Le sigh...

I have known in my own mind for months that things were bad, but it's only now when my exterior is failing that others are starting to believe it too. It is frightening when you have no control over your own being; the things that you think, say and do, the way you react to others and how much your eyes can give away during periods of particular vulnerability.
I don't believe I am losing hope, rather that I have already lost it. I am coming to terms with the idea that I will be young forever in the eyes of all who know me and am almost relieved that by letting myself lose I really will win in the end.
I technically haven't given up. I have kept my appointments, taken my meds despite my dissatisfaction and have asked for help when the only way out I could see was black.
I went to see A. as soon as she returned from overseas. Having been so ill while she was away and not feeling completely confident about my state of affairs, I thought perhaps the visit would ease my anxiety as she has an uncanny ability to make light of flaws within myself without making me feel dismissed.
Perhaps it only reiterated my worst fears. She noticed the things that no-one else had; the weight loss, my tired eyes and now noticeable hand tremor. I admitted my hatred for my medication and its menagerie of uncontrollable side-effects, my inability to focus and struggle to maintain a minimum standard at work and my almost overwhelming desire to give up completely. If I had been able I would have cried, but my tears have been stolen by my heart which is turning itself a more melancholy shade of blue with every howl of sorrow that only I can hear. She placed a call to Dr Slime who was unsurprisingly unavailable so promised to call before I started work at 1pm.
I received a call from Dr S's secretary asking me if I could come at 3pm.
"No, sorry I have to work."
"Ok, we'll see you at the end of the week then as planned."
Confused, I called A. She was furious. I let her rant for a minute before she relayed the initial conversation she had with Dr S. She was reluctant to mention the possibility of hospital as I demonstrated the exact reaction she had expected. Promising to get him to call me, the conversation ended. I was stunned, before feeling worried, and anxious and ultimately terrified. I was just about to lose my last ounce of control.
I went to work. I can't say that I actually did any work, but I was physically there. My tea break was greeted with a voicemail from Dr S. Amongst a whole message of superficial concern and generalised assumptions he suggested to reduce my medication if I "feel safe". I almost laughed. I found it amusing that someone with an occupation requiring such a high level of knowledge and responsibility could still come across like the next dumb ass. By reducing the dose it left me susceptible to not having a drug concentration in my blood to stop me (fingers crossed!) from dying, but on the other hand, the current therapeutic levels weren't stopping me from wanting to anyway - go work that one out wise guy.
So I thought, whatever? That morning I had run out of capsules and in my haze had forgotten to stop for more. After getting that voicemail I decided I didn't need to worry. I was sick of spending time and money and hope and belief in everything that had previously let me down.
I pushed everything from that day out of my head and focused on being the presentable and hospitable host at my birthday cocktail party. The benefit of hosting such an event is that you are excused from conforming to acceptable party behaviour with the excuse of preparing food and drinks, welcoming guests and controlling the sound and aesthetic environment. The added benefit of a birthday is that there is no such thing as too much to drink.
Knowing full well that my imminent hangover would not appreciate the continuous mixed drinks, I keep drinking anyway. Even when the party moved from venue to venue and my standards slipped enough for me for be unfazed by the cranberry juice streaked down my white skirt, I disregarded the proposition that anything was a bad idea. The possibility of taking risks was almost thrilling, because I had convinced myself that I had nothing left within me to lose. At 3am I decided the idea of walking home from the city was much more appealing than the convenience of a cab and would have done so despite my heels if it hadn't been for a friend pulling me into a taxi and letting it speed off before letting me go.
This morning I woke up still drunk and spent the day ignoring my hangover. It wasn't until dinnertime that I wondered how much of my current state was alcohol induced or withdrawl? Not that I cared really, because when you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose.