I miss my blog

Today's weight: 191.4, up 1.2 lbs since last week.

I've been spending too much time on Facebook, hanging out with people that I don't really like all that much and who certainly only brush the surface of me. They know nothing.

Did I mention that I sent Joanna a 500-minute phone card for Christmas? Self-serving, yes, but it was the most meaningful thing I could say.

Operation med-down is going well. I lowered lithium to 600mg, halved whatever I was taking of lamictal, 50mg of Lyrica (half), but staying at the 9mg of EMSAM. So far, so good. I knocked out seven other medications entirely.

My brain seems a little better in terms of cognitive function.

During these winter nights and weekends, I've been trying to get my piles and piles of clothes out of the basement. Since most things will be donated to people I know, I've been trying to iron everything. The sorting alone has been taking hours. And yet, I see no tangible progress. It's a metaphor for my life.

Ironing in the basement gives me a lot of time to think. What I think about usually leaves a melancholy trail of memories I'd prefer to forget. Mostly, I think about me. I suck.

the piles of clothes, the unconquerable massive clutter, the mystery "illnesses," the lack of friends, the bailing out on a lucrative career for one that has left me a person of painfully modest means, the being sucked into my mother's financial disaster when I was only trying to do something good, the lack of car maintenance, the lack of a sex life, the weight, the goddamned weight, the fucking, goddamned, disgusting, revolting weight that has made me into a pig person, the supposed mood disorder (or inability to manage stress and emotions), the oversleeping, the forgetting, the lack of exercise, the inability to maintain relationships, the short temper, the lack of attention span, the chronic misplacing and losing of items, the inability to cook, the abject lack of financial management, the inability to experience happiness or to feel love...

I am incapable of effectively managing myself or my life or even an adult life. When I reflect on who I am and what I bring to the world, I can only see a long, long string of personal failures. I am proud of nothing. I'm fat, I'm broke, and my house is tattered, half-assed, and so messy even I can't stand it.

I think of sense of self-worth has to come from succeeding at things that hold personal significance. Plenty of people will tell me that I'm a valuable asset and I've accomplished a lot. Maybe so, but that's a value I hold for them, not me. At 48 years old, I think I've shown my true colors, my abilities, and my failings. It seems doubtful I'm going to change, even as much as I want to.

I'm unable to entertain myself. I'm jealous of all of the people who travel and go to movies and lead interesting lives. I am dying from the prolonged effects related to an unbearably mundane life. Of course, there's plenty I could go off an do on my own, but that's not the point. I've done alone, and in the end, it just makes me sad.

Some pictures of what surrounds me. My office is just the work version of what you see here. I do not deserve to live. Someone else could use this life and actually do something worthwhile with it for themselves.

And, the home office...