Some Frustration

Well. It's been almost a full month since I posted anything. It's not that I haven't had anything to write about, it's just that I haven't published it.

I've been very frustrated lately. See, I'm in a low grade depression. Chock full of apathy, negative thoughts, exhaustion, and feeling like I want to die - or at least not exist - because everything seems pointless. I often don't want to be around people or interact with them. I kinda don't want to be touched at times. I often want to sleep so that I don't have to deal with how I'm feeling.

I hate this.

I was triggered 2 weeks ago by something I read in one of my Al-Anon daily readers. It was about forgiveness. And it made me realize that I haven't forgiven my mom for her drinking. And that I can't separate her from the disease of alcoholism. I can't see her for the person she is. Anytime I come close, my walls shoot up. And they're tall, thick, and covered in barbed wire.

This trigger happened on Friday the 17th. Saturday the 18th I talked about it in Al-Anon. The following Wednesday (last Wednesday) I talked about it in therapy and then with hubby that night. I started grieving the relationship that I will never have with my mom. This, I think, is the first step in forgiving her and forming some kind of relationship (I hadn't spoken to her in over 3 months).

I then called her last Saturday and we talked for 30 minutes. It went well - better than I thought - and I decided that we can talk, but only on my terms. I'll have to wait and see how this goes.

But what's frustrating is this damn depression. I'm stable for fuck's sake!!! I shouldn't have to deal with this!!

Except that this is part of having bipolar disorder.

I can be triggered and go into a mood episode. Since I'm stable, this depressive episode isn't as bad as it could be. Which I should be thankful for. And I am. But I'm still fighting against how I think I should feel being stable (which is no swings, happy all the time, cheerful, energetic, possibly slightly hypomanic - this is unrealistic, I know, but it's my ideal), and how I actually feel.

My "should" is very unrealistic. I was starting to accept that. Starting to accept that I'll have mini swings (that are more extreme than the "normal" range of emotions). Starting to accept that my mood can still change at the drop of a hat and that I will never truly know what my mood will be like at any given moment. I was starting to accept that.

But then this depression happened, and it has hung around for 2 weeks, and everything that I was starting to accept goes out the window.

So I'm frustrated. I'm reminding myself daily that this is part of bipolar disorder, that I'm still way better than I have been, and that eventually it will pass. I'm doing all of the correct, positive things that I should be doing and that I've learned how to do in therapy. I'm trying to dig myself out of this hole. And I will. I know I will. Or at least I keep telling myself that.

Ugh. Stupid depressive feels.

My horse, my hospitalization, and my meds

I plan on doing a tribute post for my horse, Chance, who very tragically is being put to sleep today. He was kicked by another horse and fractured his left hock. There's nothing that can be done to help him as the fracture would not heal and he'd go crazy in the stall for the months it would take to try. I'm devastated over the news as this horse saved my life and stole my heart. I know he'll still be watching over me, but there's something about burying your face in your horse's neck and breathing deeply . . . it's the most therapeutic thing I know.

Well, let's move on to the biggies here - my hospitalization and my meds. (Now, just a note here: I'm not detailing my hospitalization - that part will be in my book). If you read through my past several posts (go ahead, I'll wait . . . done? Good.), you'll notice that I was getting progressively worse. I was having severe depressive downswings where I would start sobbing out of nowhere. Sobs full of pain and despair and hopelessness. Sobs full of thoughts of death, a desire to die. 

These downswings were worsening and coming more frequently over about a week's time, each day drawing me deeper into depression. I knew where I was headed. I knew what needed to be done. I knew . . . but I dare not say it. 

Wednesday the 18th I had therapy with M. I had been crying in the parking lot before hand, but had myself under control before walking into the office. 

Or so I thought.

I broke down again as M was coming out to bring me back to his office. I tried to stop, tried to hide it, tried to play it off as nothing. But let's be honest - M is a smart guy and sobbing uncontrollably usually means something is wrong . . . am I right?

He asked what was going on and I told him I didn't know. I had been like this all week long, each day getting worse, passively suicidal on Monday. But I didn't know what was wrong. I didn't know why, just that it was getting worse each day. 

He asked what we needed to do. I shook my head. I don't know, I said . . . though I did. And so did he.

"I think you need to go to the hospital." Boom. It was out. I sobbed harder. "I want you to call J, and give the phone to me. He needs to either meet you here or at your house and take you in. You need to go to the hospital."

