I really do. . . at times.
Like yesterday. Yesterday was bad. Yesterday I wanted to slit my wrists and watch the blood flow. Watch the blood flow and feel myself weakening as I slip into darkness.
But I didn't. You know why?
Because deep down I know that I don't truly want to die. What I want is for the pain to stop. For my constant up and down (mostly down) to stop.
Here's a story:
Friday night I forgot to take my meds. I usually take them around 8-8:30. Well, I didn't. But when I went to bed at 10, I didn't realize I hadn't taken them because I'm so used to taking them at that time. I've been late taking my seroquel before and I typically have insomnia, tremors, nausea, night sweats, and racing thoughts until I take it (even if I'm 2 hours late taking it I have these symptoms). Friday night I had insomnia - I only got around 3-4 hours of sleep. But I had no other symptoms until 6am - I didn't figure out until then that I had forgot my meds (after having the other symptoms, I counted my seroquel and yep - forgot it).
Of course I worked Saturday. All morning I rapid cycled. I'd have depression with racing thoughts, poor concentration, and irritability. Then my mood would lift and I'd feel okay, I'd giggle a little, and become very talkative. Then my mood would plummet and be mixed again.
This happened until around 3. At 3 I became hypomanic. Euphoric hypomanic. I felt amazing. I laughed so much. I laughed at everything and nothing. I talked rapidly and became highly excitable. I had racing thoughts. I said inappropriate things. I was loud, and at times obnoxious. I cussed. A lot. In my hailstorm of activity and loudness and giddiness, I told numerous people that I was bipolar and didn't take my meds (people didn't need to know that).
But I felt amazing. Like I could conquer the world.
When I got home from work I was still giggling and talkative, but my lack of sleep was starting to catch up to me (in retrospect, this was probably good - if I had gone higher, or if it lasted longer, I may have needed to be hospitalized).
I had a great day. A wonderful, amazing, and happy day. Because I didn't take my meds. So I rationalized that maybe I should stop my meds. At least the seroquel. Now, seeing how my judgement was probably clouded, I asked my hubby and my best friend if I should take my meds. They both said yes, take your damn meds. Don't be a noncompliant idiot (my friend's words).
So Saturday night I took my meds like a good girl. I went to bed around 10. Hubby came to bed around midnight to find me unable to sleep, plagued by racing thoughts. My whole body hurt because I was so tired and my mind was going so fast. He had me take a benadryl to try and help me fall asleep, and an hour after I was able to sleep. I slept until 9am (I'm usually up by 7).
I woke up knowing something was wrong. Knowing something was off. Knowing that it was going to be a bad day.
I awoke depressed. I tried to hide and ignore it. I tried all day to hide and ignore it. How could I possibly feel so bad after having a day where I felt so good??
Throughout the day I felt increasingly more depressed. My thoughts became darker. I wanted to cut. I needed to cut - but I didn't. I tried to keep my anger in check, even as it swelled and threatened to consume me. I didn't want to be around anyone - including hubby and son. I didn't want to interact with anyone - including texting friends.
I thought more about slitting my wrists.
After putting my son to bed I broke down sobbing. I couldn't take it anymore. It was the ugly cry where your snot gets everywhere and was filled with utter despair and hopelessness.
I can't go on like this.
I told hubby that. I can't. I can't do this anymore. It's too hard. It's not fair. How can anyone possibly think that I can keep this up??
Over the past 3.5 weeks I've had suicidal ideation on more days than not. There have been 3 instances where I probably should have gone to the hospital (last night, honestly, was one of them - I really wanted to slit my wrists and I was feeling impulsive). I'm doing everything right. My therapist pointed that out as well - I'm doing everything I'm supposed to be doing. All the CBT stuff I've learned in therapy - I'm applying it. I want to isolate - I'm forcing myself to interact. I'm staying busy rather than just staring at the ceiling or sleeping (which is what I want to do).
And yet I continue to get worse.
I see my psychiatrist on Wednesday. I'm guessing she'll increase my seroquel again. To either 500 or 600mg. Then probably another month of "let's wait and see if this helps at all". I'll be curious to see what she has to say about the suicidal ideation (my therapist was a little annoyed that I didn't call her office to let her know about the suicidal thoughts - well, I don't know her well and I didn't want to be told to go to the hospital; I thought I could handle it on my own).
Something has to change. It has to because I truly can't keep doing this. I'm tired. I'm not hopeful (why should I be? Nothing has worked so far).
I don't understand why I have to exist. Can't I just disappear until something manages my depression? Until I feel better? Why can't I do that?
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