A Year Without Work

I just woke up from a dream where I was going back to work. I expect this is an indicator that I’ve been thinking a lot about work the last week or so since this week is the one year anniversary of when I left work the last time.

This time last year my head was filled with delusions galore that my boss was secretly trying to sabotage me and undermine the company we worked for. I alternated wildly between manically blurting things out and having panic attacks at my desk, before running wildly into the bathroom and crying. The paranoia made the cubicle whispering going on around me unbearable, but I didn’t once expect that I was delusional until I met up with HR and none of my evidence seemed to convince anyone of what (I thought) was going on.

As I became increasingly suicidal and homicidal, I pulled myself from work to avoid another hospitalization.

And I haven’t worked since. Not for a year.

At first, it was hard not to work. I would say the last six months it has been relatively easy to work on my own projects or simply relax as much as I can.

My mood has been wildly unpredictable the last couple weeks and getting worse. A morse code-like smattering of depression, mixed feelings, and powerful angry outbursts has me hoping that all of this is just my mood recognizing this anniversary and trying to relive something.

Unfortunately, November is full of mood-jarring anniversaries for me. All I can do right now is hold tight until my psychiatry appointment next week.

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