Archive for the ‘Insomnia’ Category

There is a place we go

Where we cannot find light

Our eyes adjusted

To our own twisted Plight

We hide in places

Live with fright

Within this never-ending night

We roam

We seek

In search of light

Mind to fucked to speak

Within his never-ending night

We reach our hands up high

Seeking comfort from imaginary hands

We find nothing

Only the pain

Which never went away

No end in sight

Within this never-ending night

Scream all you want

No one will hear

Reality is no one is there

I seek

Until my knees are weak

Reality setting in

I have traveled nowhere

Trapped within

My suffocating box

I am in this never-ending night

A feeble prayer

To a God who was never there

The time has come

Within this box

My mind rots

No air

No light

No hope

Only madness

Brought on from my never-ending night

My cold dark stare

nothing is something

Better

Than living in my never-ending night

In my hands

I hold the key

My only freedom

Only escape

From my never-ending night

One blissful pull

I enter into the light

It amazes me how quickly I can be beaten down. How easily I can fall apart. How little I can handle. How easily I can lie to myself. Its borderline delusional laced with denial. Happiness and hope are things I cannot know, let alone ever have. I want the acceptance, of knowing things will never be alright. I want the comfort that comes from embracing this reality. I don’t want to feel. I don’t want to think. Life was better when I was dead inside. It is so much better than to continue living a lie.

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My intended focus this week was to break down, analyze, and apply my methodology to three single events with the intended outcome of making the correct choice. Do I stay or do I go? I have repeatedly replayed the same haunting moment of seeing my son still and quiet on his bike as he watched me get in the car to go to work. In that moment I could see in his eyes the internal conflict between acceptance and denial that his dad is slipping away. I could see and understand all too well the sadness he was trying so bravely to hide.

It is difficult for me to release my sadness and sorrow through the shedding of tears. The only time the outside world can see what I try so hard to hide, is when I cannot hold back my tears. At that moment, just as in this moment writing about it I cannot stop the tears. Many people say that crying is supposed to be this wonderful release of pent up emotions. It’s not like that for me. Tears feel like razor blades running down my face, slicing through self-denial and exposing my weakness and vulnerability. Regardless of how many times I have been told I am selfish and only think of myself, at the end of the day my meaning in life, and my purpose is to not break his heart. I am well aware I will never win the father of the year award. To be honest with you I don’t even know if I’m a good father. Despite what I am told I know I have always tried to be the best dad I could be.

After the series of events that took place yesterday, or would it be considered today? I haven’t slept for days so time holds no logical meaning. After said events the only answer to my opening question; is to go. There are only so many pieces someone can be broken into before they are unable to be put back together. I now need to come to terms with the sobering reality that I will become in my own eyes everything I ever swore I wouldn’t. I will become my fathers son. I am desperately seeking, yet fear I will be unable to live with the guilt, or forgive myself.

Children are not stone, nor are they steel. They are dirt and clay, molded by the hands of experience. There is no way to reconcile the loss of my son’s happiness and hope due to the harsh reality of my life, which I have viciously infected upon my family. Despite my frequent mental transformations I made the decision to get married and have children; in that single moment I destroyed their lives. I suppose I was caught up in the perceived human need for significance, by my own sense of insecurity. Here is where I cannot deny my selfishness. Broken dolls are meant to walk alone.

In moments like this I want to hide within the minds of Soren Kierkegaard and Albert Camus covering myself in the blanket of Absurdism. Believing all struggles for life is for nothing. There is only birth and death, and everything in between is our feeble attempt to find meaning and purpose. This concept is wonderful, but in the back of my mind I’m burdened with this question. What if birth and death were only two points, that they were inconsequential compared to what happens between them?

A month back one of my readers sent me an e-mail asking me if I could see signs of my mental illness in my children, and if I could have foreseen this would I still have chosen to have children. I have been thinking of this topic and the best way to answer. I do see some of my mental illness in my children, and it twists me up inside. I do not like the thought of my children suffering as I had growing up. Is it ethically wrong of me to risk brining them into this world knowing they were prone to this illness?

