Frustrated. Yep.

I'm thinking this is going to turn into a mini rant. Let's be honest, I kinda know it is. Because writing is a good way to sort out my thoughts and get stuff off my chest.

I feel so weird. I'm not quite sure how else to describe it. I feel frustrated, restless, confused, conflicted, unsure, impatient, up, down, and everywhere in between. I'm fidgety and need to move but I feel stagnant and I can't or don't want to move. I'm in this strange limbo.

See, I've been feeling better. Pretty good for almost the last 2 weeks. It seems like the Welbutrin is kicking in and then I had my big "ah ha" moment in therapy about not wanting to get better. On the up and up. I even had a few days where I was hypomanic and felt really good. Big sigh of relief.

So why these mixed feelings . . . ? I have no idea how to "feel good" or "normal". It's foreign to me. I've been depressed or mixed for so long that I don't know stability. I don't know what to do or how to act or be or anything. It's unsettling. And, quite honestly, terrifying.

And how bizarre is that, really? I have no idea what it's like to feel happy. Just . . . happy. I used to know. I had a period of almost 6 years where I was stable and happy. When I first met J I was manic. Coming out of a horrible relationship and I had been out of control for about 3 months prior to meeting him. And he calmed me down. I don't know how, but he did. I slipped into hypomania, and then into "me". I was happy. I was content. I was who I was meant to be.

When we had been married for around 2 years, I became hypomanic. And I almost ruined my marriage. The depression that followed was bad and I was suicidal but I pulled through it. I saw a counselor at the college, we saw a marriage counselor a couple times, and I pulled through. I was stable again. I was me.

And then we decided to have a baby and I was pregnant the week I went off birth control. Literally. My pregnancy was hard for me. I hated it. Loathed it. My anger was through the roof and I was becoming depressed. And I hid this pretty well I think. After my son was born, the depression got worse. I downplayed it as much as I could, but by 5 or 6 weeks post partum I needed help. I saw my primary and was put on Lexapro (post partum depression the diagnosis).

The depression eased briefly, but, as insidious as depression can be, it came back. My meds would be increased or changed. Each time we changed or increased my meds, I was hypomanic for a week or two and then would slide back into depression. These brief periods of hypomania got me in trouble at work and had J wondering if I was bipolar.

When my son was about 3 (2010), my primary doc started to question me more deeply and suspected that I was bipolar. We added Lamictal to my Zoloft and I became highly hypomanic - so much so HR was involved because of my behavior. So I stopped taking it and tried to find a psychiatrist. I didn't find one accepting new patients until January 2012. The day after seeing Dr. C for the first time I only narrowly escaped slitting my wrists.

From January 2012 until now, today, I have been either severely depressed or mixed. I haven't felt like "me" since 2006. Seven years of not knowing what stability or consistent happiness feels like. SEVEN. FUCKING. YEARS. And two of those 7 years have been complete hell; a nightmare.

And yet I wonder why happiness feels foreign to me. I wonder why "feeling good" confuses me. I don't know how to be happy anymore. J and M say to "just be - you don't need to do anything. Enjoy it." I don't know how. I don't know how and it scares me. Is it any wonder I sabotage myself when I start to feel better (mostly subconsciously, lets get that straight)? Why would I want to get better when it feels so wrong and scary? Why not stay where it's comfortable and familiar?

Because it will kill me, that's why.

J misses the old me. The me that was carefree and happy. The me that was stable and didn't overdose or need to be hospitalized. And I want that me back - I really do. For J, for myself, and for my son. But I'm terrified of the process and I'm terrified I'll fail. I identified part of my problem and I'll be working on fixing it. But I start to feel better and it feels so strange and I don't know what to do because I don't want to go down the same path. I don't want to sabotage myself and I try just to be in the moment but my brain doesn't work like that. For all my artistic qualities, I'm analytical. I turn things over and over again in my mind. I overanalyze things. And I try not to over react or catastrophize days like today where I come home from a training class and cry because I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. And my mind automatically starts to cascade. So I put my foot down and say "NO. This is NOT what I'm doing. I am NOT going down this path again."

