I had a minor setback last night. Relapse, thy name is cheap cabernet. What’s even cheaper is I disgraced my loyal apertific gods and drank the great plum juice from a square glass. Heathen.
The wine, of course, was just a distraction from the inevitable phantasmagoria that would soon set in. Which it did. I was decently plagued with my mind’s purgation of forgotten voices or forlorn clicks and clacks. Schizoaffective Disorder is a godamned bitch named Betty (no offense to any Betty’s out there in the blogging world. I’m sure you’re peachy)
It’s not even the hallucinations that get to me the most- at least not this time. That house. All I see is trauma. I try my hardest to truncate my memories and salvage the good parts; cooking with my grandmother, dancing in the living room, painting, journaling in my bedroom. Yet, still, just like everything else, the golden light is gobbled by some monstrous colossus.
Growing pains, I suppose. It wasn’t all bad, though. I lowered my dosage a bit on both meds so that they can hopefully last me longer.
This morning I awoke to Allie sitting on my bed, gently pawing at my legs. My head was a bit spinny and I felt groggy. I made coffee, read my book for a little while in the sun, and got ready for work. I drive 40 minutes now to get to work.
Other than my small step backwards, I have nothing else to report. My body is subtly telling me that I need my medication. For now, I’m distracting myself with long phone conversations, my coloring book, and my dogs.