This really can't be as good as it gets

It's early - 6am - as I write this. I didn't sleep well and I've been up since 5. I've broken down sobbing once already, something I haven't done in probably 3 weeks. I don't know where I'm going with this post, I'm not sure what I'm going to get out.

Maybe some background:

It's been 2 weeks since my last ECT treatment (I go again on the 19th). The first couple of days after I felt pretty good, pretty "normal" (whatever that is). Then on Thursday the 8th I was manic. I started out hypomanic and was very giggly, fidgety, anxious, distractible, in therapy. But Thursday night . . . that's a whole other story. Hubs was very scared and was very close to taking me to the hospital. I was manic, plain and simple. He was texting my 2 best friends, asking what to do. Now, sadly, I don't have any more Xanax or Ativan that I can take to calm me down (I threw it all out 6 or 9 months ago as it was all at least a year past the expiration date). Hubs offered me Benadryl. Unbeknownst to him, I took an extra Seroquel (sorry I didn't tell you - I was kind of ashamed). It knocked me down enough that I could kind of sleep.

I remained hypomanic Friday through Monday, but it moved away from euphoria (I was crazy fucking euphoric that Thursday), and into the irritable kind. What does that look like? Racing thoughts, anxiety, panic attacks, hyper-irritability (I become a raging fucking bitch in seconds flat for no reason), and insomnia. Sounds fun, right?

Then Tuesday morning (this past Tuesday, 4 days ago) I woke up and I just knew. I knew my mood had shifted. The cloud of depression was over me again. I felt the familiar despair and hopelessness, but it was coupled with irritable hypomania. A mixed episode. Oh goody.

Mixed episodes are NOT fun. At all. They're also considered the most dangerous state to be in. Why? You have the depression, despair, and hopelessness coupled with impulsiveness. Not a good combo. Luckily, all I've done is cut.

I had therapy again this past Thursday (2 days ago) and M didn't even have to say a word to me to know something was very wrong. He made it abundantly clear that I need to talk to Dr. M about all of this when I see him for ECT on Monday.

But that terrifies me.

I mean, I know I need to let my psychiatrist know that hey: I spent a week hypomanic with a very scary-but-thankfully-short-lived manic day and now I have feelings of depression again. Of course he needs to know that. But what scares me is what he might say . . .

See, I'm worried that this is my new norm. That this is as good as it gets for me. I'm worried that Dr. M is going to tell me that I need more therapy, I need more DBT to learn how to better manage my moods. That there's nothing more he can do.

That really. Fucking. Terrifies me.

Because here's the thing: I am definitely way better than I was before starting ECT. I feel an improvement. People have pointed out that I seem better. I know it's helping. I don't want him to look at my symptoms and say, "well, it's obvious the ECT isn't helping, so we might as well stop." If it wasn't helping, like I know it is, I would be dead right now. That's the truth. It's a fucking shitty truth, but it's the truth. That's how I know it's helping. I'M FUCKING ALIVE, PEOPLE.

And here's the thing with therapy - I'm really kind of an expert now at using CBT and DBT techniques to help manage my mood. How do I know? I haven't been hospitalized in over a year. I'm functioning better than I was a year ago. Two years ago. Three years ago. And people have commented to this. I feel like I'm better in control. My fucking therapist has told me he sees a huge improvement in me.

I'M DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT.

I really, actually am.

And I'm so scared that I'm going to talk to Dr. M on Monday and he's going to wash his hands of me and I'm going to be left scrambling.

So then I overthink things and I think, wait - what if this is as good as it gets for me. That my stupid fucking bipolar truly is this difficult to manage and I need to work on accepting this so I can move on and learn to even better manage my symptoms. . .

But I don't want to settle. What if I give in and accept this as my lot in life when I could truly be doing so much better? I had a little over a week where I was enjoying myself. Where I felt happy. And I think I deserve to feel happy. I deserve more than just trying to make it through the day.

I really, truly, fucking hate bipolar disorder.

Yesterday I was mostly okay. Kind of.

I tend to overthink things, and not just big things - everything.  I overthink all the things. Sometimes this is good. Mostly, it's bad.

Yesterday I was overthinking things. About my mood swings. You know what? It would probably be helpful to tell you about my day to lend context to what I was overthinking. Maybe.

But that's what I'm going to do, so you'll just have to deal with it.

I worked yesterday, in trans (meaning in the transition nursery, where I attend deliveries and care for the newborns). I woke up feeling mostly okay. Not great, but okay. My jaw locked first thing in the morning - like at 7am (I have lock jaw from an old karate injury from high school and it's been flaring up bad lately I think from ECT - bite block and tense, tight muscles during seizures probably not good for my jaw). Luckily I was able to relax the muscles and get my jaw to open before my first delivery (at 9:30). Not that I needed to to do a delivery, but it's much comfortable when you're able to actually open your mouth to talk.

So mom smokes pot (legal in Colorado for adults over 21 - not legal for an infant to be exposed. DHS gets involved, baby gets drug tested through the umbilical cord and urine). Pot crosses into breast milk and we encourage these moms to either quit smoking pot, or to not breastfeed. But we can't stop them from breastfeeding. We give them the education and they make their own choice. I was informing mom of this when grandma starts going off on me. Yelling, rude, obnoxious. I managed to stay professional. Now, she wasn't going off because her daughter smoked pot - she was going off because how dare I imply that smoking pot could be bad and maybe I should smoke a bowl because I'm way too fucking uptight.

I did my teaching and left. Vented in the nurses station. But I noticed something: an exaggerated emotional response brewing. I had gotten angry and frustrated, I vented (and cussed), and that should have been the end. But oh no, not for my brain. No. I felt completely overwhelmed, anxious, angry, and as if I was going to completely lose my shit and break down sobbing uncontrollably. I felt despair taking over. I wanted to curl in a ball and hide away from everything. This is not okay. I argued with my mind, with my thoughts, reoriented and centered myself, used all my little CBT and DBT tricks that I know, did everything in my power to be okay. And after about an hour of wrestling with my thoughts and my feelings I was approaching mostly okay again.

I ate my breakfast with B (charge nurse), talked, tried to joke. And it was okay. I was okay again.

Until I wasn't.

My next episode came out of nowhere for no reason. I was chatting with the L&D nurses (trying to be normal over here . . .) and then WHAM! Despair, hopelessness, on the verge of breaking down sobbing. I have no idea why. I got up and went to the locker room to be alone. I fought my thoughts, countered them, constantly, over and over. No, you don't want to die. You aren't going to cut - no, not even a little. You're not stupid or fat - you've lost weight! NO! You're not taking all of your pills tonight - you want to LIVE. Everyone isn't out to get you. They care about you. Stop this ridiculous thinking. You can get past this. You have before, you will again. Over and over and over. Reorient myself (you're at work in the locker room. You're sitting on the bench. Take some deep breaths. That's it. In . . . out. You're wearing your new shoes and fun new socks - taco dinosaurs for fucks sake! You want to live and your going to live. Just breathe . . .).

After about 30 minutes I felt okay enough to leave the locker room. I didn't feel mostly okay yet - but I felt like I didn't have to hide. I chatted with our CNAs, trying to interact, not withdraw, appear/be normal, joke, everything's fine here people. And it was again, for a little bit.

Until it wasn't.

A little before lunch (like 1pm or so) I was blindsided by overwhelming despair. I felt exhausted, like I couldn't possibly keep going. It was bad. I needed 2 things - a hug and a nap. But I'm at work. I can't nap. I can get a hug though. From B (we're friends). I start walking over to post partum to awkwardly ask for a hug but I never made it. No, I had to pop into an empty patient room to sob uncontrollably for 10 or more minutes. And then I stayed hiding in there for awhile - I'm not even sure how long. I calmed myself, reoriented, centered, wrestled with my thoughts and emotions. When I left that room I wasn't mostly okay. I'm not sure I was even slightly okay. But I was functional and I could put on my mask.

And this is how the rest of my day went. Over and over I had to struggle against my mind, bring myself back to reality, fight against my thoughts and emotions. And this got me thinking - what if these types of mood swings aren't related to bipolar disorder? What if something else is going on?

