Photographs speaks a thousand words

Maybe just a few hundred words for me, but clearly it conveys emotions when I am robbed of my creativity to write and weave my emotions into pretty words and sentences:

^ That is me on Lexapro.

^ That is me on Trazodone.

I am starting to dislike my medication. I know it's only been two tries and my first change of medication, beginning on a monthly basis, but all this trial and error and discussing my colourful sex life with my doctor is doing jackshit other than taking away who I am. I feel like I'm a dead baby subjected to post-mortem experiments and multiple autopsies, even in the peace of death I'm constantly being violated and poked at. 

I feel so dumb and subdued. Every single time I tried to concentrate after each dosage or even hours after dosing, I can feel my mind glide off like sand through my open fingers, lost in the giant beach of time. I came to this page with the intentions of exploring my sexuality on the world wide web (not the smartest thing to discuss but hey, the best writing comes from personal experience and I'm just testing my boundaries) but it was impossible to gather my thoughts. 

If I wanted to do my school work I'd have to stay off the medication. Which is against my doctor's will. A routine I am terrified of breaking. What if I miss a dose and leapt right back into madhouse state? Will I become a bigger nutcase if I stopped medicating? Will I somehow interrupt treatment? Will I be affecting my own recovery? I mean I do enjoy defying his orders, Dr. G. F, ha ha nice acronyms his name makes, he's just this old, dark-skinned bloke with a face I remember as a blur because I disliked making eye contact with him. I feel like he's judging me every session when I speak about my past, my tendency for impulsive and rebellious behaviour, I don't like his dull black eyes, lifeless and cold. Obviously this occupation to him was just a job not a passion. He probably diagnoses with a text book and he sounds frigid as fuck and inflexible and square. Apparently the dislike is mutual. 

Now the sedative effects no longer work on me after day 2, I'm frustrated as a bitch on heat not getting any action and all the itch from those mosquito bites from nowhere are making damn sure my patience level is dangling on a thin string ready to snap. 

I'm tired. I want to sleep. I want to cuddle something. Someone. Can a someone be called a something? Because some people are so heartless they should be 'things' not 'ones'. I'm pretty much exhausted by how the two people who claim to love me most in the world are now giving me the silent treatment when in all narcissism, I believe, I deserve comfort and sympathy above this ridiculous cold war but hey, if you girls are not going to turn back and take me back after all that attempts I've made at mature, adult communication, watch me leave. And this time I mean it because I've lost everything, I've nothing else more to lose any more. Not even my life.