There came a desperate point last night where I gave myself a choice – die, or live. Anyhoooo, I have decided to give living another whirl. I am not happy about it, but as I mentioned in a previous post, I was not born to go down quietly. And besides, the statistics of a successful suicide do not fall in our favour. So for now, I will die trying to live.
A quick wrap up of what has brought me to this point:
The past 6 months have been tough, beginning with the diagnosis of early psychosis in October 2015, and followed by the experimentation with various anti-psychotics, none of which I could tolerate. November brought a horrible hospitalisation, lock up ward and suicide watch. December, the dreaded dreadful withdrawal from venlafaxine. In amongst all this, I met Lover, the conman, the alcoholic, the thief, who exploited me at my most vulnerable. And to add insult to injury, my doc believes I’m still in the process of withdrawal, and postponed the trial and error of anti-convulsants until April. So I remain inadequately medicated, lithium my only stablilizer.
But I’m tired of crying over spilled milk. It’s time to turn this shit around. Fall down, get back up, dust myself off. See the doc on Monday, and hopefully get some nice, new drugs to make me smile again.