What popped into my head was borderline personality disorder - which is characterized by intense mood swing lasting hours to days. So I started reading about it, comparing what I read to my life, overanalyzing/overthinking. I certainly match some of the diagnostic criteria. But other stuff? Not so much. But still I kept thinking about it and thinking about it. I had J read the diagnostic criteria when I got home to see what he thought. He said no. And what would it matter anyway? The only real treatment is therapy, which I've already been doing for 4 years.

But why then? Why were my moods so labile? Why did I get so bad so fast? And why was I (mostly) able to get a little better?

Well, in a word I think, I'm bipolar. And regardless of what the DSM would have you believe, people with bipolar disorder can and do have mood swings that occur this rapidly. It can happen the other way too, with mania, and it has with me.

As to why I was able to mostly be okay? I'm trying insanely fucking hard to counter my errors of thinking. I'm trying insanely fucking hard to be okay. I'm actively using everything I've learned in 4 years of therapy - both CBT and DBT. I'm doing everything I fucking can to battle this illness and take back my life.

You know what? I'm not entirely sure I made any sort of point with this post. And I don't really care.

Mike was right to be worried . . . . and that worries me.























Fuck.

Fuck Things

I'm having a hard time getting things down on paper. I want to write. I fucking yearn to write and every time I sit down to write, my brain becomes a jumbled mess. I know it's the ECT, which sucks.

Today is weird. Today has been kinda rough. Not bad, I guess, but just rough. It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays I'm at the riding center all day. In the morning, from 9-10:30, I do EFP with kids in a special school program. From 10:30-12:15 I clean up, play with my horse, Thor, and eat lunch. Then I have therapeutic riding with 2 kids from 12:15-1:45.

Well, this morning I was pretty much checked out during EFP. Then I go to get Thor to work with him and the whole time I feel like I'm on the verge of losing it. But the weird thing is that the emotions aren't there. Like, it feels like they're going to be, and then they're not. But I still feel like I'm going to lose it.

As it was getting closer to afternoon class time I was feeling more and more like I couldn't cope. Like I couldn't handle being in class. And during my first class with Gabe, that feeling intensified. So much so that I had to leave before my second class - I couldn't stay, I couldn't handle it. Couldn't handle the interaction, faking it, I just couldn't. The whole way home I felt empty and hollow and on the verge of breaking down - but with no real emotion behind it.

And I wanted to cut.

It was my plan to pick up A from school and come home and work out. I have not worked out. I'm not going to either. I don't care. I don't care at all. Fuck it. I don't know what to do with myself.

I'm apathetic. I just want to go to sleep. Go to sleep and not wake up until I feel better. But I don't have that luxury. No. I have to battle my stupid fucking brain every day. Fuck it.

fuck

There's a good chance that I should be in the hospital right now. And if I'm thinking that . . . well . . .

It's just that I'm struggling - really struggling right now. I can't keep my moods managed. I'm irrationally angry or I'm sobbing and full of despair. Maybe it's my new med, Prestiq, causing this. Or not. Maybe it's something entirely different. I have no fucking clue but I'm not doing well.

I feel like I can't cope with anything. I want to curl in a little ball and block out all stimulation. I want to cut. I want to scream and throw things. These are the only ways I can see myself coping.

This morning I drove to my mother-in-law's house to pick up my son. I had to pull over because I was crying so hard I couldn't see. Pulled myself together, got him and went to work with my horses. Felt a little better. Okay. Good. See? You'll be fine. You're fine.

As I drove home, my anger was building. We went grocery shopping, my anger was building. Putting away groceries I yelled at my son and I could feel the anger spiraling out of control. So I went to my bedroom and sat down. Figured I'd give myself a little "time out", do some deep breathing, gain my composure and control.

Instead, I lost my shit and cried for 30+ minutes. I kept thinking, I wish hubs and the boy didn't care so much, that way I could just go, just be done with it. I was staring at my wrists through my tears, visually tracing the cuts I would make.

No.

I kept telling myself, "I don't want to die. I'm going to live." My new mantra. Over and over. I know the constant thoughts about death and suicide are because of the depression. Depression lies. I know this. Think of all the good. There's so much good. So many people love me and care about me.

I know this. I know all of this. But I sit and sob and stare at my wrists.

I'm so fucking sick of this.

My Brain is Stupid

*Disclaimer: this post might be a rambling, jumble of nonsense. There is, I think, a high probability of that happening. You've been warned.*

I have now, officially, had 14 ECT treatments. The first 2 weeks were 3 times a week (my first treatment was June 1), then I went to weekly for several weeks, and now I'm every other week. If I was following Dr. M's trajectory, I'd be every 3 or every 4 weeks by now.

But I'm not following his trajectory. My depression is stubborn. My depression is a fucking asshole. My brain, Clancy, is being a huge fucking dick and is making things difficult.

Let me start by saying this: my depression is a lot better than what it was before ECT. If the ECT wasn't helping, I would be dead. I had it planned. So let's get this important piece of information clear: the ECT is helping.

But here's the rub: it's not holding me.

What do I mean by that? Well, I'll be floating along, doing pretty well for about a week to a week and a half after a treatment. And then my mood starts to slip, my mood starts to falter, starts to sink. Depression starts to sneak its way in. This lasts several days until I have my next treatment and then the process starts again. I've noticed the pattern, the nurses at the hospital have noticed the pattern, and Dr. M has noticed the pattern.

Now, this wouldn't be a big deal, I guess, if it were only a day or two. But it's not. It's 4 days or 5 days or 7 days. Each time it's more, longer. Over the past 4 or 5 weeks I've spent more time depressed than not - and that's NOT okay with me. That's NOT how this is supposed to fucking work.

I had ECT last Monday and then saw Dr. M in his office in the afternoon for a regular appointment, where we discussed all of this. He said we need to figure something out medication wise to help hold me over between ECT treatments, as we need to at least get those spaced to once a month (the ultimate goal is once every 6 weeks). We discussed options and decided to stop my Lexapro and switch me over to Prestiq. Now, as with any med change, it will take several weeks at least to see any changes.

Which fucking sucks because I feel like shit.

I'm floating around with this low grade depression. I call it low grade because I'm not actively suicidal. Notice I said not "actively" suicidal - I still think about killing myself. Every day.

So anyway, I'm floating around in this low grade depression. I'm not sobbing every day, breaking down, anything dramatic like that. I just don't care about much of anything. It's like I can't really muster up any emotion except for anger. I feel like I need to cry; I just can't. I don't have the emotion to make it happen. I don't want to do anything. I don't want to go to work or clean the house or draw or paint or play with my son or have sex or cook or exercise or talk to people. I force myself to do stuff - I don't allow myself to just stare into space - but it's difficult and I just don't care.

The only strong emotion I can muster is anger. And I'm fucking angry at everything. That's not an exaggeration. Every little fucking thing makes me angry. The littlest things set me off. Simple things, like misspelling a word while I'm typing, or needing to go to the bathroom. People talking to me or me dropping something. Every. Little. Fucking. Thing. And the anger is very volatile. It goes from nothing to full on rage in no time. I hate it.

Oh hey - remember how at the beginning I said jumbled mess of a post? Everything prior to this I wrote Sunday morning. Then I got cranky and went downstairs to workout. I got on my spin bike and then broke down sobbing. J came downstairs and held me, stayed with me. I kinda wanted to die. And by "kinda wanted" I mean I wanted to die. Sunday ended up pretty shitty mood wise.

This little bit I'm writing Monday. I don't know how I'm feeling today. Okay, I guess. I started the day VERY angry. Then I talked with a friend and went and worked with horses and that helped. Now I just feel . . . empty. I'm sitting here drinking some hot mint tea and I start thinking, ooooo, I can't wait until it's colder outside and I can wear sweaters and sip hot tea! And then my mind immediately reminds me that everything is pointless and hopeless and I would truly be better off dead.

It's like I can't just have a nice fucking thought. My brain has to go and fuck it up. This is very frustrating and I'm so sick of it. I'm tired of struggling.

