#seroquel my beloved

[ineffectualdemon]

I connected the dots!

I was like "holy fuck. Why is it so hard to sit down and actually write like I want to. This used to be so much easier"

I'm not taking antipsychotics

My fic writing boom coincided with going on antipsychotics

My "writers block" coincides with coming off them

I have to learn how to get myself to sit down and write despite my yo-yoing moods

Because honestly? Lot easier to focus and write when I'm stablised by chemicals

[wolfisland]

okay i sleep now peace

[s-e-a-s-l-u-g]

Tw vent

Headsup don't overdose on a medication you like because they will take you off of it :(

[hauntedwoman]

i <3 being unconscious

[libraford]

Psychosis, or as I like to refer to it: a micro vacation... that sometimes becomes a crossing-the-Gobi-on-foot full blown adventure. Exciting! Seroquel my beloved.

Gonna see if the birth control handles it first, but I kind of started the progestin journey during time of significant emotional disregulation so it's kind of hard to tell if it's doing anything.

[neuroticboyfriend]

i hate seroquel and am glad im close to getting off it, but my addict brain really misses being completely and utterly incapacitated every night even when sober. it made going to sleep so fucking easy. 25mg isnt enough. i need to be semi comatose.

but i dont get a free pass for drug abuse just bc its seroquel and im prescribed it and technically id be fine if i took 50mg instead. that's not how this works. we are going to be accountable for our own health and wellbeing and not roll back on years of trying to get put on an actual sleep med. not today addiction

sorry for monologing tonite i just uninstalled tiktok for the bajillionth time and remembered i can broadcast whatever thoughts i want on our beloved tumblr dot com

anyway 3 more hours til 149 days. i'll wake up around 10am still a sober man 😊

[ghoulodont]

well im not sure exactly what was happening 2 months ago when i made that but i wanted to say as of recently im doing a lot better and im back on meds that work with tolerable side effects (my beloved & beloathed seroquel) and things are normal.

whats interesting to me is that thinking is easier in some ways but harder in others. it feels like theres an artificially imposed structure to my thoughts. they can no longer branch out organically. i have to stay in a box. and im worried thats going to make it harder to write but i havent really tried because im not inspired by anything. or maybe its going to make writing less interesting because for me part of the joy of writing is constructing something intricate. things arent intricate anymore they are just plain and easy to accept. which is good for paranoia but bad when youre intentionally weaving a web.

what im trying to say is that i think my writing has always been a product of psychotic thinking and im a little scared im going to lose it in favor of things like being able to have a job and being able to go outside without getting scared of people and all of that. i wrote beta lactam in may which was when this episode started. and i guess ive been medicated off and on since then but this feels like im finally stable and maybe a little like a door is closing

[chistery]

400mg of seroquel my beloved

[heartshapedhackjob]

Beloved tumblr Friends today I got 6 hours of sleep last night and I took my dog for a beautiful little walk this morning in the sunrise also I am no longer on Seroquel my Seroquel era is over 💞💕💌💓

[lilworms]

seroquel my beloved

[blubushie]

Seroquel my beloved. Give me sleep and deliver me of this fucking headache

Life Pro Tip don't fucking argue before bed cuz I haven't had a wink of sleep and I'm exhausted

FML FML FML FML FML FML FML FML

[corpus-incorporated]

Sometimes genuine advice can come across as incredibly tone deaf when someone has a medically worse version of a common problem. Time management hacks for neurotypicals work for them but not for the person with adhd, and suggesting those hacks to them will only frustrate them further. The insomnia hacks for those who don’t have chronic sleep issues, the decreasing blue light, the not doing things an hour before before bed, etc etc etc will not fix the whole problem for those who DO have chronic sleep issues. When people suggest these things, say we shouldn’t rely on medications, that it’s unhealthy, don’t understand that these are not just mild inconveniences. Take them seriously.

[littlevampiregirl]

Quetiapine my beloved…..I miss my seroquel self. I was so tranquil all the time. It’s a shame it made me gain 30+ lbs and made my attention span go to shit though

[holeymolars]

god bless seroquel my beloved

[odball]

seroquel hangover my beloved

[this-mad-world]

Sometimes staying alive is worth it.

“Please… please let 2019 be better.”

As I retreated to my bed in the psych ward, I released these words into the universe while trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest: that 2019 wouldn’t be any different than 2013, or 2014, or years 15, 16, 17, and 18. Over half a decade of being trapped in what seemed like an endless relapse resulted in me losing my beloved job as a mental health technician, bouncing from hospital to hospital seeking the best inpatient programs, visiting the ER dozens of times for self inflicted injuries and suicide attempts, and undergoing multiple series of bilateral ECT. 

