No Title for Old Women


Yeah, I don’t even have a title for this blog post. And, I don’t know where to start its content…other than the image above. I’ve started, then stopped – second guessing, thinking better of what I was writing…

I don’t have any answers. I suppose I am a person in crisis. I also suppose I should count my many blessings rather than moan how I am so misunderstood and ill-used. And, I suppose I shouldn’t share how the idea of my imminent birthday is making me sick to the stomach. Ooops, there I go again…sharing.

Forget it. I was never here. Oh, if only that was so.



I’m trying so hard to get well.  Very few will ever know or understand how hard I’m trying. How miserably I’m failing, however… that can clearly be seen.


I feel like a fucking nhs guinea pig!  They’ve increased the meds that do not work.  Ah, yes…this approach is so damn logical, isn’t it?  Let’s give the poor woman more of what doesn’t work.


So, the side effects of the increased Duloxetine is making me feel sick, more anxious/on edge/weepy/paranoid than usual, and – the icing on the disgusting cake – urinary tract/bladder infection symptoms. Oh, fucking joy.

Yes, I’m swearing. Yes, I’m angry. Yes… I’m tired.


I go through this, then I go back in July when, oh, let’s hope again /sarcasm, that they will actually give me something to HELP!


Is it too late? Has it been too long? Was there never any hope in the first place and no chance of real help until mental illness treatment is greatly improved? Am I unfixable?


I know, ultimately, things will get better. They will. Ultimately.  I will die, at some point.  Just not nearly soon enough for me.


I keep meditating, keep practising mindfulness. But, it seems like all the stacks against me keep getting stacked higher instead of there being lasting improvement; it’s just one stress/struggle/fucking “life test” after another.  I need a break.  A real break.


I’m so tired.