Showing Some Improvement

These past few weeks, overall, have been the best weeks I've had in a long while. My mood, overall, has been less depressed, less full of hopelessness and despair, and less full of bitter rage. That's not to say I'm not having these feelings - because I am - but they're not as intense and aren't lasting for as long.

So what's changed? What's different? In a word: I don't know.

I really don't know. I have some ideas, sure, but they're just ideas I have happened to pull out of my ass. Me acting like a psychiatrist, tossing theories around.

First off, have you heard of the Spoon Theory?  If not, go read it. Seriously. Please. Taking the 2-3 minutes it takes to read it will be so much more beneficial to you than having me try to explain it. So please - go read it. Here's the link again, just for fun: HOLY FUCK I'M A LINK!

Alright. You back? Good. How was it? Pretty fucking awesome, right?

So. One thing I've decided to do is to apply the spoon theory to my life. Because bipolar disorder? Chronic fucking illness. It's a chronic fucking illness that takes a lot out of me. Every day. Some days worse than others. And I've discovered that I really can't do it all, and that the more that I try to, the more miserable I am.

But there's more than that. See, I grew up in an alcoholic home and a bi-product of that is this pesky sense of perfectionism I have. Everything has to be perfect. Has to be. This makes me miserable because nothing is ever good enough. There are too many shoulds. So what to do about that? Accept that I am not, nor will I ever be perfect. I can fuck up and that's okay.

My therapist has been telling me this for, well, almost four fucking years. Yeah. Four fucking YEARS. I'm stubborn. And maybe a bit stupid :P Listen, you dumb bitch! (I call myself "dumb bitch" lovingly).

Then about 3 weeks ago, at not my most recent ECT treatment (3 days ago), but the one before that, Dr. M kinda went off on me. And by "kinda went off" I mean he yelled at me. He told me to relax, calm down, and trust the process. That this wasn't perfect, I wasn't perfect, and that it takes time. And to also "stop cutting my fucking arm". Yes, he cussed. One reason I like him.

So I decided to try just that - relaxing. Giving in. Not being perfect (or trying desperately to be). In order to do this I had to do something big. I had to accept - really, truly accept - that I have a chronic illness that needs to be monitored/maintained daily, every day, and that sometimes I need help.

This is not easy for my stubborn, prideful self, but I'm working on it.

See, monitoring my illness isn't that much different as someone with diabetes monitoring theirs. Whereas they count carbs, watch their diet, check their blood sugar levels and take insulin, I have my own things I need to monitor:

I monitor my mood, sleep, surroundings (is it crowded, noisy, close exits, bright or flashing lights . . .), temperature (too hot = instant bitch), sounds, who is around me . . . and countless other things.

I'm slowly learning to recognize some of my triggers. And in recognizing my triggers I can better manage them, so they don't have as huge (or catastrophic) effect on me. Sometimes this means simply resetting myself. Other times, it means removing myself from a situation (nurses station getting too loud? I get up and leave. Go on a walk, go to the break room, whatever, just get away from the voices). Maybe it means not going out (I skipped a bike ride with my hubby and son because I simply didn't have it in me to go - I had no spoons left that day).

And in doing all of this (along with the ECT working) I'm feeling better. Finally feeling better. But this is hard, y'all. Doing all of this is fucking hard. It's tiring and it takes focus. It is, however, worth it.

I'm hoping that over time I won't have to work so hard, that things will get easier. Right now, I'm calling this a victory. And I finally have hope.

Well, it's Friday

I want to start by saying that I fucking HATE bipolar disorder. I really, really, fucking hate it. Like, a LOT.

I worked on Wednesday and it was a horrible day. It was busy, which was probably good, because it kept me distracted. My mood was awful. I was depressed, tired, full of despair, angry, and a host of other negative feelings. I cut (I have my scalpel in my locker). When I got home I lost it. And I lost it good. It was the ugly cry X10 and I wanted to die. Or, at the very least, I wanted to cut my arm to shreds. Hubs and kiddo had to work overtime pulling me from the brink. It was so bad.

Then yesterday, Thursday, I had a mandatory class for work. Knowing how my mood has been I was dreading it. But I ended up hypomanic. I was inappropriate and obnoxious. I was entertaining. I had fun. It was wonderful! It was glorious! Thank GOD!

After class I had therapy and we started trauma work. It went well. M gave me some ideas on how to manage my overreactive emotions. Yesterday was a good day. Hooray!! A good day!

And then there's today. A day that's really not a good day. Again I want to curl in a ball and not exist. I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to be okay. To interact with people. But I'm so fucking angry today. At everything. And I feel exhausted and overwhelmed. And depressed. And like everything is pointless and stupid. I'm trying to counter, trying to stay positive, trying to remain calm and destress . . .

I really hate this. Why can't I just be normal? Why can't I just be okay? Why do I have to fight depression so much? I don't want to feel everything so much.

I'm meeting a friend for coffee which means interaction which will exhaust me more. And I work tomorrow which will mean interaction which may exhaust me more.

Or maybe I'll be hypomanic again, who knows?

That's the thing though - I never know. And that's exhausting.

I have more I want to write I just don't have it in me right now.

I'm Not Sure What to Think

I'm really not.

I'm sitting down to write because I've felt like I've needed to all day (I've been out at the therapeutic riding center all day working with both the kids and horses).But now that I'm sitting to write, I find I'm at a loss of words.

I've been struggling again, I think that's a given. I had ECT yesterday and I thought "oh good. I can talk to Dr. M and figure out something to do about these recurring depressive symptoms." I told the nurses as they did my intake and started my IV and they urged me to talk to Dr. M.

So I did.

And he really didn't tell me what I wanted to hear.

One, it can take up to 6 months to get the full benefits of ECT. Two, I need to go easy on myself, be gentle, and give myself time - it took awhile for me to get this sick, it's going to take awhile for me to get better. Three, I need to learn how to better manage/regulate my moods - it appears I'm getting triggered, having an exaggerated, bipolar mood reaction, and that I'm mismanaging that reaction (hence the episodes of despair or sobbing or cutting or intense anger).

I told him I was going back to a DBT group and he got a huge smile on his face. "Good. That will be good for you." The lead nurse, J, agreed that DBT would be wonderful for me.

So the plan stays: my current meds, ECT every other week, and therapy - both my regular and the DBT group.

Here's what's frustrating though: I'd had a couple of fairly good days and I had ECT and group yesterday. And today, today I'm at the riding center all day. Mucked stalls in the morning, work with the kids in the afternoon, spend time with my fave horse and barn buddy there, Thor (who, strangely, happens to be Dr. M's horse). All day I had to keep fighting off despair. It kept washing over me. Random times, no rhyme or reason. I'd be petting Thor and suddenly all I could think about was how nothing really mattered, everything was pointless, and that I'd eventually end up killing myself because nothing gets better. Ever.

I'd throw everything I could into fighting those thoughts and feelings. I do what I'm supposed to do: remain present, acknowledge the feelings, allow them to pass, replace negative thoughts with positive ones. Everything that I practice, that I've been taught to do . . . I do it. Then I finally resort to distraction. I go find something to do or someone to talk to or I immerse myself in grooming. Whatever I can to stay on top.

Today I had that despair wash over me at least 10 times. Even though I would count this a "pretty good" day, I still had to fight so much to stay on top.

Is this how it's always going to be? Always fighting, always struggling, every day? This is what I worry about. Because I don't want to do this every day. I don't want to fight my own mind every day. I'm worried that at some point I'll be too tired. Because what's the point? Why struggle?

I shouldn't think like that. That's not productive, right? I'm just so frustrated.

Well, I have therapy on Thursday, so we'll see what M has to say about all this.

Stupid

I had a great therapy session yesterday, I really did. Everything that was in my last blog post? We talked about that.

He pointed out that I still haven't completely accepted my diagnosis. I mean, I've accepted it, I truly believe I have bipolar disorder, but I haven't fully accepted everything that that entails. For example, even when I'm stable - reeeeeally stable - I can still have wide, wild mood swings for no reason at all. That's just part of bipolar disorder. That truly, for the rest of my life, I have to be hyper vigilant of my moods. I'll have to always monitor my moods, just like a diabetic monitors their blood sugar. There's no real way around it.

