So I'm probably stable . . .

I truly do believe I'm stable. I've made it through the worst of the recent med changes, made it through the rebound depression, and I'm what you would call "stable". I'm not having any major mood swings. Rather than the swings hitting like a tsunami, they're 4-5 foot waves that lap more gently at the shore.

This should be good, right?

In a word: yes.

But also no.

Why? Because the moods I'm feeling now are very stunted. They're subdued. At times, they're almost not there. And this, for me, is bad. I'm used to feeling the extremes of moods. I'm used to the highs (though relatively rare), the hyper irritability, the deep sorrow and depression. I feel that. It's guttural. It's intense. But now my moods are meh. Blah. Whatever. Flat. Apathetic.

Or anger.

Here's my problem: I'm stable, but I'm not happy. I feel more like I'm on the outside of everything, viewing, but not taking part in life. I'm bobbing right along the surface, able to keep my head above water, but still drowning - albeit slowly.

I'm stable, but I feel no real joy in things. My job, that I love, is an annoyance. It's an inconvenience. Everything about it makes me irritable and resentful. Dealing with patients can make my blood boil. I don't enjoy it anymore.

My hubby and son . . . I try feeling joy, happiness, and love with them and I mostly come up short. I don't want to do anything with my son. I don't enjoy him. Him wanting to play a game with me irritates me and makes me snippy and angry and sad. I would prefer not to interact with him. With my hubby I do a little better. But I'm not really happy around him. I try. I try.

I'm stable, but I'm still depressed. Maybe I'm not at the sobbing-constantly-suicidal-depressed phase, but I'm depressed none the less. It's more mild. It's this black cloud that never fucking leaves. It's always there. Always hovering over me, always making everything more difficult. I'm more withdrawn. I avoid people and conversations. I'm almost constantly irritable. I'm down, melancholy. Whatever you want to call it.

I'm stable, but I'm not really alive. Does that make sense? I'm existing. I'm going through the routine of everyday life. I get up merely to make it to bedtime to escape again. During the day at home all I want to do is sleep to escape how I'm feeling - or, rather, what I'm not feeling.

I don't want to exist. I want to live. I felt how it feels to live while on the Brintellix - but I was taken off of that due to side effects. If I can't live, what's the purpose of being alive? Seriously. I want to wink out of existence.

That's not really an option though. So I'm trudging along, going through those motions, praying for a spark. Trying to keep hope alive while I'd truly like to throw in the towel.

Because this shit is hard. Pretending to be okay is fucking hard. Especially when there's no end in sight. Maybe this is as good as it will get for me. That's depressing in and of itself.

My pdoc is happy with my progress. She thinks the seroquel is working wonders. After all, I'm stable, right? That's the whole point. Stability. Who the fuck cares if I enjoy life . . . as long as I'm stable.

And before you go thinking I'm all doom and gloom and dwelling on everything bad - I'm actually not. I'm doing everything I can to stay in the moment. I'm picking out my errors of thinking and countering them. I'm taking it one day at a time. I'm trying to do things that I used to enjoy (though most of the time I have to force myself). I'm doing my best not to catastrophize. I'm eating healthier again, exercising regularly. Listening to good music, keeping busy, not allowing myself to nap too much.

And yet I mostly feel like crap. I'm still depressed. I'm still not happy. The unrelenting black cloud won't break up for anything. I'm stuck.

Fuck you, self

I'm sitting here very restless but very apathetic. There is a torrent of thoughts racing through my mind, none of them good. I hate this feeling. This feeling of needing to do something, anything, but having no idea what to do. But of also not caring enough to even try. Of knowing that everything you do is pointless so there's no sense in doing anything.

I have still been down. I have still felt empty and lost and confused. I have still been horribly withdrawn and, early this morning, I was unaware of this fact. I felt somewhat okay this morning. Sure, maybe I was a little down. Maybe I was feeling a little empty, even a little irritated, but I was okay, right?

Until my best friend, L, came over. Then, I realized, just how not okay I was. I was acutely aware of how down I was feeling. I was acutely aware of how withdrawn I still am (she even made mention of it). Truth be told, I didn't want to talk, I didn't want her company, I didn't want anything except to disappear.

But I couldn't disappear. I couldn't even go on a drive and smoke. See, my son is home sick from school. Can't really take him around with me on a self destructive spree.

So I painted/drew with him and then read while he played games on his kindle.

And I had bad thoughts.

