Every time I try to sit here and write something my mind becomes a blank. I try to think of some way to say what I want to say, to pour out everything going on at the moment, but I can’t think of one. Everything becomes jammed in my brain and I realise I’m fluttering through ideas so quickly that they’re not even fully-formed concepts I can write down, just snatches of feelings or thoughts that are abstract and incomplete, like parts of a sentence.

One idea-turned-monster keeps coming up behind me and swallowing me whole; I’m not allowed to exist. I must stay in my room, I can observe but not interact. I’m a pocket of conciousness in a vast universe. It feels half depressive and half edging into psychosis.

Writing this post is against those rules so I might not be able to publish this. But I need an out. I need another voice in the chaos to stop the rules from binding themselves into place.

I need to get to the doctor so I can get some medication.

But I know if that letter (that I never trusted her to write) isn’t written it’s going to become a more complex process, getting out of this place.

I feel like a failure, being in this place. I should have been better. I should have stood up for myself. My brain chemicals should have fixed themselves. I should be what they want me to be. But I also feel so, so betrayed. What the hell did they think they were doing, leaving me here? Shouldn’t someone know better? Why was leaving me without medication ever a viable solution?

If that letter isn’t written I’m going to ask for a referral back to Nanette. She’ll know what to do and how to fix this. She’ll be angry on my behalf.

I need an out.


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