I looked at him through bleary eyes, my lip quivering, and nodded. I fished my phone out of my purse and called my husband. M talked to him, told him what was going on, and they came up with a game plan - we would finish our session and when I was leaving I would call J to meet me at the house. From there . . . hospital. 

I looked at M feeling defeated. "This is my second hospitalization in a month." I shook my head as more tears threatened to fall. 

"Cami, I've never seen you this bad. Even at your worst, I haven't seen you this bad. You need to go in." I nodded slowly.

We talked about the previous week, of the worsening depression. It came on so fast. So much change in just a week. It didn't make sense to me.

And then it did.

I had an idea. What if it was the Latuda? The new antipsychotic I had been put on? My first random bouts of crying started the day after my first dose . . . It was possible, wasn't it? Antidepressant commercials and med inserts warn about worsening depression and suicidal thoughts and actions, so why not an antipsychotic? It seemed plausible.

And was confirmed by Dr. S in the hospital. 

When I stopped taking the Latuda in the hospital, the sobbing, horrific depressive downswings stopped. Almost immediately. There was a hug change in me between Wednesday and Friday (and thank GOD for several reasons - one of which was the ability to then go home on Saturday!). Sudden onset coinciding with starting the med, and sudden disappearance of episodes with the discontinuance of the med.

Latuda literally made me crazy.

Dr. S swapped out the Latuda for Geodon - a tried and true med that has been around for a long time (Latuda has been on the market about a year). She's had very good success with a Geodon and Lithium combo - and I've already been on lithium for awhile. 

So I'm hopeful now. I'm feeling more like myself - a lot more. I'm actually feeling happiness and contentment and joy. I'm still having some swings - I'll suddenly have a wave of depression wash over me - but it's mild and short lived. But I can say that I'm me.

I'm me. And that's huge.

Therapy and ACOA

Today was the therapy day that I was (and wasn't) looking forward to. If you remember from my last post, I had read Codependent No More and had all these horrible feels and today I was going to start talking about them. Well, talk I did.

I started by reading M my last journal entry (which he found amusing, laughed, and joked that maybe he should be worried and leave). He reminded me that I didn't need to dive in balls to the wall with this. No, definitely not. But I need to start. And today was as good a day as any (especially with all the icky feels I've had from reading that book).

Funny thing is, I didn't really know where to start. I pointed out my anger and frustration. That I don't want to have to sort through this. It's too much and it's not fair and I want to be done with it!

See, I'm still very much that scared little girl, trapped in the darkness of my own mind, haunted by my memories and feelings. They chase me, like the wolf after his prey. I'm cornered now, back against the wall, and all I can do is fight for my life.

And this is a fight. A struggle within myself, to overcome myself. To pull this little girl out of the darkness, into the light, and show her that everything is okay. We've survived, thrived even. She needs comfort. She needs protection. She needs to be able to own herself, gain confidence, and start repairing the damage.

Here's where we start:

My mom is an alcoholic. She's been one for as long as I can remember. Life with an alcoholic is unpredictable, chaotic, and sometimes downright terrifying. There is fear, mixed messages, confusion, anger, guilt, shame, hopelessness, powerlessness. All of this takes its toll. It wears you down.

I was the caretaker. When my mom was drunk, I made sure she was in bed. I made sure my brother got to bed. That we were all fed, that alarms were set. I felt responsible for them, my brother and mom. I was overprotective of my brother - if anything "bad" happened to him it would devastate me (though I hid these feelings because they were feelings that would start a screaming match between my mom and I). I put them before myself - always. Even though I desperately didn't want to.

I grew increasingly withdrawn at home and in life in general. My true feelings caused problems. I learned quickly to bottle them up. I slept all the time - I claimed I had mono to explain that away. I thought about suicide - often. I wished I could get away. I didn't have friends. I felt different from everyone. What if they found out my mom was an alcoholic? The shame and guilt kept me mute.

 I hated my life. I hated everything about it. I hated my mom. I hated that my dad couldn't save me. I hated that nobody saw how much pain I was in, how close I was to killing myself. I hated myself.

Maybe if I worked hard, maybe if I was the perfect daughter, did well in school, got a job, maybe then the drinking would stop. That didn't work. Maybe I wasn't perfect enough. Despite my good grades and working nearly full time starting at age 16, the drinking didn't stop. I sought approval. I sought affirmation that I was good. That I did good. If I was good, she'd have to stop. Right?

