On giving up and forced hope

I remember well the time that I got prescribed an anti-depressant. This was done by my Dutch GP at the time. She suggested it and I thought that I'd give it a try. This resulted in me trying Citalopram [1] for about two months before me quitting cold-turkey. The side-effects simply were too terrible to continue, in particular the emotional flattening and the disregard I felt for myself and my life as a result.

During my psychotherapy appointment earlier this week, my psychotherapist once again said that she would like me to maybe try it again. The reason being my obvious psychological suffering. Even if the search for an actual home and the resolution of my medical situation turns into a success this year, there's no telling how much I would suffer in the meantime. Or worse.

I understand the reasoning behind giving me that small edge to help me survive, but I both recall the revulsion I had back then at the thought of using anti-depressants, as well as the negative experience I had when using them. I'm also too familiar with SSRIs (and the older MAOIs) anti-depressants and how their effectiveness differs hugely per individual. As a result I'm not so naive as to expect miracles. It'd mostly help to kill off my feelings and emotions for a while.


Another point raised was to give up on trying to find a home to rent and instead focus on buying a house, as it would place me in a very different position. Less subservient and dependent on the good graces of some owner. Of course I would love to live in a (detached) home again, without having to share the place with other people (strangers). Yet even that road seems needlessly complex and filled with potential risks which can trigger my PTSD in the worst possible ways.

Last year's experiences with trying to find a new place to rent merely resulted in me suffering horrible emotional breakdowns, self-mutilation and more thoughts of once again trying to commit suicide, including points where I was very nearly ready to plunge a sharp knife into my abdomen or slice through my wrist.

I do not care to repeat such moments again. I have no death wish.


So there I am. Faced with some of the most stressful events in my life between finding a home and surgery preparations. People prescribing what should give me hope when it mostly makes me feel terror. The lure and likely false hope of more chemical experiments.

All that over a house and surgery.


Things which should be easy enough. Things which aren't worth dying over. Yet to me dealing with either topic is to flirt with Death itself, inviting it to take another swing at me.

People with boring lives are so incredibly lucky.


Maya


[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Citalopram