Baby Stepping Down the Stairs...

The decision was made, by myself and my husband, to cease the meds and stop with therapy.  He is backtracking now, saying all he wanted was to stop the meds, but he completely told me to stop going to therapy because it isn’t working and if anything, I gotten worse.

Now he claims otherwise, but had he not said that I wouldn’t have made such a drastic decision.

But it has been over a year.  And I agree.  I’m not better.  Not sure I’m worse.  I’ll trust the person I live with.

But I’m off meds. 

And guess who’s back to play?  Our Cedar Falls pals!

Apparently crazy is what makes me creative!  The oldest cliché in the book, I know, but the evidence is undeniable.  Both times I’ve seriously gone off my meds are the only time in the last 14 months that the characters have begun speaking again.  While on meds they and all other creative juice lays still and fetid.

Now it is all stirred up!  I want to write all kinds of things!

I want to write my Bridgewater Triangle movie;  I want to write my TV series about LBJ (Called :”Johnson” in honor of the man’s enormous endowment!), I want to write a miniseries about Eleanor of Aquitaine, and yes.  Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YES—I want to write more about my incestuous little town.

The test will be whether or not I actually DO write anything, or simply think about it ad nauseum.

I have other stupid endeavors occupying my feeble little flurried mind.  Such as designing an in-law addition that may theoretically go onto my parents’ house.  And designing other houses, because I have ADD and cannot focus solely on one projects at a time, which is unfortunate since multitasking is not only not my strong suit, it is the bane of my miserable little existence.

And come Wednesday I will not be sitting with my therapist, whom I love very much.

And I’m unclear how I feel about this. 

I am certain I bawled my eyes out over it in the car after I told her my plan.

Certain  I felt shitty and awkward and stupid while explaining that it wasn’t her—she’s great—it is all me.

She says this feeling is part of my neuroses (new rosies!).

I could care less.  I need a break.  See if I can’t figure this out on my own.

She doubts that and is extrememly worried about my safety.

I very honestly assured her that while I think about suicide every day, about how wonderful it would be to kill myself and end the suffering, end the doubt, stop the pain and the hurt and the miserable existence—I haven’t yet, so I doubt I’ll ever have the balls to do it.

You see, I’m a fucking coward.  And when you’re a coward you look for easy, painless ways to off yourself.  And you panic and chicken-out if there’s a chance of failure. 

I should have taken all the sleeping pills in my possession a few months back, but did not.  I had the means, the motive, and the opportunity.

And I pussied out.

There’s a gun shop on my drive to work (oh the rural parts of our state) and I could stop in some day, apply for a license or whatever.

And yet have I?

And I won’t.

Not because I don’t desperately want to.

But because I am a feckless fool.

But maybe I’ll write again.  Remember how that gave me purpose?  It would be nice to have a purpose aside from trying to not get fired from a job I don’t love and at which I am not particularly skilled…