Wrong. No matter what I tried, the drinking didn't stop. I wasn't good enough. She even said it herself. My brother and I were a burden and maybe one day she just wouldn't come home. I was a failure. I wasn't good enough.

There were screaming matches about her drinking. Constantly. My brother and I would find and empty her bottles of vodka. We'd confront her lies. There were so many lies you never knew what to believe. Broken promises of getting sober. We learned not to trust.

So often, after a screaming match, mom would say she'd only have a drink on the weekend. We said okay. Then it became a few. We said okay. Then it was one a night. We relented. Then it was however many she wanted. We gave up. She'd say she wouldn't drink if there were people over. We said okay. Then it was drinking no matter who was over. We gave up. We learned that boundaries didn't matter - they got trampled on anyway.

She was embarrassing when she was drunk. She acted erratically, was unpredictable, and said things that made you want to curl into a ball and hide away. She did this in front of company, family, my brother's friends (I didn't have friends). I felt responsible for her actions - as if I should be able to control them. I felt they reflected badly on me. I felt ashamed of her and guilty I couldn't control her actions.

Now, let's look at this (very) brief synopsis and see what I've learned, what I've picked up. Shame, guilt. Despite trying to do everything right and be perfect, I'm a failure. I don't trust, don't have boundaries, and don't know what to believe. My feelings are bad and should be kept to myself. I feel responsible for other's actions. I put everyone ahead of myself, often to my detriment. Pain, confusion, anger, resentment.

All of these traits (and others) have followed me to this day. All of these I struggle with every day. I never realized this until M had me research ACOA and read Codependent No More. So much of my behaviors and thought patterns make sense now. My mom's alcoholism wasn't as bad as it could have been. My childhood wasn't nearly as bad as others had it. But that doesn't mean it affected me any less.

My journey to healing and recovery has started. The road is long, and probably rocky at times, but I have all the gear I need to make the trek. Hopefully I'll find peace along the way. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll find that little girl and I can hold her in my arms and tell her everything will be alright.

Confusion, feels, and general badassery

So I recently finished reading Codependent No More which was a homework book assigned by my therapist, M. At first I was all, "um, totally not codependent dude." He insisted. He told me I was stable enough to handle it. Stable enough to handle a book? He also told me not to read it on a day I was feeling vulnerable. Okay . . . .

I read it. His warning was accurate. It was difficult. Had I read it earlier, when my bipolar wasn't under control . . . I shudder to think what would have happened. This book . . .

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The confusion, anger, feelings, pain and grief  that flooded me. I can't even comprehend, I don't even know . . . It's bad. It's all bad. The feels . . . good God the feels. M, what the fuck.

See, I've spent my entire LIFE suppressing this. All of this. All of this anger and pain and hurt and confusion. All of these God dammed FEELS. Suppressed. Boxed up. Hidden away in the darkest recess of my mind. Ignored.

Except . . . except they weren't totally gone. Not really. Because of my interactions with my mom. Because of my learned behaviors from my upbringing. And recently, M has been poking and prodding. He's the one who described me as ACOA, had me educate myself, stirred the beast from its slumber. He open the proverbial can of worms and these worms are ugly mother fuckers.

Everything I'm feeling right now, everything I'm desperately trying to hold in, shut up, suppress . . . it's leaking out. It can't come out. It can't. No.

But I fucking need it to come out. It has to. I'll never get better, never be truly recovered if it doesn't come out. And it terrifies me. I don't know what to do, where to start, how to deal. The anger . . . the anger I'm feeling right now. At my mom, my dad, myself. At the world. At how unfair everything is. At how, had I known this shit earlier, I could have saved myself some heartache.

Then there's the guilt, the shame. The pain, the grief. Loss. The origins of my unhealthy behaviors, habits, thoughts - all apparent. But still, denial. It's confusing.

This is shit I need to work through, and it's going to be hard. So hard. I'm scared and confused. I'm trying to hold everything in still. Honestly, I'm trying not to explode until I see M on Tuesday. I need guidance and support. This is a ton of ugly worms to sort through. From my earliest memory of my mom's alcoholism (age 6) to now (I'm 35) . . . 29 years of repressed emotion and anger and pain.

What have you gotten yourself into, M? Hopefully you fish because you now have a fuckton of bait.

Hey look! It's Tuesday!

Thank you, Captain Obvious.

I had therapy today, and I always seem to want to write when I have therapy. It makes me all intuitive and philosophical.

