January 29, 2022

This is the second day of my complete withdrawal from Zoloft and Wellbutrin.  

So far, so good.  I've been off work since April 22 of 2021, when I left work after feeling like I was disintegrating after a hard day.  I just didn't handle hard days very well.  There are things at work I couldn't jibe with, and I won't point fingers.  But I will admit my lack of capacity to handle problems there, where the average person probably could.  In short... there's something very wrong with me.

I've been on Zoloft since 1996, and attempted to come off of it many times since.  This would be the umpteenth time I've tried.  But, I have a new arrow in my quiver, named psilocybin, and so far so good.  But it's early.

There have been a number of times since April 22 that I've considered suicide, starting with that day, when I damn near did.  In fact, there were many times in '21 where this was the case.  Before blaming any particular workplace, I have to look at myself in the mirror first.  Every job I've ever had has been a challenge for my mental capacity, and that's not normal.

I'm doing this withdrawal from psych meds on my own, since I don't have a psychiatrist due to the health care system's shortcomings.  The last one I had abandoned me.  Counselors have also given up on me.  But also, I don't have the funds to afford counselors anyway.  Here in Canada, that's just a fact.  You have to pay to play, so to speak.

I was on 150mg of Zoloft as of a few months ago.  Also, 30mg of Wellbutrin.  Those were prescribed to me by my psychiatrist before he abruptly stopped treating me.  The sense of abandonment by my health care practitioners contributes to my mental health struggles; not including my GP, who's supported me from day one when I sought help in '96.  I believe the last thing a doctor should do is give up on you.  I suppose those who did give up on me feel differently.

 BUT I DID NOT GIVE UP ON ME.

Neither did my wife and daughter.  Or my cats; there is one left, now.  Before you shrug, pets actually are family members.  They're not like them... they are.  

I have a number of friends who stuck with me.  Some did not, and left.  I do not begrudge those who left, but I'm heartbroken that they did, and to this day, they left me feeling like someone stranded on a deserted island when a boat came to pick them up, and they didn't bother to tell me.  Every.  One.

Family generally stuck by me.  Some did not.  All of them care, but to varying degrees.  Some care a lot; others, not so much.  That's going to have to be okay.  We all have lives to live.  I do understand, however, why people give up on me when they do.  If they came back to support me, I'd welcome them with open arms, and happy tears.

But the tears of sadness will have to suffice for now.

I have a hard time managing stress, with or without meds.  It's why I need counseling that I can not get.  But I need a counselor who actually cares.  I'm not convinced those people are actually out there.

Social media is hard to deal with.  Dealing with what I have, that being anxiety/depression/PTSD, it's hard to handle being with people in person a lot of times.  Which is why social media can be a great asset to me.  But it's also to my detriment.  To my discredit, I sometimes can be a very opinionated person.  I've refrained from that a lot lately, namely in politics, which is poison.  People can be cruel, especially if they're strangers.  I have to remind myself of that when I form my own opinions and make them known.  In short, I've learned to shut up.  If you can't say it to someone's face, perhaps it shouldn't be said at all, unless it's positive.

I believe this whole Covid mess is deepening the divide with each other.  It's heartbreaking to see such division happening before our own eyes in real time like this.  People looking for things to offend each other with, rather than finding common ground to celebrate.  I'm guilty of it myself.  And I'm trying to change it.
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Brain zaps are becoming more prevalent.  Although this time around with my withdrawal attempt, psilocybin appears to be making a positive difference.  I'm very hopeful, and cautiously optimistic.

The prospect of not being able to work again frightens me.  I suppose I just need to find a job that 'fits' with me; something I haven't had since I worked as a driver for 11 years before the job I have now (I'm 'officially' still employed, pending approval for disability benefits, which I've been waiting for now for months.  I do not receive unemployment benefits, either).  I can survive on benefits, but I can not thrive.  That is what frightens me.

And that is what contributes primarily to the stress I feel currently.  It affects my sleeping patterns, which are integral to improving myself through this ordeal. Essentially, my wife is supporting me financially.  I find that prospect rather emasculating.  With respect to others in the same type of situation.  I am a man, after all.  One with a sense of pride.  Pride that is diminished.  And continues to deepen.  I currently do not fit the description of 'the provider' in any way.

Being on anti-depressants takes away my drive to pursue my desirable goals.  It's a frightening feeling.  I often experience people who profess 'the power of positive thinking'; that if you just change your mindset, things will change.  I find this observation insulting, ignorant and insensitive to people like myself with chronic mental illness.  No two lives on this earth are the same, and no two should be regarded identically.

Since being on psilocybin, however, I've been feeling more of a spark to partake in things I used to love.  Things like playing my drums, learning other instruments, reading books, and learning in general.  All of those things are quelled substantially when mental illness and/or medications are involved.  

I've started writing reviews about books, movies, etc. in a separate blog to try to rekindle my interest in writing.  Although hardly anyone reads them, I'm exercising my brain and my willingness to actually do it.....  to spark myself to improve upon my writing; whether or not that leads to anything is anyone's guess, though I know the odds are vastly against me.  But I've always known it means more to try than it does to succeed or not.  Just writing this very blog/diary is testament to that fact.

Ultimately, I need to discover what it is that I'm good at if I'm to find a way to enjoy working.  Seeking approval for my writing, playing drums, art, etc. is something I need to overcome.  But I do need approval from someone if I'm going to make a living from it.  Someone who can reward me financially for seeking my passions.  Even if there are no financial rewards.  But I can't make any kind of living off of "atta boy"s.  

Thus, here I am, at the very outset of my journey away from pharmaceutical assistance to coping with mental illness.  Pharmaceuticals have saved my life.  But just saving my life doesn't necessarily mean improving it.

Improving it is what I now seek to do.

I want to feel again.  I want to live again.  I want to disperse the fog. I want to wake up.  I want to be able to cry without sadness and shame.

And crying is okay.  I've been told by others in my past that it's a sign of weakness to cry.  Hence the shame.  God gave us tears so we could have a tool to release.  But that release should include an overwhelming sense of happiness.  I want to feel that.

Now here I am in the starting blocks.  I will not burst out of them, because this is a marathon.  I do not expect to win this marathon, but I expect to finish it, and to do so with pride.  And I know I have my wife and daughter cheering me on.

But I'm going to win.