fishing for institutionalization

I want to be hopeful. I mean that in the most sincere way. Sometimes I wish I were one of those people; people to whom the future seems inviting, exciting, promising. I'm just not. Lately, however, I find myself faking it for my children. Not so much that I'm cheery or anything, but I'm finding things for them to get excited about in their futures, i.e. science and technology-wise.

But that's not really what I want to write about. That's just me trying to validate myself as a decent parent even though I'm completely fucked in the head.

 I canceled my appointments with my therapist and psychiatrist this week (not that I see the shrink weekly or anything). I had no choice really, but I wonder if underlying the drama that prevented me from going, I'm actually afraid of the results of my blood work. What if I look thin or unhealthy? I'm terrified that it's going to be recommended that I go inpatient or commit to a day program.

I'm just not doing well. That's all. Now that I'm taking benzos on a regular basis, as in overseen by a doctor, my OCD tendencies are a wee bit faded. I have nothing to put in place of my obsessions. I DON'T NEED ANY VACANCIES! I don't have room for vacant spaces within my psyche. It is there that the terror lies. Don't professionals get that about crazy people? I need my crazy, my insanity. It's all I know.

I don't know genuine happiness or contentedness. I don't know comfort or safety. I don't know how to simply be without feeling an undertow of panic and dread. I don't think I want to try being that way anyway. I could never trust those feelings. Never. Never. Never.

In a way, it makes retirement in an institution with endless thorazine seem rather inviting.  

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