It seems a strange paradox, but if it’s possible to be an unreserved introvert, that’s me. I have no problems spilling my guts, whether it’s to my psychiatrist, my herd of doctors, my parents, or complete strangers. But then I usually disappear for a while. It’s not that I’m mortified by sharing my secrets; it’s just that in the time I manage to spend talking to someone, the anxiety about being in the same room with them has managed to creep up steadily, and I need to get away. It’s like crying for help and then being forced to run away from your would-be rescuers–because even the smallest kind word is…well, there’s nothing small about it.
I’ve been very sick all year, suffering from Lyme disease, a shoulder surgery, Ehrlichiosis, and, not surprisingly, depression and anxiety. I have a seizure disorder which causes frightening hallucinations, PTSD, and other issues. So, the new medication I’ve been prescribed for my OCD makes 11 pills in the evening and 7 in the daytime. My body is pretty unbalanced by these drugs, I think, which might account for something that happened last night.
I woke up at 3 a.m. and suddenly, it felt as if all the pain of the world was mine. I couldn’t stop thinking about hunger, murder, rape, heartbreak, sickness, homelessness, any of it. I cried and cried, screaming into my pillow until 4:30, when I lost my voice. I still feel very shaken and numb, but I’m holding it together with the help of regular intervals of Klonopin.
I feel so lost sometimes. I want to be a doctor, but my other troubles make that seem a very far away goal. I want to be well. I want to be strong again. But my doctor told me that I’ll likely never be out of pain again–that the most I can hope for is "managable" pain levels. What use can I be, then?
But woe is me and all of that. I know things will find a way of working out, and that as I said above, even the smallest kindness is never small.