I hate that. Like, I really hate that. I wanted to have ECT and just be . . . okay. Normal. But that's just not the case. And it's super fucking frustrating. I don't want to deal with it anymore. I don't want to deal with bipolar disorder anymore.

Depressive Symptoms Coming Back

Just got back from a week long vacation to California.

We spent a couple days in Orange County visiting my family. We stayed with my Grandma (on my dad's side) and spent time with my aunts and uncle. It's always great seeing them but it was taxing. Interacting with them really took it out of me - more so than I thought it was going to.

Then we headed to San Diego for Comic Con and the zoo. We spend 5 days there, stayed in a little studio apartment. And I didn't handle it as well as I wanted to.

What was going on, you ask?

I've been having some depressive symptoms coming back. Getting overwhelmed easily, turning into a horrid rage monster at the slightest provocation, having intense feelings of despair wash over me for seemingly no reason, wanting/needing to cut, suicidal thoughts. . .

Let me give you some examples:
 
     - We're at comic con, waiting in a line. The line starts to move forward but the person in front of us lags and isn't moving forward right away. My blood boils, fists clench, teeth grind. It takes every ounce of self control not to shove the person and tell them to MOVE THE FUCK FORWARD ALREADY!! ARE YOU THAT FUCKING STUPID??? CAN YOU NOT SEE THAT THE FUCKING LIKE IS MOVING?? FUCKING MOVE!!!!!!!!! I shake, I take deep breaths, I try to think of calming things and then suddenly I feel like crying because everything is too much to handle. Everything is too hard and too overwhelming.

     - We get home yesterday and hubbs and I have sex. And it was good. And we're snuggling after and I get flooded with despair. Life really has no meaning. I spend every day fighting my distorted thoughts and fighting my feelings and it's not worth it. It's not going to get better. I need to cut. I need to feel a blade slicing through my skin. That's easier than dealing with this. I start to tear up, start to cry, and I know I'm going to lose my shit and I DO NOT want to lose my shit because if I do I won't be able to stop the tears and I KNOW I'll end up cutting. So I talk to hubbs and somehow - don't ask me how - I manage to not lose my shit. I push on and we go shopping and have dinner and watch some tv, but the whole time I'm still struggling with feelings of despair.

     - Today I had ECT (would have normally had it on Monday but was in California). I would prefer to have ECT on Mondays because I know my mom can pick me up and I have Mondays off. So I told the nurse that I would need to have ECT next Monday, not Wednesday. I'm waking up, getting my shoes on and whatnot and she hands me my discharge paper which has my next appointment on it. Which is for a week from Monday (meaning a week and a half between sessions). I guess my expression gave away what I was feeling because she asked what was wrong. I told her I didn't feel comfortable waiting that long (but Dr. M doesn't want me in earlier than a week). It felt like my world was crashing down around me. Like I couldn't possibly cope, I can't possibly handle this. I'm already struggling and now I have to wait a week and a half. I nearly broke down sobbing.

Scenarios like those? They happen a lot. A lot. Several times a day, every day. For the most, part I can keep them under wraps, these stupid fucking mood swings (and by under wraps I mean I haven't attacked anyone, screamed at anyone, curled myself into a little ball and rocked myself while mumbling, break down sobbing uncontrollably, or cut myself). But I come close. Scarily close. And even though I don't "officially" lose my shit, I'm still dealing with these feelings. I'm still struggling to manage them.

I keep reminding myself that I'm doing way better than before I started ECT. Way better (considering I was planning on killing myself if I wasn't approved for it or if it didn't help - scary, but true). I spend more time feeling "okay" than I do feeling like shit - and that's good. (Though I wish I spent more time feeling happy).

And again - take things a day at a time, a moment at a time. I also think I need to lower my expectations. It's just so frustrating.

Depression vs Unhappiness

I've been pretty shitty the past several days. Very shitty. Depressed, sobbing, struggling. I've been trying to figure things out. I like having shit figured out.

My first two weeks of ECT I went 3 times a week - Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I started feeling better quickly. I was the poster child for how ECT should work. Then we switched to weekly. I had ECT on Monday. By Friday my mood was starting to slip, starting to drop. So I saw Dr. M the next Monday and told him about that. He doesn't want to increase the frequency of ECT treatments (the goal, after all, is to eventually space them out to monthly). He told me to call his office and make an appointment so we could adjust my meds.

That appointment was last Wednesday. We're increasing my lithium from 600mg to 900mg. I'm not optimistic that this will help at all - I've been as high as 1200mg without any added benefit. But we'll see I guess. He also told me that he doesn't believe I'll ever not need ECT. Meds historically haven't worked well for me and he thinks I'll always need to have ECT. Again, the goal is to get me to monthly treatments but he sees me staying weekly for the foreseeable future.

Then last Thursday night, as I was getting ready for bed, I realized I couldn't remember if I had taken my meds. See, I normally take my night meds around 8:30, and here it was 9:30 and I couldn't remember if I had taken them. Well, I couldn't take a dose at that time because I can't double up on my Seroquel. That's a bad idea for me.

Thursday night I didn't sleep. Maybe 3 hours? Which means I probably hadn't taken my meds (Seroquel knocks me out). So now here I am, having missed meds and not slept. And Friday was horrible. I spent the majority of it sobbing uncontrollably. I cut. And I cut deep. Deep enough it needed stitches (which I did not go get).

Saturday I worked and my mood was equally as bad. I hid. I didn't want to interact. I tried though. I forced myself to. My coworkers knew I was struggling and they rallied around me. Gave me hugs, words of encouragement, and checked on my patients for me when I was unable to do so (I spent a good hour hiding in the break room sobbing). I wanted to cut so bad, but I didn't. I folded paper cranes instead. On of the labor nurses cleaned my cut and put steri strips over it for me (kind of like stitches but it's really sticky tape).

Sunday I was still crap. J and I went to the gym (I really didn't want to, but I really fucking need to). His brother wanted to go bowling with us. I didn't go. I couldn't. I desperately didn't want to. It didn't sound fun and I didn't want to interact.

Today I had ECT and I talked about all of this with Dr. M. Asked him what more I could do. His response was classic: "Well you could stop cutting yourself for starters!" He said the cutting is probably related to trauma or unhappiness. I asked him, "So I have to be like Billy Crystal in City Slickers and find my happiness?" (I've mentioned that to M as well).

It got me thinking: how am I unhappy? What's making me unhappy? I did an inventory of symptoms:

- difficulty waking in the mornings
- increased appetite
- consistent weight gain
- no motivation to workout
- no motivation to clean the house
- not wanting to do things
- not caring about my appearance (I've been wearing hardly any makeup, haven't been doing my hair, wearing gym clothes)
- not wanting to interact with people
- feeling worthless
- feeling like things are pointless (why should I bother? nothing matters)
- feeling like life is too difficult, people would be better off without me (suicidal thoughts, can't do this anymore)
- not finding joy in things (doing things, my artwork, working with the kids at the riding center - I like spending time with the horses, but working with the kids isn't feeling rewarding like it used to)

All of that stuff right there? That's depression. Those are symptoms of depression. Now, last few days aside, overall my depressive symptoms have been better. Overall I feel a hell of a lot better than I have (because, to be perfectly honest, had I not started ECT when I did, I would have killed myself - I was planning it). So I'm better. I am.

I've been trying to figure out the last few days. Did I become exponentially worse because I missed a dose of Seroquel and didn't sleep? Can that really fuck me up that much?? Am I that sensitive?

And so then the cutting. And the uncontrollable sobbing. Is that unhappiness? Trauma? Depression? All of it?

Like, if I had taken my meds Thursday night like normal and slept, would I have been fine this past weekend?

And how fucking frustrating is that?? I don't sleep one night and I completely lose my shit.

