Eight months have slid by so quickly. I was so exhausted this morning that after eating a small bowl of warm cream of wheat porridge (with organic Ceylon cinnamon mixed into it, along with some fresh strawberries & a banana sprinkled on top), I crawled back into bed to sleep most of the day away. By the time I woke up, it was almost four. I sighed heavily knowing I was 15 minutes late for my daily antibiotics IV. I picked up my iPhone, & listened to it ring the number for the outpatient unit at Peace Arch Hospital. I felt relieved when no one answered, & left a brief message explaining why I was late & that I could get there in 30 minutes.
The nurse seems to have my IV on the slowest possible drip setting, making this sitting feel a little unbearable. I stare at my iPhone, unable to concentrate on much, feeling this drowsiness behind my eyes that’s also resting across my forehead. I want to sleep.
My depression has definitely been back this past month. I fucking hate it so much. I scroll my social media feeds to find post after post about September being suicide prevention month. This month marks three years since I was hospitalized after my last major attempt, after being arrested under the mental health act in the driveway of my Mom’s house in South Surrey. In some ways it feels like yesterday. In other ways, it feels like it was a lifetime ago.
I hate going for these IV injections. I hate that I’m not in the fourth year open studio course. I feel deflated, not knowing when I’ll ever get to do it. I need to write this letter for several people: the bank, the school, the strata, for a small claim against my former storage unit. A letter about my health, but I’m feel so drained by it. Each day, I put it off, choosing to sleep instead, to bury my head in my pillow as if I was an ostrich burying it in sand.
This was originally posted on Flickr and Instagram.
(245/365)