my hands tremble as lithium course through my veins. the number on the weighing scale climbs as risperidone works in my head. i cling onto these psychiatric drugs nevertheless, like i’m clinging on for my dear life.
my mind is littered with question marks. a storm of perpetual anxiety brews in my head. i feel like i’m in a pressure cooker. i am scared. why? why again? i guess i’ll never get answers. and i guess i’ll never be able to cope in the way everyone wants me to.
they say talking helps, especially when depression is isolating. i’ve tried to talk. but there is always this sense of some certain expectation that i don’t want to face nor handle. i keep trying anyway, even though each time that i try, a little part of me dies.
i will always be afraid of falling. but more afraid of picking myself up- the terror is unspeakable. and sometimes, i think i’ll be content staying broken and fallen.
i take each minute as it comes. the fear of the next minute going wrong is palpable. something might happen something might happen something might happen. i regret not bringing clonazepam out with me.
my hands tremble even more, as anxiety swallows me whole. things are not ok. i am not ok. against what it looks like, everything is falling apart. and no one knows what it actually feels like.