Slowly dying? (long post)

I don't know if this is what dying of stress is supposed to feel like.

My chest has this pressure on it and it's hard to breathe. My left arm and leg are numb and the extremities are prickly. It's kind of like I'm having a panic attack but without the feeling of impending doom.

I don't really feel like doing anything right now. I want to lie down or just go catatonic and not care about anything. On the other hand, I can get myself to do small things. Like, I wrote a RPoL post. Probably the only real effort I made today.

I spent part of the afternoon indulging myself...

...you know how. It's all jumbled in my head, how that makes me feel. I feel intense pleasure from the imagery, but then I feel intensely guilty for enjoying it. And then the guilt... it makes me enjoy it more. It's like I often describe: it feels right. Like this is what's supposed to happen, and this sick euphoria fills me and I... lose myself.

But then it's done, and I don't feel right any more. The pleasure is gone and I'm left with this emptiness. I don't feel good any more, and I can't think of what else to do to fulfill my need for punishment.

I'm sweating and my breathing is shallow. I try lying down but I feel restless. I sit up and it's like there's this weight sitting on my shoulders.

I think to myself: why am I still alive?

I try to remember good things in my life. Friends... games... writing... my website... things I like to do. Sometimes I might go to one of those things. I'll talk to friends, play my games, use my creativity in some way, and that emptiness goes away just a little. Enough that I can breathe again and I can at least enjoy part of the day.

But it doesn't fix anything. It just diverts my attention from the feelings I have when the distractions are gone.

Happiness is fleeting, for me. I get excited about things, but they are so often things related to fictional worlds and fictional people. I'm happy when I'm never thinking about anything related to responsibilities or real life.

My memory fails me when it comes to those things. I forget I should've been checking on this or that, doing some errand, signing some document or looking at information. I can't even deal with it when I do remember, because I invariably panic because I forgot this or that for so long, and then I start asking questions to Jon. Did this happen yet, did these people call, am I getting x or y now, why hasn't this happened yet, why are there delays...

It's very frustrating because I feel I have so little control over my life. I'll end up blaming Jon because he's the one who has to do everything for me. I'm often resentful of him for having freedom I don't. Because for me it's not so easy as just choosing to do something. I can't even choose if I don't remember it needs to be done. I can't choose if anxiety wears out my mind and makes my body too tired to work. And on top of all that, Jon doesn't even bother to talk to me about immigration and paperwork and money and etc. any more, so then I get this feeling he's hiding things from me on purpose, and feel even more powerless as a result.

Technically, though, he IS purposefully withholding information. On one hand, he says that it's for my health, because when I'm exposed to stressful situations my mental state and my body pay for it. He actually thinks I could die from chronic stress, and sometimes with the way I feel (like now, ugh) I could believe him. On the other hand, I worry that if I'm never exposed to stress, and living an overprotected life, I'll be lulled into this sense of security and I'll never be motivated to do things on my own.

So... I kind of waffle back and forth between those two ideas. Sometimes I'm grateful for the rest, because I feel completely incapable of taking care of myself. Other times I'm pissed off I've had to wait for 3 and a half years to do anything with my life.

I wish sometimes I could actually get some sort of compensation for the time I spent waiting and agonizing over waiting. But Jon tells me that's not possible because they'll just say I could have lived in my home country in the meantime. And it'll cost money to fight back and then they'll just hire better lawyers and I'll be stuck with this record that I tried to sue the government but failed, so I've no right to complain.

I mean geez. That might be true, but I would have liked a more supportive answer. I don't particularly want to be told the Canadian government thinks I'm nothing, that I will never get compensation for losing 3 and a half years of my life, and that the fact I'm sick (mentally sick, but still sick) doesn't even weigh in the balance. I don't particularly want to know it's my fault because I didn't want to stay in the U.S. and continue living with someone whom I believe abused me emotionally for my entire life before I left, or force my stateside friends to support me when I can give no particular length of time in which I will improve enough to be fully independent.

Sometimes there are just better times to talk about the truth. It's not like I don't already think I'd fail if I tried to get compensation. Besides not having the money for a lawyer, I don't even think anyone takes mental illness seriously. I'm constantly paranoid about that with everyone I meet, even people I know well. I ALWAYS think I'll be blamed for being lazy or unmotivated, and often I just end up blaming myself, too.

But despite the fact it'd probably never work, I still think that in a FAIR world I'd deserve something in return for my suffering. I despise "well that's just how the world works" answers. FUCK the world. I hate living in it if all I'll ever feel is that it's my fault for not making the right decisions, or that I'm using my depression and anxiety as an excuse. I hate living in it because the people who have made me suffer NEVER get punishment for what they have done to me. No, instead they have convenient excuses, or money to pay for their defense, or people who will happily make excuses FOR them, allowing them to feel that their actions are neither abusive nor worthy of punishment.

I despise being alive in a world so blatantly unjust. I despise myself for my failing memory and all of my insecurities that keep me from an independent life. And as usual, I'm stuck in a quandary. I have no lasting desire to be alive, yet I'm still HERE. And I'll probably continue to be, until my body gives out. =_=

Jon and I have been arguing a lot lately because of my resentment at him assuming so much control of my life. These are not fun times. I don't think that he WANTS control of my life, but he makes judgments based on what HE thinks is healthy for me or not, and doesn't always consult me. It's because of him that anything gets done around here, so I shouldn't resent him for helping, but I never asked to be so depressed and anxious and generally messed up in the head, either. If I had it my way -- if I were cured, or normal to begin with -- I'd be taking care of myself and my own business, and I'd CHOOSE to work with him, rather than it being a necessity. I never wanted to marry into dependency, so of COURSE I'm not happy that it turned out this way.

What I don't think he understands is that I despise the lack of choice. Somehow he interprets my actions as that I don't even want to share my life with him. No... I just want it to be voluntary, rather than a choice I had to make to survive. The latter is not a good basis for a relationship, at all. But I DO believe we could be happy together if I were not so ill. My depression and anxiety and panic attacks and chronic stress and so forth just cover the good parts of our relationship up.

Sad thing is, I don't think he will ever be able to differentiate between the me that is sick and desperate for freedom, and the part of me that loves him. No matter what resentment I have towards the state of my life -- and the unfortunate fact he plays a role in it by being my husband and legal sponsor -- I still love his company. I find his personality traits appealing, I love to share all of my hobbies and interests with him, I love that we can sit and talk for hours and hours about things both mundane and profound, and NEVER get bored. I find him both handsome and a good intellectual match.

But so long as I have this resentment in me, too, he'll continue to believe less and less that I am genuine about my love. I don't really blame him. It's just sad and frustrating. When I'm angry, I'm often not so much angry at him as I am raging at my life and my powerlessness.

He says that I get this look of such venomous wrath on my face when I'm angry like that. I AM venomous, but there's a limit to how much a person can take. I'm tired of feeling imprisoned in my apartment, I'm tired of not being able to do my own errands and phone calls (much less remember them), I'm tired of embarrassing myself in front of my friends with anxiety attacks, and I am tired of the government withholding my car, my passport, my health care and residency documents for months and months and months on end. So I feel EVERY right to be angry -- which ultimately leads me to target him.

I suppose that if my marriage survives me recovering from my emotional problems and gaining autonomy, I'll be a very, very lucky woman.

But right now... I need to concentrate on letting my body wind down from all this stress. :/