The past few weeks have made me realize how much I truly need to take things a day at a time. How much I truly need to stay in the moment. I'm not going to have the answers for everything and I have to be okay with that.  I also do have to remember that I have bipolar disorder - a chronic, progressive illness - and that I will have days that are worse than others. That I will have times where I will lose my shit for seemingly no reason. And that sucks. But that's reality. I think another problem is I was secretly under the impression that I would have ECT, start feeling better, and then miraculously not need it anymore and be essentially "cured" of my symptoms. Bitch, you're bipolar. For life. Fucking accept and deal with it.

It also doesn't help that I think personality wise I tend to lean towards more melancholy. Always have. I need to focus on little joys. Keep forcing myself to interact and be upbeat - even when I don't feel it.

And I need to not cut.

I don't know how to NOT be depressed . . .

No seriously though. Is that maybe what's going on? I don't know how to not be depressed?

It's Wednesday. I had ECT on Monday and I don't have my next treatment until next Monday. Dr. M wants to try once a week. He's worried that 3 times a week might be a bit too much for me - what could be throwing me into a mixed episode. I don't know. We'll see.

Today I feel a little depressed. More than a little, I guess. I want to cut. Yesterday and today both. I don't really know why. I know it won't help anything . . . but I still want to.

I don't know what that's about.

But it's annoying.

I don't know how to qualify or quantify how I'm feeling. Because I'm better. Overall, I'm better. I'm not suicidal. I don't want to die - and that's huge.

I just don't know exactly what to do? I don't know. I don't. Know.

I want to feel content. Happy. I don't want to have to struggle for my feelings.



. . . . ugh. I feel like I have so much more to write, but I have nothing coming out.

I guess I'll just have to see how I do over the next week. I'm going back to work on Saturday.

Frustrated

Well. I have 6 ECT treatments under my belt. And overall, I'm feeling better. Hubbs has noticed a positive change. Yaaaaaay.

But I'm fucking frustrated. Why? I seem to have slipped into a mixed state. Meaning? I'm hyperirritable. I'm a cranky-ass bitch. And I feel like I may snap - either go off or break down, I'm not sure which. This is a shitty feeling to have - especially after starting to feel better.

I'm trying to keep things in perspective.  First and foremost - you were close to killing yourself. ANY reprieve from feeling that shitty is to be cherished. Secondly, the majority of your days over the past 2 weeks were an improvement over where you had been.

I don't know what it is, really . . . .

I've been feeling better. I want to go do things. I want to start working out again, get in shape, eat healthier. I want to do more things with my family, participate in life again, go back to work. I'm excited to do this stuff . . .

And then this weekend hits. And my mood is crap. I'm irritable, bitchy. And today . . . ugh. The depression is trying to weasel its way back in. The despair. Everything is trying to come back. I'm on pinterest and see a post about cutting . . . I feel the draw, it's a trigger. Why? Why is it such a trigger? I'm feeling better . . .

I'm scared. I realize, I must be scared. I've struggled for so long, I don't know how to not struggle. I don't know how to not be depressed. And I realize, I don't want to struggle anymore - I don't want to have bad days. I think I equate bad days with failure. (God forbid I fail).

Again I have to remind myself that I have a chronic, lifelong, illness and that I get to battle my brain and emotions every. Single. Day.

And I don't fucking want to. I want the ECT to work and be done with it. I don't want to have to struggle every day. I just want to be fine. Yeah, I know: whoa is me, life is unfair. Stop with the pity party, right?

Well fuck you.

Thank  God I have therapy on Thursday.. Fuck.

My First ECT Treatment

I arrived at PVBH at 6:45am, the time they told me to be there. Hubby and son were with me and they planned on staying and waiting. I didn't wait long before Chris came and brought me back. Chris is a portly, young fellow, jovial most of the time in my dealings with him (from being hospitalized).

I followed him through the familiar hallways to the pre-ECT room - the room where I had done my initial intake. I sat in a leather recliner, tried to make myself comfortable. Another girl had come in with me (Samantha? who cares . . .). A female nurse whose name escapes me and a male nurse I knew, Johnny, came in to start IVs, while Jim (the RN who heads the ECT program), went through my paperwork, had me sign consents, and asked me orientation questions.

A third woman was brought back, an inpatient, and she sat in the far chair, wrapped in a blanket. She was the first to go back. Chris put the Princess Bride in the DVD player to keep us occupied while we waited.

I went back second - Dr. Chu came and got me and leaded me to the ECT treatment room. She made small talk and joked, seemed genuinely concerned about my wellbeing - the opposite of how she seemed for my intake. A pleasant surprise. She had me place my purse and glasses under my bed, and remove my shoes and socks.

Since this was my first ECT session, she explained, they do things a little differently. She has to experiment a little to find what my seizure threshold is - how much electricity to cause a 30 second seizure. She would start with a dosage and measure the seizure activity - and adjust the electricity dose accordingly (meaning I might have 2 or 3 seizures). She laid me back and began hooking electrodes to my ankles and wrists while Jim attached them to my forehead and temples. The anesthesiologist was applying a blood pressure cuff, a finger probe, and chest leads. A cuff went over my left ankle and one on my right. (The cuff on my left ankle cause my toes to spasm - the intent. When they stopped spasming the docs knew the paralytic was working. The cuff on my right ankle kept the paralytic from reaching my right foot so that they would see it spasm from the seizure).

Dr. Chu and Jim are explaining everything as they're doing it and the room seems in utter chaos. Jim remarks on my new cuts. Dr. Chu asks how bad I was getting - bad enough I almost admitted myself on Friday. "These probes are going across your forehead" "Jim, do you see the mark here?" I feel wetness on the tip of my head and what feels like a marker tip "You just have to move her hair a little - I marked your head so Jim knows where to place the probe" "Can I get another lead? This one isn't sticking" "I'm going to put this mask over your face, just breathe deeply" "If you need to be admitted, come in - it's what we're here for" "You said your cut could have used stitches?" "Just breathe. You're going to drift off to sleep now . . ."

I had felt panic welling up in me. The mask made me feel claustrophobic and the talking and questions and noise were overwhelming. And the burn of the anesthetic through my veins . . .

"Would you like some juice?"

"What? Yeah, cranberry." I'm sitting up in bed. My vision is blurred - but that has more to do with the fact that I'm not wearing my glasses rather than the anesthesia. The nurse, the one who started my IV, hands me cranberry juice and I drink it greedily. "What time is it?" I ask.

"8:30"

I was brought back shortly before 8. She asks me my orientation questions and leads me out to the lobby, where hubby and son are waiting.

We went home and I ate and had coffee, and then napped for 2 hours. I had a wicked headache for about half of the day. Around bedtime my neck and shoulders were starting to get sore and this morning my whole body is sore. Like I spent hours in the gym and ran a marathon.

Without the health benefits.

But no memory issues. So far. Hopefully that will be the norm.

Treatments are Monday, Wednesday, Friday for 4 weeks.

Cheers, y'all.

In a bad way

I'm in a bad way again. A very bad way.

Every day is a struggle. I don't want to exist. It's too hard. Everything is too hard. Being awake is too hard.

I wake up every morning not knowing how I'll make it through the day. Not knowing how I can possibly do it again. I tell myself over and over again that it's worth it. Living. That living, pushing on, existing, is worth it.

I often don't believe it. I mostly don't believe it.

But I tell myself that. That it's worth it. I have my son and my hubby and friends and family and my dog and my job and all that shit and that's why it's worth it.

I tell myself that all the time. Because I have to remember. Because otherwise . . .

. . . otherwise I might forget.

I take naps. Naps to escape my mind. Naps to escape my feelings. Every day, every night, I look forward to bedtime. An escape . . . but I dread it, too. Because I know I'll have to wake up in the morning. Wake up and do it again. Struggle again. Push again.

I don't want to. Sometimes . . . I'd rather forget.

I'm tired. I'm trying, but I'm tired.

Fucking Clancy . . .

My depression, truly, is back full force. It's exceedingly frustrating. I've been crying so much again lately. I don't want to exist, and yesterday I didn't want to live. I've considered myself doing a little better than in the past in that I'm not having suicidal ideation.

Except yesterday I did.

