Sometimes I think it would be easier to have multiple personalities. Ever since my military service and my “traumatic event”, as the VA would call it, I have been diagnosed with adjustment disorder, anxiety, depression, and post traumatic stress disorder. When I actually say these things out loud, and only to myself, I sound like a fucking mental patient.
“Hello, my name is Kat, and I have the following medically assigned disorders, wah feel bad for me”.
I think it would be so much easier to live the life of Sybil. I would take all those disorders and assign them to different personalities. So “Kat” could only deal with one and Mary, Samantha, Chloe, etc…could deal with all the other garbage.When I start to get out of control I can just hide inside my head and allow one of my alters to take the reigns for a bit.
And so it begins again.
200 mg of Zoloft tends to keep me in a constant state of blah. I don’t tend to get irritated as much, but I don’t get excited as much either. I actually feel like I’m floating through life avoiding my emotions. Which in some cases saves my ass from constant bickering with my family, and actually pulling my car over to bash the women holding up traffic because she’s texting while the light turns green. I hate that. One thing it doesn’t do is keep the hope of wanting a normal life from creeping into my brain and wanting to do extraordinary things with my life other than bitching about my disorder through a blog.
I have this habit of doing the worst thing in the world, getting on google. I go rounds with myself from researching awesome career fields that I’d love to try a hand at. I even go to great lengths of signing up for courses online buying hundreds of dollars worth of shit I don’t know anything about, but I know I need it. And taking the first steps of starting my new life. Everything is going to be grand. I just need to sit here and wait for a “light” conversation with (I know she’s probably nice) lady and talk about the process of getting to where I “think” I want to be.
And then my reality, my mushed up fucked up brain takes control. Let’s call my PTSD Fred. Fred likes to barge in at the most inappropriate times. For some reason Fred thinks it’s okay to turn up the temperature 50 degrees to make me start sweating in this lady’s air conditioned office. He also enjoys putting me on a jack hammer so my voice shakes every time I want to say something. It’s annoying having to wipe my brow and take deep breaths any time I want to contribute to this conversation I’m not concentrating on at all. Fred, in my opinion is a fucking bastard. He ruins my life when things “seem” normal. I hate Fred.
So I thank the lady, give her a hand shake and tell her I’m super excited about starting my new career and walk out of her office with a handful of paperwork. It ends up in the garbage can out back. I slip into my car and drive a few hours so my nerves calm down and Fred goes back to whatever part of my brain he resides in.