It’s 1 AM and I can’t sleep.

Talked to my doctor today. My office has this convenient messaging system, so nice that I don’t have to drive 40 minutes and pay $25 to ask for a referral to a psychiatrist.

Yep. Psychiatrist.

I’ve been down this road a few times. Once in high school, except I saw a counselor and not an actual therapist. It helped none at all. Then, at the beginning of the year, I told my doctor I wanted to see a psychiatrist. She’s a nurse practitioner, so she referred me to a counselor (when I explicitly said not to) so this is not my first go round. 

Oh, I did have another option. Outpatient therapy, mandatory, 9 AM-3 PM, 5 days a week, almost an hour and a half’s drive. Did I mention those are my work hours and it was run by a pastor? Yeah, no.

I want someone to tell me yes, that I’m in the right direction, or no, let’s try this approach. My body craves schedule and balance but my mind refuses to give it over, so I’m desperate for something to work.

Mental illness is like a form of cancer. The disease takes its toll, along with the medications you try to fight it with. My mind has been so impaired that I’m not entirely sure of my own genuine personality. 

I do know I am an angry bitch on Lithium, low functioning and sad on Venlafaxine and Buproprion, and manically insane on Citalopram. Flip a coin and it still won’t predict what emotion I’ll show in the next 5 minutes.

Seeking help is hard. But you know what’s harder? Saying fuck it and trying to go it alone.


This is a typical first post 

I only really write when I get inspiration. Which is a dumb thing for me to actually make my first sentence because doesn’t everyone only really write when they have inspiration? Well, anyway.

My name is Jessica. I make lame attempts at being quirky. I’m depressed in the most boring, typical way that makes me sardonic. I smoke cigarettes as a walking tribute to irony. 

And I look like my mother.

Why is that a bad thing? Because I hate my mother. Not in the way an adolescent girl hates things but in a seasoned, adult, I’ve-seen-shit kinda way. I hate the way I walk like her, how I’m typically drawn to her brand of cigarettes even though I swore never to smoke (or do drugs like any good elementary kid going through the D.A.R.E. program did), I speak like her, my facial expressions mirror hers, and I also spend money I don’t have like her. I am my mother, she comes out of my mouth and into my air. And I hate that about myself.

I love my dog, I love my boyfriend, I love books and thrift stores and Charleston, SC. I want to go to Savannah, GA one day, I also want to visit Disney World in the next 5 years, or at least honeymoon there. I’m scattered, a little twisty, and somewhat dull sometimes, but at least I’m realistic.

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