It wasn't a planning-it-out kind of ideation. More the recurring thought about how I don't want to live. About  how I can't continue to live if I keep feeling like this. How is anyone supposed to?

So I do all my CBT and DBT tricks to counter these thoughts, try to counter my emotions/feelings, and stay positive/interact/etc. And these things help, they do. I'm certain that they're what's keeping me from being actively suicidal.

I'm just so tired of all of this. And it appears I'm on the fast track now for ECT. I know I'll be having that talk next week . . .

Ugh.

Been awhile since I last wrote. I don't know how long. I don't really care, either. I really don't fucking care about much right now.

Why?

Fucking depression. It won't. Fucking. Leave.

I was started on Lexapro, 10mg. Then we increased it 20mg. Then we increased my Lamictal from 200mg to 400mg. And you know what? Fucking nothing.

Nope. Depression is hanging on, gaining strength, trying to overtake me completely. I've cried so much today it's stupid. It's pathetic. It's tiring and I'm so fucking done with this.

Hubby tells me to hang in there. This will get better. We'll get you better.

Really? Because the depression is fucking here. It doesn't go away. From where I stand, it's not getting better.

Everything is overwhelming. Interacting with people is overwhelming. Going to the store is overwhelming. Packing is overwhelming. Everything is fucking overwhelming.

I put on my happy face. I try to "fake it till I make it". I do all of my positive CBT stuff I've learned. But I'm dying on the inside. I'm shattered and broken and I'm trying so hard to hide it.

I'm fucking tired and I'm sick of it.

It's been over a month . . .

. . . since I've posted. No real reason, other than I haven't felt like writing.

And now, right now, I have things I need to write, things I need to get out, and I don't feel like I can. I feel like I have all this crap built up and jumbled up inside me and it's not going to come out.

I was supposed to have therapy this Thursday 0 it's been 3 weeks since my last session (we're slowly spacing out appointments). M called me this morning to reschedule as he had a death in the family. Now it's another 2 weeks before I see him.

I have shit to talk about!

But now it will have to wait.

Despite being on the Lexapro, my depression is creeping back in. Despite my best efforts, it's creeping back in. See, I think my default is depression. I think it's my natural state - to be mildly depressed all the time. I seem to always have this melancholy air about me (unless I'm manic). I'm trying to change that. To actively change that.

How?

By forcing myself to be happy. By forcing interaction with people. For example, instead of ignoring people at work or hiding out to be alone, I'm actively seeking and initiating conversations. I'm forcing myself to sound upbeat and happy. I'm telling myself constantly that I'm having a good day, I feel good, I'm happy, isn't this wonderful? You can actually talk and joke and interact, etc . . . I'm obnoxious in the morning telling myself that I'll have a good day.

Fake it till you make it.

I'm hoping that holds true. That all this faking will eventually change my mindset from depressed to happy. Or at least okay.

And it's actually pretty exhausting. And I get overwhelmed in social settings or with too much stimulus. Which is stupid and frustrating.

The depression is still there, though. And it's been building strength. It's no where where it used to be. Definitely not. I'm not sobbing every day (although I have had several days where I did sob over the last month). I'm not having suicidal ideation - though I've had numerous days/times where I don't want to exist. Or I want to just sleep to escape. Or I have no idea how I can possibly make it through the day.

But I'm not nearly as bad as I was before the Lexapro, so I think it is helping. And I'm guessing that next week when I see Dr. M I'll go up to 20mg. And I'll keep plugging along with my cognitive stuff.

I have other stuff to write about, but I can't right now. Not up for it. I don't have my thoughts together. I'm going to spend the day painting horses.

Because horses.

Wrapped in Grey

I've been trying to come up with an accurate description of how I'm feeling. Or have felt. Or whatever. In the past, I've written about how it feels when I'm in the throes of depression - the agonizing, sobbing, everything is pointless, suicidal depression. And in the past, I know I've done a pretty good job of that.

But this depression is different.

This is not that agonizing, suicidal depression. No, I'm in the I-don't-feel-anything-and-life-is-pointless-and-meaningless type of depression. Which is bad in its own way. It's just different.

But how do I describe it? How do I make real this nothingness I'm feeling. This anhedonia.

I believe that everyone sees in color. They see the vibrant color of life. The beautiful 3 dimensional trueness of everything around them. The colors and substance have meaning and weight and permanence. There is passion behind those colors. There are feelings behind and associated with those colors. The colors truly have meaning.

Whereas I see everything as grey. Shades of grey (and I'm not talking about that popular book . . .). Everything is dull and grimy and flat - 2 dimensional. There is no passion. There is no meaning. Nothing carries any weight because everything is the same. There are no feelings behind the greyness. It just is. This leaves me feeling like an outsider. Life is going on around me - flourishing - and I'm on the sidelines, unable to participate, because I can't see the colors. I'm a spectator and nothing more. Sure, I go through the motions and put on the mask. I pretend I can see the colors because that is what's expected. But it's just that grey . . .

Every once in awhile, the grey recedes a little and some colors snake through around the edges. Every once in awhile those colors manage to cloud over the grey and I can see. I can actually see. The meaning breaks through. The passion and purpose breaks through and I can actively participate in life.

But the grey always wins out. It rushes back in, stamping out the color and asserting itself once more. I'm left with the memory that life should mean something . . . but I can no longer feel it.

My breakthroughs don't last all that long. 5-10 minutes? Maybe, if I'm lucky, an hour. I may have no breakthroughs on a particular day. Sometimes I'll have several.

But I'm always left seeing the grey.

Update

On Tuesday I saw my new pdoc, Dr. M. First impression: nice, personable, and no nonsense. He read through all of the info I brought him (my med history, illness history, hospitalizations, etc) and asked him why I had come to him.

Well, because the NP I was seeing told me she wasn't going to prescribe anything new, that meds won't help me, and that I'll be depressed and suicidal for the rest of my life and that I need to get used to it. Oh - and have you considered ECT?

His response? "Looking at your med history I can see why she would say that. She could have done so a little more tactfully . . . I think she's stumped. Have you considered ECT?"

"Um, no. It's probably not a good idea because of the short term memory loss, with me being a nurse and all."

He then went on to discuss ECT with me a little more in depth. He's been doing it for 20 years and has seen remarkable results with it. The vast majority of his patients have little to no issues with memory. The talk put me a little more at ease.

But I still really don't want ECT.

One thing he was willing to try was to start me on Lexapro (an antidepressant). Before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder I had been on Lexapro for depression. Any time we increased the dose, I would get hypomanic for a couple of weeks. The hypomania would slowly wear off and then I would be okay for awhile. But then the depression would creep back in. Dr. M is hoping that since the Lexapro made me hypomanic in the past, that it will lift the depression now.

And that's it. That's all he's willing to try. If the Lexapro doesn't help and I'm still having issues with depression, my next step is ECT. Because I'm doing all the other stuff (CBT, trauma work, DBT, Al-Anon . . .). There's not much left.

Fingers crossed that the Lexapro helps.

How I'm Feeling

I'm back at that place of no feelings. Nothing. Flat. I try, but I fail. I keep feeling like I need to cry but I can't. I just . . . can't. There's not enough emotion behind it. There's just nothing.

And that's frustrating.

Honestly, this is just as bad as the raw depressive, suicidal, tidal wave of emotion. It's just bad in a different way.

Have I posted this before?

I might have. I'm not sure. 

But this. Seriously. This is so accurate to how I'm feeling. 

I keep thinking, well, I'm not cycling madly, so am I stable? Is this what stability looks like? This . . . nothing? If this is how I am stable I don't like it. I want to feel things. Other than irritability (I can still feel that). 

Maybe I'm expecting too much. Maybe expecting to have some semblance of "normal" feelings is asking too much. Maybe that's just not in the cards for me.

I hate this. I hate it so much. It's stupid and it's not fair. Existing and living are not the same. All I'm doing is existing right now. At least when I'm an emotional whirlwind there's some sense of living . . . Not now. Not at all. 

Fuck. Everything.

I wax poetic I guess

So the stupid thing is that I'm at the point where part of me wants to give up again. I'm at the point where I want to throw in the towel. Thanks, life, it's been fun. But I'm done now. You've become too cold and hard and bitter. You've become too much trial and not enough triumph.