But see, I was starting to feel good again, and it confuses me and I feel strange and alien in my own skin. And my meds are starting to work, and I did identify a major problem so I should be good, right? I'm feeling better so I should be better. But I feel strange and alien and confused and scared and I beat myself up for that. I should just feel better. I should just feel happy. I shouldn't have this conflict because I know what's going on and I get frustrated. I get frustrated with myself and impatient that I'm not done with all this. I figured out the problem, I should be good!

The impatience and frustration and self deprecation breed shame and defeat and complacency. It breeds failure. And all of this feeds the depression and I'm back where I started. At the bottom trying to crawl my way out of the pit I just threw myself into, wondering what the hell just happened - I was starting to feel good!

I know all this. (Obviously - I just wrote it all out). And yet I do it. Over and over again. I'm trying to stop it today, at this very instant, by writing all this out. I can see this happening, right in front of me, and I'm terrified I can't stop it. I'm terrified that for all of my work and good intentions and insight I will fail and this cycle will continue. That it will continue until either J leaves me or I end up killing myself.

Hello again

It's been a while since I last wrote, and quite a bit has happened. A lot has happened. And I'm still trying to process it all. I don't know how much will come out in this post, I have no idea.

We'll start by saying that I had some more crappy days. Followed by a few good ones. And then some crappy again. Two weeks ago in therapy I was bad. I was low. M suggested hospitalization again and I said no. He told me he was at a loss. He didn't know what to do at that moment. Stay present? Dig deeper? That day all he could do was support me. That was a Thursday.

And Friday happened and I was a little better. And then weekend I was pretty good. Hubby, son and I worked with mini horses for a few hours, grooming, picking hooves, laughing. Sunday hubby and I spent the day touring the parade of homes (an annual event where different homes are showcased - usually expensive fancy ones that are neat to look at because shit - I'll never live in a home like that). It was fun and I felt good. I felt good.

That feeling continued. And I made a decision. A tough one. I decided to face the root of my problem. Something I've avoided and denied and buried. But something that finally needed to be addressed.

I don't want to get better.

You read that right. I don't want to get better. Which sounds stupid and counter intuitive. And here's the kicker: I actually DO want to get better!! I'm tired of feeling like shit all the time. I'm tired of how I act around and treat my family. I'm tired of everything I've gone through and yet . . .

 See, when I'm depressed, it's much easier to stay there than to fight - because fighting is exhausting. And I've been depressed literally most of my life. It's almost my natural state. It's what I'm used to - it's comfortable. It's familiar. But that's not the half of it. If I get better . . . I don't have this . . . thing making me somewhat unique. I have this internal struggle going on, I'm brave and strong for fighting it. So strong for being able to put on that mask and do what I'm doing. And I am - I am brave and strong for doing that. No one would deny that. And in doing this, I'm getting attention. Attention I've been seeking my whole life. Knowing that I'm loved and cared for and needed. And if I get better, that all goes away.

Now, I want to make something perfectly clear: MY DEPRESSION IS REAL. MY BIPOLAR IS REAL. The pain I feel, the emptiness and sorrow and hopelessness - all real. The utter despair that drove me to overdose 3 times - real. NONE of that is fabricated in any way. It's there, it's real, and it sucks. But the reality? I perpetuate it. I let my thoughts spin out of control sometimes. I keep a pessimistic attitude. I temper any joy or happiness I might feel with the thoughts that "it won't last - an hour from now I'll be crying and want to die." I'm not allowing myself to get better because if I get better, the attention goes away.

And that's messed up. I could have easily killed myself with my overdoses and for what? So people can go "oh poor Cami, she has bipolar, she's depressed, but look at how well she's doing! She's an inspiration!" Yes. For that. And to prove to myself that I have worth and that people care about me.

The depression is there - I think it's always there, and will always be there - but I know how to manage it. Sometimes it's a lot harder to do. Genuinely harder to do. And sometimes . . . I make it harder to manage. When I feel myself getting better, I think I make it harder. And when I make it harder, it is harder. And then I spiral. And I let myself, maybe even nudge that. And then I feel like dying and I'm terrified and all I want to do is feel better and not do this again and why the hell am I back where I started??

Because I put myself there. And I'll put myself there time and time again until I finally put my foot down and say enough is enough. Which is what I'm trying to do now.

I'm realistic about my disease. I know I'll have relapses. True, genuine relapses. But if I can manage that shit above? The personality flaws? Then my relapses maybe won't be as severe, or last as long.  And that's what I need.