I thought about taking pills. I needed to escape what I was feeling and taking pills seemed like a viable option. But everything I have will sedate me. Which is fine if it only did that for a few hours but the last time I tried it I was in and out of consciousness for a day and a half. I need uppers. I have no uppers. I need percocet so I can feel high. I have no percocet.

So then I thought about alcohol. But the problem with that is drinking with my meds. I can't even take a fucking Benadryl with my meds without being so knocked out the next morning that I can't function. I have therapy in the morning! I have to be functional!

I thought about stopping all of my meds. So that I can maybe be manic. Get the high of mania - the euphoria, energy, on top of the world feeling coupled with invincibility. But that would prove highly destructive.

I'm considering anorexia. I'm not even fucking joking. A slow form of self harm that, hey - will maybe make me look good! Weight loss isn't all bad!

I want to destroy things but I don't have the energy. I want to punch but in order to be satisfied I need to hurt myself.

And I think about all of these things, these self destructive things, and I can't help but wonder if this is all just me trying to self sabotage. I'm trying to make my situation worse. Bring about crisis. Because we all know that I don't seem to function without some form of motherfucking crisis.

I know this. And I'm doing everything to try and counter this thinking. It's not healthy. I'm not healthy. But no matter how hard I try and counter, it doesn't change the fact that the feelings are there. That the thoughts are there. They're FUCKING THERE and nothing I do seems to work!

What the hell am I supposed to do? I see what I'm doing. I know what I'm doing. It's there, right in front of me. And still it happens. And I try, and right now I seem to be failing. I'm too much for myself. I can't counter my own sick mind and I'm going to make things worse.

What. The fuck. Do I do?

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.

Defeated

That's how I feel right now. Utterly defeated. Just got home from my appointment with Dr. C and we're doing exactly what I thought - stopping Cymbalta and starting Wellbutrin. Joy. Another med change.

It seems that's all that ever happens. Try this med, stop this one, add this one, decrease this dosage . . . It's very frustrating. It's getting me nowhere. And I'm tired of it.

I left the office in a daze, near tears. I had to fight the tears while driving. And I'm sitting here, on the couch, struggling with what to write. My head is a whirlwind, but at the same time, sluggish and quiet. It's a very strange sensation.

I want to sleep. I'm so tired. Mentally and emotionally tired. But I only want to sleep so I don't have to deal with what I'm feeling. So devastatingly lost and defeated. I'll be honest - I'm not hopeful. We've been through this song and dance before and look where I'm at. Again.

I can't even write right now. I can't make sense of anything or concentrate. I'm staring off into space. I'll go cry. I'll try to sew. I'll carry on as best I can.

Yay.

I have nothing profound to say, but I feel like I need to write. Sort my thoughts and get something out there. This may be a rambling mess - just a warning.

I'm not sure when the last time I wrote was and, quite frankly, I'm too lazy to look right now. Monday I think. It's been a long week. A rough week. I've had a very difficult time mood wise. I think it's safe to say the depression is back. Full force. So much so that M suggested hospitalization on Tuesday (more to nip it in the bud rather than letting it get worse). I didn't go, and I'm not going. I'm seeing Dr. C on Monday so we can figure something out.

But I feel like crap. I broke down crying 3 times at work on Wednesday. Thursday was a little better, but I avoided everyone at work as much as possible. My first half hour with Chance yesterday was crying - the rest of the day was a little better but I filled it with sewing and nothing else.

Today . . . I'm withdrawn. I'm flat. I want to hide in the office. I don't think I'll cry today . . . but I really don't want to exist. If I'm doing something (like teaching the discharge class), I can ignore for a bit how I feel. When I have to interact with people, I can put on a believable enough facade (though it falters - and it's obvious I'm more withdrawn). But when I'm not doing something where I'm actively engaged . . .

I'm so hollow and empty. There's nothing there. Nothing. I don't want to be anywhere. I don't really feel. Well, frustration, anger, sorrow, emptiness, lonliness . . . those emotions I can feel. I'm so done with this. I'm so tired of this. Why can't I get better? Why can't I be stable? I do everything right. I'm the picture perfect patient. . . it's not fair. And no, life isn't fair.

I'm tired of struggling through the day. Anything I can do to make it through. Because at night, I can sleep. When I sleep I don't have to deal with the pain and emptiness. If I can make it through the day, I can sleep. What a way to live. If I could just go to sleep and wake up when this was all over. . .

