What is Stopping Me From Being Me?




I feel as though this Mental Illness is killing me more from the outside than the inside.  It is my disability, and it resides in me.  I cannot hide it nor do I want to in my own home. The longer I keep my emotions caged inside my brain, the longer it will take to get better.  I may have my diagnoses for the rest of my life, but the manifestations they take can go anywhere on the spectrum.  I need to be able to scream if I want, to cry if I want, to be in a bad mood, to be stressed out, etc…


However, I feel pressured to live as a completely healthy person.  I resent that.  And that resentment grows every morning I wake up to face another day.  The resentment I feel, though, is not totally valid because my family knows me and loves me the way I am.  But the daily struggle I feel to keep my mental illness under control is overwhelming.  In fact I am sure it’s making my issues worse.


I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs, but I can’t.  I need to cry, but I won’t be able to stop.  I care what people think.  I hate that.  I am embarrassed about everything.  I don’t want to be judged.  There is already such a huge stigma about mental illness and addiction.  I am sure my family could handle it, but I am afraid to break free.


I drank one beer so far today, a beer from what I call my “emergency stash” in the garage.  My girlfriend was visibly irritated with me when I went to get it.  I am supposed to be lowering my alcohol intake, which I have.  I didn’t care about her irritation.  In that moment, I knew that beer was the only thing which would keep me hanging on.  She is also in charge of the last Vicodin I will probably ever see in my life.  My back is screaming with pain.  My eyes are pushing back tears. I am clenching my teeth.  Nothing helps.  I just want to be alone.  I want to drink.


I wrote something similar in my last post. My intent is not to be redundant. I honestly want to know how I can get better, or just simply live, when I can’t be me?  I want to self medicate and am pissed that I am being kept under lock and key.  What if I just went “crazy” on my family and did what I wanted, like scream and throw shit?  I imagine it all the time.  I am not so sure that would go over very well.


I found one of my son’s stuffed animals in the donation pile behind the door of the laundry room.  Normally, I wouldn’t care. My kids are old enough to be discarding of toys.  But this little guy?  A giraffe.  A cool looking giraffe with green and white striped hooves.  I have always loved this stuffed animal.  I salvaged him from the donation bag and took him to my room.  I named him Franklin.  I talk to him and hold him up to my girlfriend as if Franklin is talking to her.  This morning she said I was starting to worry her, that she was losing me. It made her feel like a pedophile, like she was sleeping with a child.  That, in turn, made me feel belittled. Alone.  I trusted her with that part of me and she shattered it.  What if there is a meaning to my new stuffed animal likeness. Maybe Franklin is the only one who will listen.  He has green and white stripes on his feet.  He is different just like me.  He was about to be thrown away.  I want to be thrown away.


I feel like my girlfriend is getting tired of listening to me complain.  At least that is what I imagine it sounds like to her.  I can’t smile. I can’t laugh. Why live?


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