And a swift kick in the ass if I start to self sabotage again. Form a line, people. Form a line.

Stupid

This entry might be a bit messy, certainly not poetic. I have a flurry of confused, scared, angry, and desperately sad thoughts running through my head. I'm trying to make sense of them and I'm only partially succeeding.

I've been doing crappy. We know this. I've been sinking again, floundering for my happiness. And then something happened. Something that I thought was wonderful and amazing and gave me hope - real, concrete, tangible hope. And then that something was taken from me. And I've sunk again.

I worked with Chance on Friday and was told that he was being retired and possibly put up for adoption. The whole session my brain churned with "what-ifs". What if I could adopt Chance? I could see him and groom him and work with him every day. I could have my dream. These thoughts were a whirlwind. So much so that I filled out the adoption paperwork after my session. It was a long shot . . .

Yesterday I got an email from N saying that Chance's previous owners were okay with him going up for adoption. I cried. I sobbed. I couldn't stop. I thanked God and cried more. I should mention that I've been needing an emotional explosion for the last week. This email . . . it opened the floodgates. So much came out. Joy and hope with Chance, sorrow and hate and sadness with everything else. I talked to J - he said we'd discuss when he got home.

I looked up boarding facilities, researched hay and feed prices . . . you name it, I looked it up.  When he got home I bombarded him with all the information I had collected. And he said we couldn't afford it. A slap in the face. I was dumbfounded. My eyes brimmed with tears, lower lip threatening to quiver. I fought back the tears, briefly, and shut down. It didn't last long. I went to the bedroom to let it out. I cried hard again, but silently. I didn't want him to come in. But come in he did. And I shut myself down further.

Shortly after that, I went to bed. I slept with the Chance plush I had made myself.

I'm in shock over how much I'm mourning the loss of a horse I never even had. I feel like a failure. I feel like I've failed him. I feel like I've failed N because I can't adopt him. I feel like I've failed the few people I told about the possibility. I feel like I've failed myself. My husband. My son.

And that makes no sense. But in a way, it does. I pulled a very bipolar stunt - I was impulsive, jumped in feet first, and failed to see the big picture. I latched tightly, insidiously, to this glimmer of hope and plowed forward moving entirely on emotion. And, as what happens often when I do something like this, I'm devastated when it doesn't go my way.

Now, being hopeful and excited that a dream might come to fruition then having it fall through will create mourning and sadness in anyone. Don't think I don't know that. This isn't a feeling unique to me because I have bipolar - this is a feeling experienced by everyone at some point. It's normal. It's natural. The bipolar bit - the bit that is the most frustrating - is my overreaction to it. The amount I've been crying, my anger, my complete feeling of failure and hopelessness . . . that's not normal. See, I was already feeling and doing kinda crappy, and now I have this superimposed on it.

I'll get through it, I'll move past it. I'll try to separate what feelings are normal versus my overreaction. I'll try not to overanalyze. I'll try not to beat myself up. I'll try to be gentle. I'll try to remind myself there are other things worth being happy about.

I was going to say "other things worth living for". But I'm trying not to be fatalistic, even when I feel that way. I have reasons to be happy and positive and optimistic about . . . I just have to remember how to be that way . . .

Rats

Oh God. I feel so horrible right now. So utterly lost and empty. I'm floating in a no-man's land of nothingness filled with poison and self-hatred and despair.

It's a purgatory of sorts, though I am the sole resident. There's no light, no windows, no doors. Every once in awhile I hear a soft chattering, a rustle of tiny claws, as the rats of hell and depression scutter by, stealing pieces of me. They're trying to take them all, those rats, until there's nothing left. I think they've almost succeeded.

I'm writing this at work. I wish I could hide right now. I wish I could disappear. I wish I could crawl inside myself and tear those rats out. Those goddamn rats . . .

So much could be causing this. The bipolar, the med changes, the overdose, hormones, who the fuck really knows . . . It's probably all of that. And maybe more. But this feeling of being in limbo, not really feeling, a little dazed, withdrawn, confused . . . I just. . . I don't know.

The only thing I do know is that the rats are tenacious. And hungry. I feel their eyes on me. Dull and glazed over, they pierce my every defense. Fighting these rats has become my existence. It's exhausting, going through each day struggling, trying to distract yourself long enough to go to bed, only to start it over the next day.