I don't know what to do anymore. I want to be strong and brave and fight the depression. But I don't see things getting better. I see me being like this for the rest of my life, which makes me think, why bother? Why spend so much energy when nothing is going to change? That fatalistic thinking isn't healthy nor helpful. But it's not something I can really control. It's there, and it's how I feel.

I'm so frustrated and tired and braindead. Recovery seems like a hopeless endevour. I want to give up. It's too hard. And if I didn't have my hubby and my son, I probably would.

Losing it. . . .

Sometimes I feel
Like I wanna leave this place for good
Under the ground
I'll live down there without a sound
And never hear
These hissing voices all the same
I'll disappear
Cause living makes me feel ashamed

I must believe
There's more above us and below
I must believe
Stranded with this bitch called hope
It keeps me here
When all I wanna do is go
It keeps me here
When all I wanna do is disappear

If this is it
When all we have and ever will
If this is it
Time is running out and standing still
I'll leave today
Cause there's nothing left to keep me here
I'll fade away
I'll turn my back and disappear

           - The Bravery
(italics added for emphasis)

I don't even know anymore. I don't know what I'm feeling or if I should trust what I'm feeling. I'm struggling right now. Grasping any little shred of hope I can. But I'm falling. I feel like I'm slipping.

I'm becoming more and more detached. I'm just . . . here. I'm only taking up space. I'm trying to feel. I am. And I don't. I hate this so much. I'm desperate. I've thought about taking pills . . .

Briefly. But the thought was there. I can't do this. I can't. I'm not strong enough.

What I'm feeling right now, besides the detachment, is the depression. It's coming back despite my best efforts. Despite being back on Cymbalta. Despite everything. And I can't . . .

I see M tomorrow. Chance on Friday. What do I do in the meantime.

Also? I took a break in writing this to cry. The big, ugly cry with snot everywhere. Had to hide it from my son. I think I'll cry more, too.

God help me.

As Good As It Gets

Have you ever seen that movie? If not, watch it - pretty good flick.

And this is how my life seems. It's as good as it gets. No matter what I do, it's as good as it gets. Which is frustrating beyond belief. I'm tired of it, and I'm losing hope that it will ever change. In fact, I'm close to giving up.

But what's so bad? It's not like I'm suicidal or even close mood wise to where I was in February, so what's the big deal? Well, the big deal is that I'm not enjoying my life. Not much at all. Watching my son play with his friend . . . I'm annoyed. He does something cute or says something funny . . . I smile and feel nothing. My husband hugs me or kisses me or tells me he loves me and I return the favor but I feel nothing, or I get annoyed or I don't even know any more. I fake my way through conversations at work and try to avoid people. I'm a hollow husk of a person.

I've written this before. I know I have. Because this seems to be my new normal. If I'm not actively depressed, I'm a flat, withdrawn, empty, lost, confused shell. People don't understand this feeling - or lack of feeling, I should say. I'm not even sure I can accurately describe how it feels.

But I'll try.

Picture this: A desolate wasteland, a desert. Dead skeletons of trees litter the landscape. It's hot - the heat blurring the distance creating mirages of unknown things. A dry wind is blowing causing tornados of sand on the dunes and puhing the occasional tumbleweed by. There are no clouds and despite the sun being high, the light quality is that of a washed out twilight. The air is thick and it's hard to breath without your lungs burning. It's oppressive. It's unyielding. And there's this overwhelming sense of . . . . something ominous. Something not quite right. You can't put your finger on it . . . . but it's there.

This is the inside of me. It's what I imagine when I close my eyes. I can see it so clearly - it's burned into my mind. On the inside, the inside of me, in the middle of this wasteland, is a robot. A robot devoid of emotion. This robot is me.

I'm lost. I'm lost here and I'm scared. Except I'm not really scared. Because I'm not sure I can truly feel that. I'm kinda wandering around, staring at these skeletal trees, and trying to figure out what is going on. And in this robot body, in this dry landscape, I see the things around me - my family and friends, coworkers, strangers - and I struggle to be a part of that world. I can see the blue sky out there, hear the birds chirping . . . . but I can't grasp it. I can't move past this desert with its skeletal trees and sand dune tornados. But I try. The robot grasps for anything tangible, anything to hold on to. But it all too often slips through . . . .

There's despair with that, but that, too, is short lived and muted. No feelings last long in the wasteland. The wind takes them away with the tumble weeds.

That. That is how I feel. I don't even know if that makes sense. It probably doesn't.