Escape is impossible

My psychiatrist has recommended upping my daily dose of lamotrigine 50 mg.

Why not? At my age I have been a 40-year experiment in the various effects of psychotropic medicine. What’s one little uppage of the dosage?

She made this decision after noting that I was going through some harder cycles with anger and anxiety. I made it clear that things were worse, but not dangerously so, not at all. But I was worried.

My supervisor had been detailed to the front office for 120 days, giving all of us a precious break from her Trumpist politicking and insufferable micromanagement. We have worked far more effectively and harmoniously without her than we ever did with her. Nevertheless, she’s supposed to come back on May 21 and I am at a loss on how to prepare for the eventuality.

See, her going a way was a bad thing for me because she was coming back. I tried not to let myself get too comfortable with not having a nervous breakdown every time she summoned me or walked in the room or I had to open one of her emails. In this case, I take solace from the fact that it’s not just me – the entire office, to a person, feels the same way. That makes it just a bit easier to accept, but just a little.

But I think I have grown too comfortable, especially because of the rumors she might stay in her detailed position, but it seems that that will not happen.

I had a very angry reaction at one of her interferences two weeks ago. She refused to let the writers of our newsletter use the term #metoo to encourage women who have been sexually assaulted to come forward. Instead she insisted on them inserting an impossibly long and cumbersome line blaming the media and certain politicians for the whole movement. If that sounds incredible, then you don’t know our boss.

So, I got angry and was calmed down by my co-workers. Afterwards, I felt stupid as usual, getting angry over something that did not concern me and I could do nothing about. But then it hit me – if I reacted that way with her at a distance, what happens when she returns?

The fact that politicking in our office is disallowed will not stop her, I’m sure, since she thinks she is above obeying what she will undoubtedly see as restrictions on her free speech rights.

So, what to do?

Avoidance will only get me so far until it is questioned. I can go back to diversionary responses or play Colonel Hogan to her Klink (see: Hogan’s Heroes for younger people). But having tasted the sweetness of not having to deal with her shit, I’m afraid I just won’t be able to last very long without an outburst.

And I don’t think lamotrigine, or even opiates, could keep that shrew off my nerves for too long. Perhaps thorazine, but then I could not work at all.

I am really worried about this. Every time I look at the calendar, I count down the days.

15210530_essay-about-running-away-gif_3c5ad85_mRight now, every little thing is annoying the shit out of me. I feel like just running – getting in the car and pointing it a direction and just driving. I have a wallet full of credit cards and an idea of a beach, but of course, I can’t. I have a passport and would love to find a quiet place in the moors in Scotland to contemplate my existence but again, there’s enough of my rational mind holding the reins to stop that.

And I hate it that I’m just not. . .quite. . .unbalanced enough to go off on a manic getaway. It always seems to me that I’ve spend a lifetime of trying to be a good boy and play by the rules and still, I have had to eat a mile of shit regularly from several people in my life, mostly work people but also, it seems, the rational mind. I remember the very very few times when I did just ‘get away’ (once to Disney World for a get together of Mystery Science Theatre 3000 fans) with wistful nostalgia.

I’m too old, I have too many responsibilities, I won’t get away with it. Other people somehow manage to do it (even Walter White’s phony ‘fugue state’ escapade) but not me. I always must stay within the lines and play by the rules and worry what everyone thinks of me. And I hate enough to cheer death when it comes.

Drugs are not the answer. There was a time when I felt that if I got the right anti-dep I would reach a state of blissful co-existence with the world. Pill after pill and nothing except side effects and flat affect.

I need to escape, and I can’t.

Being trapped in your head and your physical world generates emotional pain beyond measure. I’m not asking anyone to feel sorry for me – I write this for those who are going through the same thing, so they do not feel alone. Feeling are wasted on me because I have no way to process them anymore. If someone compliments me, I don’t feel I deserve it. If someone criticizes me, I spiral into rage and self-hatred.

And I tell myself, that if I do leave, I must eventually return to the exact same situation that made me flee in the first place.

There is no escape. Well, there’s death.

I have fought through four decades of this illness and tried to do the right thing. I meant well, even if it didn’t seem that way. And now here I am at 55 wondering what the hell I fought for.

This entry was posted in anxiety, Borderline Personality Disorder, BPD, death, depression, Distractions, donald trump, existential dread, Facebook, fear, getting old, paranoia, self care, work and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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