Remember all that “progress” I was making a couple of months ago? Yeah, about that.
Predictably (to me, at least), I broke down awhile back and became unemployable once again, which means no more paychecks, which means no rent, which means no rental, which means back to car-and-couch living after a brief, pathetic belief that normal was within reach.
I’ve done everything I was supposed to do. Took my meds faithfully. Went to therapy. Made all the phone calls and followed up on all the so-called resources (when are people going to realize that TV lies about this stuff and it’s just not as simple as “call this hotline”? So many of the “resources” that are out there are so carefully guarded against anyone actually receiving them that they may as well not exist).
I’ve been started on yet another new medication. I think this is the fifth one in the past six months; I’m losing track.
And, predictably (to me, at least), all those people who were so gung ho about helping and cheering me on have been pulling away of late, presumably convinced, as always, that I’m not really trying. I should be used to it by now. I find myself wondering why I’m still bothering. Might just be stubbornness. I don’t really care.