When 2018 shifted into 2019, I didn’t stay up to watch the ball drop on the Plexiglas-enclosed television in the unit dayroom. My meds knocked me out. But after dinner, I’d stood at the end of the hall and watched some fireworks through the shatterproof window. Little red pops of light had fizzled over the distant buildings, and I’d briefly wondered if it was okay to wish on fireworks instead of stars.

I rang in the new year by waking up at 7:30 to a tech taking my vital signs. The sunrise was a pale wash of orange and blue beyond the handmade Christmas cards I’d lined up on my windowsill instead of mailing to my friends. January 1st, 2019 was business as usual in the psych ward, opening with a bland breakfast, morning med pass, and community meeting. I can’t recall making any kind of profound resolutions. I just remember weakly hoping for a positive change. Nine days later, I was discharged. Eleven days after that, I relapsed and went inpatient again, at a different facility closer to home. And it changed everything.

It was so validating to learn that the doctor who had literally traumatized me during my previous visit to that hospital had a known habit of misconduct and was forced to resign as a result. Even better, I finally received the right diagnosis (bipolar disorder), and with it, the right medication. It didn’t work right away. In fact, I came so close to another admission. But I finally gained the mental clarity I needed to see that things weren’t going to improve if I stayed in the relationship I was in, so I did something completely, terrifyingly out of my comfort zone: gave up everything, left my old life behind, and moved to Miami in April. Everything literally changed in just three days.

In my new role as caregiver to a distant relative, I was essentially forced into stability. Because someone was completely dependent on me, I had to take care of myself as well. There was no other option. I used some of the downtime I had to study for the GRE, a crucial exam for graduate school that I’d been postponing for over a year because of anxiety. I dropped over 30% of my body weight in a matter of months because of the stress (I needed to lose weight, which was from Seroquel, but didn’t want to do it that way). Ultimately I survived, but was quite sick the whole time.

It quickly became apparent that my new environment was not one that would support my continued recovery. Despite re-entering therapy at the end of June (which was so scary!), I felt myself declining again. The panic was almost constant, I frequently found myself in tears, and worst of all: I was beginning to feel trapped. And when I feel trapped, I do whatever I can to escape, even if it destroys a little bit (or a lot) of myself in the process. I was determined not to let that happen again.

As I made arrangements to start moving out of my family member’s house, I was offered a volunteer position with the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), and soon after was hired as a patient safety technician at a major medical center in Miami Beach. NAMI has opened so many doors for me and has introduced me to wonderful, like-minded people I feel blessed to call my friends. It has also been a healthy challenge, as it involves a lot of public speaking (one of my worst fears). Although presenting still causes me to panic, I’m passionate about spreading awareness and ending the stigma of mental health conditions.

Like NAMI, my career at the hospital has massively forced me out of my comfort zone. I had every intention of working in behavioral health, but somehow ended up on the inpatient rehabilitation floor. I love it, but while caring for people who are physically in very bad shape I have learned that my heart really does belong to the mental health field. Still, I’ve bonded with my coworkers, my patients, and their loved ones over meaningful and unforgettable experiences. I watched a young woman laugh through her therapy for a stroke that nearly killed her. I was there when a man in his nineties took his first bite of food after nearly two weeks on a feeding tube. I witnessed my team work together to stabilize and ultimately save a patient who went into septic shock. It’s been so rewarding.

These past twelve months have been about establishing boundaries and putting myself first. I broke off an engagement that was toxic for me. Twice I left environments that were unhealthy for me. I turned down romantic advances from a mental health tech friend because I needed to give myself time to heal and reflect on the disaster that was the last six years. I’ve screamed and cried and seriously contemplated suicide. I’ve had painful goodbyes, relieving goodbyes, and bittersweet goodbyes (heck I’m going to miss my psychiatrist in Tampa; he was the best). I’ve made new connections and have reconnected with people I hadn’t seen in years. Everything happened because it was right for me. Staying sick kept me comfortable because it was familiar. This year, I had to be a person again, and it hurt like hell.

I’m hoping that 2020 is the year I go to graduate school so I can finally pursue my dream of becoming a therapist. I wish so much that my acceptance wasn’t so heavily dependant on factors out of my control (letters of recommendation, I’m looking at YOU) and I fear what will happen if I don’t end up going to grad school. I feel like I’m running into this new year blindfolded, and it’s scary.

But I didn’t come this far to give up now. I’m ready.