Finally, some relief

Finally, some relief--I think I have been released  from the hell of  psychotropic drugs.  I still cannot concentrate, and suspect some kind of speed (or maybe, my system is just still trying to clear out the drugs), but I feel SO much better, that I cannot help but feel grateful.  I tried to memorize Psalm 6 yesterday while I was in the bosque.  I failed pitifully because I could not sustain concentration from one line to another, but God must have heard my prayer, because there was an answer.  Just in time, too, because my ability to perceive and interact with reality was becoming tenuous to the point of being unbearable.  I could drink an entire bottle of wine and not feel drunk--only slightly better.  I had taken a garbage bag from the kitchen and meant to throw it into the outside garbage can on my way to the car.  While driving down the road, I wondered what I was smelling, looked over, and saw that I had throw the smelly garbage bag into the passenger seat instead of into the garbage can.  I was losing track of days and dates, and somehow (still haven't figured out), missed certifying for my unemployment benefits, which is the most important action I do each week to ensure "my daily bread."  Not only did I forgot to certify, but in addition, I went to the post office twice, looking to pick up my check, absolutely certain that I had certified by phone as required.  The first time I made the mistake of going on Tuesday, and checked myself when I realized that I had went on the wrong day, telling myself, "you know better--you should go on Wednesday."  But Thursday came around and no check.  I called, and learned that I had neglected to certify.  Geez.  That extent of cognitive deficiency is  more than forgetfulness--I was "losing it."  I was losing my ability to dream too--literally.  It is very weird.  I know that some images must have been going through my head in my dream world, but they were so far away that there is no way I could relate to, or capture them.  Even last night, my dreams were like that, but I had one weak memory of an image of a female senator, and I woke up feeling like I had worked out something in my dreams. However, the dreams the two nights previous to that were truly nightmares.  I only remember one weak image from each night--they were the same.  In both of them, I was bleeding to death.  In the image from the first night, I was tied to a stake, helplessly unable to move, while I was being bled to death (by others).  In the second image, I was bleeding to death through my feet, and it was very helpless to know that I could bleed completely to death through my feet.  Anyway, I think those images are interesting because last night, I had an incredible blood rush to the brain.  I was a little panicked as I felt the pounding and heard the whooshing of all this blood rushing to my brain--especially since blood rushes to the brain are accompanied by severe migraines, and I worry about aneurysms on account of all the drug traumas and damage my brain has suffered in the last two years.   But I survived with neither migraine nor aneurysm; instead I woke up with the strangest craving--for pancakes.  I never eat pancakes.  I don't particularly like pancakes, and most certainly not for breakfast.  My body cannot handle sugar and carbohydrates on an empty stomach.  But the craving was intense and undeniable, so off to McDonald's I went.  Surprisingly, the pancakes didn't cause that sick, blood sugar spike and hypoglycemic crash like it normally does.

So what does all this tell me?  I am almost afraid to say as I fear that I will provide more ammunition to my enemies, who I am sure, are not done yet with force-feeding drugs into my traumatized and exhausted body.  (Who are my enemies?  My enemies are those who will not accept my free choice and free will in deciding, affirming, and committing to identity and action, but instead, constantly abuse and damage my body and brain in an attempt to coerce me into an image that conforms with their needs and projections.  No matter the excuse they cite--saying that I am "schizophrenic," or "manic-depressive," that they are protecting me from HIV, that they have a great role for me to play, etc, all their efforts boil down to one essential element--preventing me from being sexually active in a lesbian relationship, no matter what the cost.  They have already failed, and their abuse has alienated me to the point past any return).  All this being said, I know that there are medical professionals out there who do really care about me, and I know them when I see them (even if I seem to be in a proto-psychotic state), and sometimes, even when I am separated from seeing them. So I will say that my dreams were telling me that the anti-psychotics were somehow depriving my brain of blood and nutrients, so that a blood rush ensued once the constraints were lifted, and an intense craving for blood sugar glucose resulted. (I wonder if blood-glucose starvation were the reason my legs and arms were heavy to the point of numbness and immobility).   It would have been a good day to go to the bosque again, but I am so exhausted that I just want to stay at home and rest, even though I still feel that I am being drugged.  Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.