Or it just makes me want to get more shit out. I'm not philosophical - come on now.

Therapy today wasn't anywhere near as rough as it was last time (which was 2 weeks ago and was an ACOA talk). But I still feel horribly, emotionally drained. Like, I just need to sleep to escape all these feels.

Yes, I get Loki feels too. But those are different. Because Tom Hiddleston. 

I've been feeling a little more down and irritable lately. I have this sneaking suspicion it has a lot to do with not working with Mr. Chancy Pants anymore. I think I'll still be grieving off and on for awhile. And it's okay for me to grieve. I need to remember to give myself permission to do that. If I hold it in, well, that'll make it worse and will likely cause an emotional explosion. So where does that leave me?

(Yeah, Loki again.) It means I may actually be emotionally fragile sometimes (like I am right now), for seemingly no reason. I'm dealing with grief and loss while still trying to wade my way through managing the bipolar bit of my mood swings and all of the other emotional baggage and healing I've been working on. 

Sounds fun, yeah? Jealous?

Eventually, hopefully, I'll make sense of all of this and I'll push through and be me. And eventually, hopefully, I won't have to work so hard. 

Bitter Sweet

Today was, most certainly, bitter sweet. The end of one chapter, the beginning of another. I could come up with more metaphors, but I won't. So, on to the good stuff!

Today was my last day working with Chance. I've been working with him (and J and N) weekly or bi-weekly since February. Seven months. I can't even believe it's been 7 months. I originally looked into equine therapy at the urging of my therapist, M. He knew of my love for horses and the dreams and thoughts I had been having of them at the time.

So I looked online and found the Pikes Peak Therapeutic Riding Center.

I believe I emailed first. I was set to call and speak with N to set up a meeting and then I was hospitalized. I met with her and J shortly after I was released and was introduced to the horses. I was drawn to Chance, or him to me (or both), and he became my boy.

I groomed, I learned how to lead, to have him follow me without the lead rope on, to take him over/through little obstacles, to drive, and to do basic ground work. I was learning horsemanship (I've ridden, but working with a horse is much different). But more than this, I was learning mindfulness. To be in the moment and experience it - truly experience it without worrying about anything else.

J and N encouraged me, listened to me, guided me. They pointed out how my emotions were almost mimicked through Chance at times. How he reacted differently based on my state of mind. If I was distracted and not in the moment, he wouldn't follow. How when I relaxed, or became more focused and present, he was more in tune with me, following me, chewing and licking. J and N drew similarities between different interactions/activities with Chance and what I was experiencing or working through. The three of them, in spite of my stubbornness, opened my eyes and my heart.

Through them, I found myself. I found myself. That's a powerful statement. The past year and 10 months has been the most difficult time of my life - I lost myself, I almost killed myself. And a horse and two amazing people helped me find myself again.

Which brings me to why today was so bitter sweet. I feel I'm at the point to move forward, to continue to grow. And even though this terrifies me (greatly), it's something I need to do. But this means not working with Chance one on one. Not having these bi-weekly meetings that I look forward to, not experiencing the connection and peace and happiness I get from being with him.

I'm staying on at PPTRC as a volunteer, working with disabled children and adults and the horses, and I'm very excited about that! It will be rewarding and fun and I like knowing that I can help, in some small way, someones else's recovery. And I'll still see Chance, and maybe even "play" with him every once in awhile. But it's not the same as working with him one on one, him and me, and there is a sense of loss with that.

And grief.

I am grieving this loss, and it's hard. As I knew it would be. My goodbye with him today was interesting and moving and wonderful and terrible. After I said my goodbyes, took off his halter and started to walk away, he followed and came close, as if he hadn't finished yet. And I wept, softly and silently.

I couldn't convey my deep appreciation to J and N - I would have lost it. Completely. So instead, I hugged them and kept my tears for the parking lot. And boy did I cry. I had to pull over the sobs were so uncontrolled. It was guttural, deep and ugly. It's how I cried when I lost my dad. It was a release of that grief and loss and was necessary. I've teared up several times since - I get a whiff of that wonderful "horse smell" on my clothes which always makes me feel calm and content and then I remember . . . and I tear up.

But the grief will pass, and I'll still be with horses and I'll still see Chance. It'll be different, but it will be good. Moving forward, finding me. And I know, for a fact, that these disabled kids and adults I'll be working with will have much to teach me as well.

Thank you, Chance. And thank you J and N. Thank you all for helping me find me again.