I wonder if that makes me selfish. There are many times I wish my parents never had me, but there are pockets where I feel grateful to be alive. What if my children suffer more than I have; is this fair to them? My youngest has clear symptoms of anxiety; this anxiety keeps him from making new friends. We were at one of my daughters’ softball games and there was a group of kids all playing together. I could see him watching them playing, my heart just broke seeing this. I tried to encourage him to go introduce himself so he could play with them. He was not willing to do that; I tried building his self-esteem up saying they would be silly to not play with you, yet he was to shy to go. Finally I offered to go introduce him, and he ended up having a blast. He also suffers from insomnia and perhaps bi-polar. I have heard he was just like me at his age. I hope this is something he out grows.

If this were a “my solution” society I would not be allowed to have children because of my illness. I am happy this is not the case, because regardless of what I passed along I love my children more than anything. I just feel this is a selfish outlook on things. If I was never allowed to have children then I would not have the regret of knowing them, and they would not even know because they would never know existence. I also wonder if me making the decision to not have them based off my mental illness is selfish. Who am I to say they will have the same life as me? Who am I to be their judge and jury? Either way I cannot undo what has been done. I can only hope they do not know the suffering I have. If they do then I would ultimately be to blame; this would be a heavy burden to carry.    

Even with this knowledge I would not change my choice. I would not want to know a life without my children. The thought of it brings a tear to my eye. My family is the lighthouse guiding me to safety on dark nights. I love them more than words can even describe; not knowing them would be not knowing myself.

If you are a regular reader you already know I suffer from a mental illness. This illness is a cancer upon my sanity, a cancer which can never be cured. There is no level of medication nor hours of therapy to fix what is wrong with me. The many doctors and therapist I have seen over the last eighteen years have labled me this or labled me that. Some doctors agreed, others changed my diagnosis; only to be changed once again. I have changed therapist like I change socks. I can’t see male therapists, and I have had a rough time finding a female I could trust.  

I have been seeing the same med doctor for fifteen years. He is a bit of a pill pusher, but I think he legitametly cares about my well being. Through the years we have tried almost every single combination of meds imaginable to try and surpress my problem. We have found certain things that will work good for this but works bad for that. I abused drugs for eight straight years which caused me to develop tolorence to meds. A combanation may work great for a few months then I either need to increase the dose, or change it all together. It has been a frustrating battle.

The most recent med experiment has worked out good in some areas but issues still linger. The problem I am having now is I cannot surpress my mania. The meds keep me from having downs, or psychosis manias. I am happy to say it has been around two months since I have slipped into the darkness. It feels good to have the light shinning in my life. These meds keep me either basedlined or manic. I do not mind the mania as long as it does not get out of control. It seems the only time I experience joy is in a mania; perhaps I am mistaking mania for happiness. I do know over the years I have felt very little sustained happiness; it is an emotion I am not famililar with. There is one aspect I am concerned about; my inability to sleep.

Lack of sleep increases my mania; I need at least eight hours of sleep to keep a leveled baseline. When I first started my sedative combo it worked wonders, but these last few months I have been unable to achieve my goal of sleep. There are certain nights I can sleep with little help from my meds and other nights I need many different seditives to fall asleep. On those nights I take enough seditives to put a horse down. I wonder what this combination and doses would do to a normal person? I would bet it is enough to compleatly wreck twenty people. I need to figure out an alternative; it is only a matter of time before these sedatives lunge me into a depression. I need to find one that will work as good as the eight I am taking now.

It is frustrating knowing there is something eating away at me, and not knowing what it is. How can you treat something if you do not know what it really is? How can I cope with an illness which has no name? I have finally found a therapist I can trust, and she advised I take a test to pin-point what is really wrong with me. She was hesitant to give me her initial diagnosis as to not confuse me. I will find this answer out on Thursday; even though I want to know I am also afraid of finding out what my diagnosis really is. I am embarresed and ashamed of my illness. I have been keeping it secret my entire life. I have had to put masks on for so long I have forgotten who I am. I only started opening up about my struggles when I wrote my book and started this blog. It feels good stripping my soul naked, and exposeing myself to the world.