Like a knot tightening slowly in the stomach

Today I thought about olanzapine and the two yet unfilled scripts I have for it. Part of me turns in repulsion from the thought, the other, more practical side is pushing me to have some here just in-case, as it may be crucial to having it on hand rather than starting it late.
I don’t know. It’s a difficult decision.
Filling the script doesn’t mean I have to take it, but even having it in the house may be an admission of pursuing a course of action I’m not entirely sure I want to take.
I don’t know what course of action I want to take.
The one that appeals to me most is to stop lithium.
I’m fairly sure I can’t explain that to you.
In any case, for various reasons, these thoughts have been documented. As I say, someone somewhere is measuring it all, some of them even with a tangible, physical presence.

I don’t know if talking about it will help. The only medical professional I’ve ever trusted is my GP who doesn’t have hours and hours to spare and who as he says isn’t trained in psychiatry which is perfectly understandable, it’s a specialist field. It’s precisely this lack of confidence he has though that appeals to me. Every health professional who has thought that he or she has known what they’re doing has either caused me harm or been hopelessly irrelevant, usually the latter.

What I would love is to cancel the normality from my life and spend six months with a highly intelligent, perceptive and impossibly patient woman with whom I could express myself both verbally and non-verbally. After this period I imagine we would be married, just while we’re dreaming, and we would continue to learn about each-other for the remainder of our days, no matter how shortly they are numbered.
The thing is, this is a dangerous fantasy, and I work very hard to keep it in check, though my success varies I think. Mental illness sufferers will know that it is extremely dangerous to try and translate the role of lover into the role of saviour, and it is all kinds of bad to ask, expect and contrive engagements to this effect; it is the horror of co-dependency. The irrational side of me wants a Jesus-woman who does nothing wrong, fully understands and magically heals me. The romantic side of me ignores my illness and fantasises about intimacy, affection and tenderness, or at most puts irrational faith in a woman who will patiently work through the difficulties of my illness and love everything about me, as I will her, that she will have that desire to understand me. The practical side of me prepares me for a life of isolation, and reminds me that this is the most likely way I’m going to live for as long as I can survive the rigours of daily life in a world in which I do not belong and that is slowly winning a war of attrition against my will and resilience.

I don’t think very far ahead any-more, I haven’t for a long time.
I don’t know why I would take olanzapine or continue my lithium. I don’t know why I would stop. Those decisions will be made at a time when I’m likely forced to make them, in either direction. It may be argued that I should make the decisions now while I’m in my right mind, as shortly I’ll descend back into the depths of disconnection, but I already think my perceptions are distorted. Things have already lost meaning. It doesn’t mean anything either way whether I take meds or not. It doesn’t mean anything to me the consequences of both, as there are terrible things waiting for me as a result of either. Terrible though is a vague term, triggered by some vague memory of horrified and confused faces, of hospital rooms and doctors, of needles and drips and blood-tests and CAT-scans. I remember looking at the pictures of my brain, progressive slices of some strange physical manifestation of what drives my body and thoughts. I thought this isn’t my brain, it’s something else, a random object, something with no relevance to me. Every time I look at that now, I don’t know precisely what I feel. It doesn’t look like me, feel like me. It’s someone or something else, like the machine was a gate to another plane of existence and captured something unearthly and inhuman.

Today several things alarmed me about my own actions, and I will tell no-one about them, either in life or here in my diary. They are of a romantic nature of-course, as you may expect from my behaviour of late, but it was certainly behaviour that was double-edged.
After my thoughts on the drive home and my circular thoughts as I’ve written this, the most romantic thing I can think of is that someone will stumble across my diaries and notebooks and fall in love with me after my death. The injustice of that seems to suit, for her and for me.