, much less my apartment. So forget getting food, or seeing friends, or going to a meeting. I need my Xanax refilled as I ran out today, and I actually told myself it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have life-threatening seizures from withdrawal because I can’t imagine making the trip down to Astor Place for the refill. Yes, this is where my mind is. I know I’m in a bad state. And I feel like a complete fucking idiot when I read things I wrote just a little over a month ago:
Perhaps in retrospect, should this fall apart in ways unanticipated and unpredictable (of which, of course, I am as certain as people are under these conditions that it will not), I will feel silly and ridiculous and embarrassed that it was, after all, merely a love story predicated upon sexual desire, an infatuation with one man’s body/mind/being, a delusion I’d tricked myself into believing actually existed after so many years of telling myself it had vanished the moment a certain casket closed on a cold January morning nearly six years ago.
Yeah. I feel more than “silly and ridiculous and embarrassed.” I feel humiliated, like I should have never gone to that Meetup, never gone to that bar, never accepted that offer for a drink, never asked if he wanted to sit alone, never put my hand on his arm, never kissed him, never invited him to my place, never said with a teasing smile that I wanted to feel his cock in my mouth, never let him inside me (literally or metaphorically), never done any of the things I ever did with or for him in the first place. I’d give up every photo opp, every happy moment, California, meals, movies, everything, because, no, it was not worth what I am feeling now. I wish I’d never met him, that he had never entered my life, that all memory of him could be erased from my experience. If only life were a Black Mirror episode.
I have no clue how I’m going to extract myself from this state. No fucking clue. I was already on a downward spiral before this happened thanks to unethical behavior by my doctor, who took me off a medication cold turkey without my consent. It had been prescribed to supplement my antidepressant, which had stopped being effective. And it had worked, but then my doctor decided he didn’t want me to take it anymore (he’d been giving it to me off-label and his supervisor suddenly didn’t like it, so without any warning or discussion, they took me off of it, no tapering or anything). And he knew all of this when he broke up with me, because I told him my depression was getting alarmingly worse on Monday night. So you’d think he’d be concerned and perhaps check to make sure I’m okay (since he has a history of severe depression himself), but I suppose that’s asking a bit much for someone who, even when he was in love with me, found it difficult to be aware of my pain. That’s okay, though. He broke up with me. I can’t expect him to care anymore. It’s no longer his job. I have to get used to it, as much as it hurts. And it’s damn excruciating.
I don’t expect to get back to feeling normal. I don’t even know what normal is, but I know it’s something I haven’t felt for years, at least not since I had my car accident and if not then, then at least since my fibromyalgia diagnosis. I do, however, want to stop puking and crying long enough to call my son. I want to be able to take the train to Astor Place to refill my medication because, really, the last way I want to die is from a seizure in my bed at 4am because I was too depressed to go refill my medication (and also because I know it would be days and days before anyone noticed I was dead, and that’s even more depressing). I want to feel hope rather than hopelessness. I want an appetite, even if just for a cookie or an apple. I want to believe there’s something worth living for, other than a teenager I talk to on a telephone twice a week. I want a break in the absurdity of my life, which even the existentialists would have to agree is getting to be a bit much at this point. I want to disappear into nothingness.
But, really, I mostly want to stop crying. There is no reason one human being, especially one small me, should have to be in so much pain, just because she was foolish enough to blog about how much in love she was. Surely there’s a more benevolent punishment (involving less crying, puking, and shaking, more weight loss?) for being such a fucking idiot. If so, please send immediately, dear universe. Until then, let’s hope the Apple TV remote is snot- and puke- and waterproof.