I will do whatever I need to. Wish I could sleep. Sometimes I think the people who are supposed to be helping me are trying to send me to the hospital by withholding medications that could help me. Lamictal sure as hell isn't reducing my mood swings. My bc keeps making me bleed all the time. I don't have anything to help me sleep because Seroquel was poisoning me and supposedly I'm a raging alcoholic who can't be trusted with Benzos. It's like, if I wanted to die by an overdose or mixing things I shouldn't be, it would have happened by now. I've got an pharmacy full of extra meds I stopped taking for one reason or another. Have no desire to take any of them. I hate the meds, but I probably can't survive for much longer without them. Plus, if I were ready to check out, I would make sure there wasn't any chance of survival and permanent brain damage. That would suck worse than dealing with my depression. Life feels like a limbo of insomnia, depression, mania, and hypersomnia. And everything is either coated in grey or yellow...like a sepia photograph of nostalgia or a gloom that can't be pierced. I will survive this episode like all the rest, but I'm constantly wondering why. Will I ever want to live just for me or will it always be just to not disappoint or hurt others?