I know, I know. By virtue of me still being here that's a triumph, right? At least that's what some people would say. You're strong. You've been through so much and you're still standing.

Yes, I'm standing alright.

Well, more like kneeling. Not on-my-knees praying kneeling, no, not like that. But on my hands and knees, head hung low in despair, my hair sticking to my face thanks to the tears. Sobs racking my body as I wish for a swift end.

That's not what I would call a triumph. No.

Or is it? I'm still alive, I guess. My heart still beats though at times I will it to stop. My lungs still fill with air, even when they burn with exertion from crying.

I still function. I still work and carry on as though everything were okay. I would call that a triumph. Still being able to function.

So there's that, I guess.

I have a hard time finding meaning to things. Life in general, of course, but also of things. Just, everything. I get to where I feel so empty and hollow and lost that I don't know how I can possibly go on. Everything gets so bleak and I get tunnel vision. Except it's not really tunnel vision. No. It's like everything has expanded, blown apart into minute detail but it's all foggy. Foggy and thick and slow and the emptiness is all consuming and I feel myself sinking in the sludge. It feels dark. And cold. And I will my heart to stop - even if for a moment - to give me reprieve. It feels like I'm drowning. And as I try to fight it, to scramble out of the dark and cold and slowness I marvel at how insignificant I really am and how nothing I do truly matters.

But it does matter. I remind myself of this. It does matter. You matter. The depression is talking. It whispers in your ear and tells you lies and you really do matter. Life has meaning.

I force myself to look for meaning. There's the obvious ones: family, friends . . . and more subtle ones. The obvious ones give me grounding, the subtle ones give me hope.

Ahhh, hope. I've been told that as long as I'm breathing, there's hope. I'd like to believe that. It's another thing I remind myself of when depression is whispering softly in my ear.

Depression doesn't whisper softly though. Not usually. It's firm and direct and demanding. That's the problem with it. I can tell myself all of the positive things in the world and the depression throws its head back and laughs. It counters every positive with a negative as I scramble and climb and try to keep my head above the darkness. It bares its teeth and grins at me, a beastly, ghastly thing. It holds me fast.

But then my resolve strengthens and I find a new way to fight, a new way to counter.

And I'm trying yet another new way. I don't know if it will work. I don't know if it will help. I don't know if depression will release its stronghold on me. Its grip is tight and fierce and convincing.

I am, however, still breathing.

Procrastinating . . .

That's what I'm doing right now. Procrastinating. Writing this post. I've been looking up random shit on the internet instead of writing. For a couple reasons, really. One, I'm depressed, and sometimes I want retail therapy when I'm depressed (hence looking up shit to buy on the internet), and two, I'm depressed and emotionally drained and writing is sometimes difficult when I'm like this.

Wait.

Let's go further back.

To Sunday. Sunday was a bad day for my depression. Very bad. The highlight of the day was seeing Big Hero 6 - a funny movie that was pretty epic.

Monday. Monday wasn't great. Had some suicidal ideation (it would be so easy to take all of my seroquel and just go to sleep . . . just sleep and not wake up . . .). There was that, and that's bad enough. But around 3 my tummy wasn't terribly happy with me. Around 5 it was kinda angry. And then after dinner my ENTIRE INSIDES waged war on me.

That's right. Food poisoning.

I was stationed on the toilet with the trash can in front of me for almost 2 hours. The stomach cramps left me moaning in pain, hyperventilating and both cursing God while begging him for mercy (you son of a BITCH PLEASE make this stop . . .). I stripped down to nothing because I was sweating so much from my misery. Hubby tried to help, which involved getting me some water and watching helplessly as my gut tried to kill me.

What made my shenanigans worse was that I couldn't take my meds. Nope. Even water was making my intestines angry again.

So I couldn't sleep. See, my body is now wholly dependent on seroquel for sleep. Stupid, right? And my stomach was churning and gurgling and angry and nauseous . . .

But by 12:30am I couldn't take it anymore. I got up, had a slice of bread, and took one seroquel (I usually take 2). I figured, hopefully one won't upset my stomach as much as two, and it should be enough to go to sleep.

Nope.

Too little too late I guess. Or my tummy issues were enough that I wouldn't sleep no matter what. I finally fell asleep around 3:30 and promptly woke up at 5. Yay! So much sleep!

I had therapy at 8:30 yesterday morning. I'm depressed, my stomach is still all wonky, I haven't had coffee thanks to stomach wonkiness, I'm tired, and now I have therapy. It was a long session. And exhausting (it would have been exhausting even if I had gotten sleep).

We're trying to figure out the depression thing and M has a way of challenging me and my thinking. Which is good. That's what he's supposed to do. So I'm telling him how I have an appointment with a new psychiatrist on the 27th, that I'm no longer going to see Mary. "And so you'll make sure to tell this new psychiatrist that if he says something you don't like, he'll be fired too," M quipped. I glared at him. "No. That's not what I'm doing", I growled. "Chika has always been very business and short and cold. Mary, the first time I saw her, said that I didn't have to be depressed all the time. That we should be able to manage the depression so that I could actually feel good. And NOW she tells me that meds won't help and that I need to figure out how to deal with feeling suicidal every day. That is NOT OKAY in my book!" I almost spit at him. "Even if that's what you believe, you don't tell your depressed, suicidal patient that."

I lean back against the couch. I didn't realize I had crouched forward, wringing my hands. "I've been seeing them since June. I've given them a fair shot. They took 2 months to get my med prescriptions straight and their secretaries are horrible. And good luck getting seen if you have an emergency - they already double book appointments." M nods. "I just want to make sure you have realistic expectations," he says.

Yeah, well, I probably don't.

"I don't know what to do med wise," I say. "See, I've been doing 'research'", I make air quotes, "on what was going on this past summer when I was the most stable. I was stable when on geodon and brintellix. But we had to stop the brintellix because of the anxiety and then switched from geodon to seroquel to try and help the depression. Well, there's no difference in my mood between being on 50mg of seroquel vs 600mg - except for more pronounced side effects. So what's the point of that? There's no point!" I stop a moment, rubbing my temples. Everything is so muddled. "My thinking is slow. I'm sorry." I wait a minute. My thinking is slow, but my thoughts are racing. So many things I want to say but they're not coming out. "Okay, so Mary had mentioned that I need to do trauma work, right? And so did the doc in Boston. Okay. Trauma work. We've been doing trauma work almost every week since the middle of June. We've done that. We went over my past relationship and rape almost 2 years ago and I'm comfortable with that. We've been going over the ACOA stuff for a while now. I'm going to Al-Anon. I'm doing stuff in workbooks on my own. And honestly? If you were to say, right now, what do yo need to say about your mom, I would have no idea what to say. I have no idea what more to talk about. We went to her house Christmas Eve morning and it was good. I've been texting her here and there and it's been good. I'm not feeling triggered by that like I used to be. I've invited her and her boyfriend over for dinner. She's respecting my boundaries and I feel good about it. Is there more stuff to work through? Yeah, there probably is. But I don't know what it is until it punches me in the face, I guess. Point is, I don't know what more to say, I'm comfortable with her, I'm not getting triggered like I was . . . so what then? What do we do when this happens? She says trauma work but I don't know what more to do with trauma work." Big sigh. I don't know how much of that makes sense.

"That was really nice," M remarks. "That shows how much progress you really have made. You've kind of come full circle and you're recognizing it. You have done a lot of work. You've made a ton of progress. You really are exceptional."

I blush. "I wouldn't say that . . ." Truthfully? I have done the work. I've been in therapy for 3 years. Weekly sessions almost the entire time. And I have learned a lot. I recognize me errors of thinking and then stop and replace them with positive things. I'm doing much better at mindfulness - being present (I'm not great, not perfect most of the time, but I try all the time). I'm truly taking things one day at a time. I'm recognizing triggers and either avoiding or minimizing them. I'm trying not to isolate. I do positive readings, track my moods via chart and mood diary, take my meds, go to therapy, keep a regular sleep routine, am cleaning up my diet, trying to get back into exercise . . . I'm not exceptional, no, but I'm doing the fucking work, that's for sure.

