u/innsuficient_medical

i scored an Olds Custom Cruiser map pocket thingy a while back. always loved the early 90s Olds and I was jealous that their wagons got these cool faux-leather pouches. It was in pretty good shape, but I hate blue interiors so I spent a small fortune in gray Plasti-Dip to make it match my Buick.

several mishaps with failed coating attempts led to me accidentally dissolving parts of the pouch's glued structure, as well as the Oldsmobile badge... luckily the Buick Limited badges are the exact same dimensions as the Olds. I hand-cut a new aluminum backer to stick the "face" to and replaced the velcro with magnetic strips.

tbh these things have very little practical usage, but I'm still so thrilled to have snagged one!

I often read what's posted here, yet I've very nearly never contributed. The idea seems impossible.

I was diagnosed maybe four or so years ago. If my psychosis was hell on earth, then my medication was its own distinct variation of torture. It made me fat, sexless, numb to the world around me. Maybe I could've tried a different treatment plan. I reckon I should've. For about two years I deigned to accept the medication and what it did to me. As of now, I've been unmedicated for nearly two years. I tapered off, slowly, acting as my own practitioner of medicine.

It gave some kind of life back to me. I hadn't regretted it, I still can't say I'd ever WANT to go back to the empty gray life I had with pharmaceuticals. I realize they help. I know they provide stability, a baseline function for mood and thought. I could only go back if I were actively hallucinating, unable to provide for myself. I haven't reached that point again, yet.

I've lost more than many would be content to ever enjoy. Today, I have family, a furnished home, my own car to drive, fulfilling work, hobbies. It's privilege. I realize that. I should be grateful, but it's little comfort compared to what's now gone.

I'd done unspeakable things in psychosis. I lost every one of the modest number of lifelong friends I'd had. I have to believe I'm like a ghost to them. Maybe they see me around town, or I cross their minds in distant, private conversations. I cannot believe they have anything good to say of me. If there is any positive effect I'd had in their lives, I can only imagine they'd consider my worst as a cautionary tale. A joke, at best.

My family's still there. They support me, emotionally, financially. Even still I can barely stand to face them. They know me. The pain I inflicted had nearly driven my mom insane. During one of my own episodes I had a fleeting, lucid moment where I witnessed how much it agonized her to see me this way, and how she herself could barely function. It was like contagious psychosis.

My dad can't look me in the eyes. He blames himself. His mother told me that he believes he failed me as a father. I wish I could apologize. I pretend I'm doing him a favor by staying out of his life now. I know he misses me. I miss him, too.

I don't know how much my sister knows. I think my parents tried to hide how deep I'd gone. We grew up as best friends. Maybe we still are, but I rarely reach out. She's even more lonely than I am, more needing and more deprived of friendship than me. But I can't. I fear she'd hate me.

During the time I was medicated, I met somebody. We dated, we loved each other. Even when he found out the horrible things I'd done, he stayed with me. We helped one another be better people. Encouraged us to be better, to try harder, to improve our station in life. Somewhere along the the way he gave up on me. He told me the spark was gone. He confessed he never believed I could change.

That didn't stop him from calling me over to sleep with him, to love him still, to keep me in his life. Then it stopped, and he told me it was a mistake. I think he regrets the three years he stayed with me. I don't know.

I don't know why I typed all of this out, besides the cathartic experience of making this forum post my own little diary. Maybe somebody reading it can find some benefit, to relate or find similarities in their own life. I'm just pissing in the wind. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.

When I read what other posts are made here, sometimes I relate, and begin drafting up a response before I delete everything and choose instead to hold my tongue. I'll try to contribute more someday, if I can. DEFINITELY in a more concise manner, rather than an essay like this