And still I push on, in spite of them. It might be easier to let them take me . . . but that's not an option. So I fight these rats. I bait them and distract them and remember who I'm fighting for. These rats, full of their plagues and lies, can't win.

So I push on and I fight, even when the soft squeaks sound alluring.

On Overdosing

Don't.



. . . . If only it were that easy. Sadly, it's not.

There are, in my opinion, two types of overdosing: accidental and intentional. Makes sense, right? Well, it's a little more complicated than that. I think you can have intent, however subtle, and then accidentally overdose. So it's both.

That's what I did. I intentionally, accidentally, overdosed. This happened last Monday (July 29). What a day. It was a bad day. Dark clouds hung around me, threatening to consume me. It started with an appointment to Dr. C where we changed my meds. Yet again. The appointment for me was very weird, very surreal. He was distracted, I was down and apathetic. I didn't really feel anything was accomplished. Stop Cymbalta, start Wellbutrin. Awesome. Thanks. Let's see how I do. I left with tears brimming and it took everything I had to not sob the whole way home.

I spent the rest of the morning in a depressed daze. I sewed, I texted my best friend, I cried. I wanted to escape. That pain was back. That darkness. The fear and hopelessness and sadness and depression. I hurt. I hurt so bad. I had been sucker punched and everything negative invaded my head. All you do is change meds, change meds, change meds. It's hasn't helped. You keep coming back to this. You're always HERE. It's pointless to try.

I sank. I fell, spiraling into a pit of despair with no hope of escape. I didn't care, in that moment, if I lived or died. I didn't care. I thought about cutting, but what purpose would that serve? None. What I wanted was to escape. To not exist, to not deal with these horrible feelings. Because everything was pointless.

I have risperadol in my medicine cabinet in case I get too manic. I've never taken it, but's a downer right? It would bring me down from a manic high, so surely it would help me sleep. The dose on the bottle is 1-2 tabs (each tab is 2mg).

I took 3. Only 3.

See, my intent wasn't to overdose myself. My intent was to sleep. However, I didn't care if I lived or died - let's keep that in mind. I wanted to escape and if I died . . .

Subtle intent.

I spent Monday night in and out of consciousness. Literally. I could not keep my eyes open. I had a hard time understanding anything said to me. When I did try to stand, I couldn't walk in a straight line and the world threatened to collapse around me. I slurred my words. The whole thing is a blur - I only remember little snippets of the night. But I know I just wanted to slip into a drug induced coma.

But my hubby, J, wouldn't let me. He pestered me to keep me as conscious as he could. I hated him for that. In the moment, I hated him for that. Let me be. Let me go.

But he persisted. And had he not, I truly fear how bad it could have gotten.

Tuesday came, and I could still hardly stay awake. Thank God my son stayed over with a friend all day. Again, I was in and out. But it was sleep this time - not consciousness. J had said I had to text him every hour or he would admit me. I set the alarm on my phone and went to sleep. The alarm went off, I texted, set the alarm for an hour later, and went back to sleep. That was Tuesday. I know I showered, but I don't quite remember it.

J and I had a talk Tuesday night. A hard talk. A long talk. I hated how I felt Monday and Tuesday. It was terrible. I've never been so terrified but apathetic at the same time in my life. It was all very confusing. No, I won't do it again, trust me. Yes, I'll stop being an ass and I'll call. I'll reach out.

And then J said something that was a slap in the face. A completely profound and nasty thing to say to me. And all I could do was cry.

What's your earliest memory of your mom? Because that was you last night. Is that what you want A to remember?

My first memory of my mom . . . I think I was in kindergarten, maybe 1st grade. A's age - 6. She was drunk, passed out on the floor. My brother, who is younger that me, and I were home alone with her. And we couldn't wake her up. And it was terrifying and scarring and I mean fuck - I remember that shit.

And that was me.

Subtle intent. An accidental overdose.

Don't.

It's what I tell myself. And I know better, I do. But that's my 3rd overdose in a year.

Sometimes, the need to escape myself is more than I can bare. I've been trying so hard to be well, and it's tiring. Sometimes, I want to give up. And sometimes, I do.

Subtle intent.

Don't.

I won't. I promise.