"No, Cami, you are. And with all of this, maybe this depression is a bipolar chemical thing."

I nod. I'm hoping it's a bipolar chemical thing. It has to be a bipolar chemical thing. Why? Because look at all the shit I've done. All the shit I'm constantly doing. If this isn't chemical? Then what the fuck else am I supposed to DO??? Seriously. There's not much more I can do. I'm trying a DBT group. I met with the therapist who runs the group yesterday and my first session is next Monday. It meets every other Monday. So there's that. I guess I can always try neurofeedback (but there aren't any good studies on it, it's expensive, and insurance doesn't cover it). Then there's good 'ol ECT. Which is not even choice for me.

Truth is, I'm doing everything I can. So if this new psychiatrist tells me that changing my meds, in what ever way, is not going to help . . . I have no idea what to do. Because I'm doing everything I can already.

M wanted me to describe an acceptable level of functioning for me. Here it is: I would like to be able to enjoy my husband and son. I would like to enjoy their company and doing things with them. I would like do enjoy doing things. I would like to not have suicidal ideation every day. I would like to not hate my job.  I think that's pretty reasonable. I think that's pretty realistic. M thinks so too.

And I know that that's not a destination. I know it's a journey, something M always points out. I know that I'll always have to manage my moods and triggers and meds. I get that, I really do. I hate it, but I get it. It's a lifelong journey. I just don't think I should have to spend so much of it so depressed that I want to die. Is that so much to ask?



I know I've had a lot of posts about this lately. It's been bugging me. Trying to figure out what is going on and how to best handle it. I don't know what is bipolar or PTSD or situational or environmental . . . I don't know. I just want to feel better.

New Years . . . ?

I should write a new years post, right? Isn't that what most people do? Reminisce the previous year, state their new resolutions . . . I should do that, right?

No.

I'm not going to. For a few reasons I guess. One, I typically don't make new years resolutions, and two, this past year has been pretty crappy.

And my heart just isn't in it.

I couldn't care less about new year's resolutions and all that crap*

                          *all that crap = life in general   

My mind has been in a tizzy as of late. It's either slow as molasses or racing around throwing stupid ideas and thoughts in my face because my mind is an asshole. So now, just to try and make sense of shit, I'm throwing this all out on (figurative) paper. Maybe it will help. Maybe I'll still be confused and racing sludge and annoyed with my asshole brain. Who knows.

Hopefully we all remember what my pdoc told me about what she thought my "treatment" should be. And we remember how I was thinking of looking for a new pdoc.

I decided a couple of things: I made an appointment with a new pdoc (whose specialty happens to be bipolar disorder), and I'm going to start group DBT sessions. I see my new pdoc on the 27th and I'm meeting with the therapist for the DBT group next Tuesday (and then sessions are every other Monday, starting on the 12th for me).

These are both good things.

But my mind is still in a tizzy.

Why? Because I keep second guessing myself  and what is truly right for me to do.

I'll elaborate, of course.

I keep thinking back to what Mary said. That I may be depressed and suicidal and I should just get used to it. That meds won't help. That I need to do more trauma work, DBT, neurofeedback, ECT . . . that, basically, I'm failing at doing what I can to feel better. In everything she told me, she's insinuating that if I just did this thing correctly, did this thing more, I'd be okay. Life wouldn't suck. I wouldn't be depressed.

And this has hit me hard, actually. Not as in, depressing me more (not really), but as in making me second guess everything. Much of this is stated in my last post - and much of it will be restated here because I need to vent people and it's my blog so I do what I want.

The past few days have been . . . not as shitty? I'm not sure how to define it. Here's the prevailing thoughts/feelings: don't want to wake up (being awake is stupid), withdrawn, quiet, not wanting to interact (too difficult, takes too much energy, don't care), depressed (but not the sobbing despair kind), flat, angry, irritable, don't care about things, periods of not wanting to exist, feeling "tired", wanting to nap to escape or constantly reading to escape, over eating, and feeling empty and nothing. That's still kinda shitty, right? Not how I want to feel. Not at all. But I keep thinking, I haven't been the sobbing, suicidal depressed for what, almost a week? So I'm not depressed. I can't be depressed if I'm not suicidal, right???

Wrong.

We all know this. I'm depressed. Just a different kind of depressed.

But the kind of depressed I'm in now doesn't garner the same attention as me being suicidal. I'm seen as being stable. I'm seen as getting better. When, in reality, I'm still fucking depressed. I'm still terribly withdrawn from my family and everything else. And it sucks. Feeling like this sucks.

And then I get confused. Is this how I'm supposed to be feeling? Is this normal? Do I still feel this way because I'm not trying hard enough? I mean, Mary said I needed to do trauma work, do trauma work, it's the only way. Maybe I haven't done enough . . . maybe I need to hunker down and really do trauma work and I'll be fine. This will pass.

Wait.

I've been doing trauma work. M and I have worked through a metric fuck ton of trauma shit. I'm at the point now, in talking about my alcoholic upbringing, I'm not sure what more to say. I'm slowly building a relationship with my mom and I'm okay with that. She isn't nearly as big f a trigger for me . . . So that's good, right? That means I've been doing something right . . .

But if you're still depressed, obviously you haven't done something right.

What is that something?

Are my expectations too high? Let's be honest, if I could choose, I'd be mildly hypomanic all. The. Time. Who the hell wouldn't want to feel like that? Here's the thing though - I know that's unrealistic. I know that's not how I'll feel. What I really want? To enjoy life. To feel joy and happiness and contentment. To feel connected. To feel love. To feel emotions other than hate, anger, resentment and irritability. I want to not constantly feel like I don't want to exist or that I'd be better off dead. I want to feel emotions - all emotions - without feeling like I'm drowning in them.

And I don't feel like that's too much to ask.

So I've been doing trauma work, my expectations really aren't that high . . . so what else? What am I not doing right? Self sabotage? No, I've been actively countering all my errors in thinking and I'm forcing myself to try and stay connected, interactive, all that shit. If this isn't chemical, like Mary said it wasn't, what the fuck else?

SAD.

Could this be seasonal affective disorder overlapping the bipolar? Is that what this is? Do I just need to wait it out and I'll feel better? Is that my problem? I'm not strong enough to wait a few months? Suck it up, buttercup. You're life is going to be fucking suicidal shit for 3-6 months, but you can handle it. Try and stay positive. Muddle through. You'll make it. Meds won't help. Just deal with being suicidal.

Stop.

I get on that line of thinking and I get stuck. My brain goes faster. I'm not strong enough to wait it out. I should be able to wait this out. I should be able to do this.

Wait. Stop.

That's an error of thinking. No "shoulds". Counter that. Replace that thought. Better.

Let's try this. If it is SAD, then yes, it's cyclical. Right? So it should end, right? But when? I can't spend 3-6 months struggling every day, trying not to kill myself, and ostracizing my family and friends. Honestly, that's no way to live. And it's not how I want to live. So what then? What do I do?

Should I try going the med route? Is that the answer? Something to help me through this time period (assuming this is the problem)? More therapy? I mean come on - I do CBT, trauma work, Al-Anon, and I'll be starting DBT. What the hell more can I do? Do I truly just suck it up and deal with it? I don't want to accept that as the answer. Surly I can feel better than this.

I don't know. I can't even remember how I used to be. How I was before my "break" 3 years ago. I know I was depressed after having my son, and that that got progressively worse and worse until I lost it 3 years ago. I know I've had depression all of my life. But I don't remember how it was. My hubby says that I was upbeat, easy going, go with the flow, didn't get upset much (although at times I was "go, go, GO" with things, projects, ideas). But I don't really remember it. All I seem to remember is the chaos that the past 3 years have been. My friends say I'm not the same. I'm not who I should be.

I'm rambling anymore. My mind is going too fast right now for me to keep up with it. I can't separate thoughts anymore. I can't continue to be like this, though. I see my new pdoc the 27th. We'll go from there I guess.