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.

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.

I'm tired.

It's a bit stupid how tired I am. I worked two days in a row. Wednesday and Thursday.

And I'm exhausted.

Wednesday was slow, not too much going on. I had patients on the floor and did one delivery. Thursday was busier and my coworker and I did 8 deliveries. Both days I was drained and at times it showed. Both days I was alternately okay and withdrawn. Talking to coworkers proved too much to handle at times. I was okay with patients, thank God for small favors.

But two days in a row is apparently too much for me. I used to be able to work two or even three days in a row without any issues whatsoever. But not now. Now it's too much.

This morning I went to the riding center to muck stalls and that was actually a stupid move. It exhausted me further. I was tired this morning, drained and groggy. But I had perked up a little after taking my son to school so I decided fuck it - why not? So I went. And I made it 2 hours, surprisingly. I don't know how I did because I was so tired I thought I'd pass out. I think I made it out of sheer stupid stubbornness.

Mucking stalls is therapeutic for me, which is why I went. But I kinda wish I hadn't. I still haven't recovered. I'm drained and tired and exhausted. But I can't fall asleep to take a nap. Which is dumb.

Bleh

I have this need to write, but at the same time I feel very apathetic. I just don't care.

I told J today that I don't have depression, I don't feel depressed, I'm not down. And for the most part, that's true. I don't feel depressed. And I'm not depressed.

But right now I am most definitely down. I've been down most of the day. Not depressed - just down. And my irritability keeps shooting through the roof. Everything sets me off. Everything. I nearly lodged my sewing bobbin in the wall yesterday because it wouldn't feed right. I threw it at the wall and then broke down sobbing.

I'm overwhelmed by everything. Everything. Even small things. J and I were supposed to spend the day with our friends. Well, their kiddos are sick so we couldn't go. I felt like I couldn't cope with life. I couldn't find a matching sock in the laundry and my world about fell apart.

This is not okay. This is not normal. I know I'm still in a mixed episode - I get that. I do. I know it's going to take time for my Geodon to get to therapeutic levels. I get that. I do.

But can't I get a break?

I mean yeah, I'm not depressed. Which is fucking awesome, thank you. But this constant irritability and agitation, racing thoughts. I get distracted easily. It's hard for me to carry on a conversation sometimes. And being overwhelmed by everything. It's frustrating. Fuck it, let's be honest - this shit is infuriating.

I'm tired of having symptoms that won't go the fuck away. I'm tired of snapping at my husband and my son. Especially my son. I have no tolerance for him. And it pains me so much to say that. You have no idea. Actually writing that out? Almost in tears (I'm not in tears only because I'm stifling them).

So yeah. Can't I get a fucking break??

In other news, I painted a horse today. So that's good. I was going to post the picture but blogger is fucking up the quality. So check it out here if you'd like to see it.

That's all I guess. Cheers, y'all.

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.

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.

Rough Day

I'm not exactly sure where I want to go with this post. It's been a weird week for me. Some hypomanic moments, a day of extreme rapid cycling, feeling down and withdrawn. You name it, I experienced it. Most of the time was okay. A lot of my mood shifts were normal. Some were not. Some were true bipolar mood swings. I managed those as well as I could. Even my rapid cycling day. I experienced each mood swing (there were many drastic ones), managed it, and moved on. I didn't catastrophize, I didn't let myself spiral. And I was proud of myself for that. Very proud.

It's funny though, those times where I had a bipolar swing for the worse, I managed and moved on, but I also lingered. I stayed there, thinking that that's where I was supposed to be. In a more depressed state. It's only natural. But I didn't stay there. I moved forward. And I was proud of that.

Yesterday I was in a bit of a funk. A little down, more withdrawn than I have been (though I tried to hide that as I was at work). I think part of it was a decision I made on Friday - a decision that was difficult and that I'm grieving over. October 4th will be my last therapy day with Chance. J and N have been kinda hinting as to me finding a closure point. They didn't say anything outright and are more than happy to do whatever I need to do, but there have been some subtle hints. So I picked an end date. Right before the horses' fall break. I'm staying on as a volunteer so I'll still be with the horses, grooming, and working with them with the disabled children and adults. But it's not the same. Because I won't be with Chance, one on one, us. And I'm grieving that loss. And I think about it and I tear up. But I need to prove to N and J and to myself that I can do this and I can move on and still be okay.

I've also been thinking a lot about therapy. I've been going to weekly sessions for so long. Soooo long. I've been thinking it's time to try going every other week. Start to space out a little. I can't keep seeing M every week for the rest of my life - that won't work. So I had made the plan of talking to him about that today.

And then today. Oh boy today. A very emotionally draining day. Therapy today was an ACOA day. M spaces them out because they're so difficult. It's no fun talking about your drunk mother and how that's affected you and, let's be honest, it sucks. But talk about it we did. And I teared up many times but I didn't cry. I kept it together.

I started to feel the loss of not having the mother I needed, the mother I wanted. Grieving for not having a parent to go to. Grieving, again, over the loss of my dad. Then I told M about Chance. Another loss I'm grieving. And then, spacing out to every other week on therapy (which M agreed I was stable enough to do).

But there's a sense of loss with that, too. I know I see M every week - it's a safety net. And now that will be gone. It doesn't seem like it's that big of a deal, but to me, it is. And I'm scared. I'm scared of failing. If I can't make it going every other week, how can I expect to get better? The goal is to space out so that eventually I only go every 3 months, or 6 months, or only if I have an issue or a crisis. The point of therapy is to get better, find yourself, and move on. I need to prove to M that I can do that. To myself as well, but I feel more of an obligation to prove it to M. He's almost become the parental figure in my life. I need to show him that I'm good and capable and okay and I can do this and he can be proud of me. Everything I had to do with my mom to feel accepted, acknowledged. (I'll be writing tons more on this, I'm sure).

So I didn't cry in therapy. But I balled when I got to my truck. For 15 minutes or so. And I went to my friend L's house and talked about therapy. And started crying. And she gave me the most amazing birthday gift - a horse plushie she knitted herself. And it made me tear up and start crying (these were happy tears). And when my hubby, J, got home, I told him about therapy. And teared up and started crying. All this crying today. I'm so drained.

And you know what sucks? I feel myself giving in to these yucky feelings. These feelings of grief and loss which mimic so well the feelings of depression. I feel myself wanting to give in and have it continue. If it continues, I need therapy more frequently, I need Chance, and the yucky feelings of loss and fear go away. This is my cycle. This is what I do. I'm staring it in the face and a big part of me wants to give up and get sick again. And I can't do that. Because this time? I might not make it out alive. And in this moment, this very moment of typing this, I'm struggling. I'm so drained from today, and I feel so crappy and it's so much easier to stay here. It's an uphill battle at the moment to pull myself back up and move out of this present funk.

But I will. Because I have to prove to people that I can. And because I have to get better.

Hey! A real post!

Remember how I've been saying I was going to do a real post? Well, here it is. Kind of. I think.

I've been working a lot on staying positive. Identifying negative thoughts and behaviors and stopping them. Fostering healthy thinking. And I've been doing pretty well with all that. Making some headway it would seem. And I'm grateful for this. There's even times when I think I'm feeling "okay", where I'm feeling "normal". Maybe even feeling like "me". Which is strange and wonderful and still a bit confusing.

Last Friday, while working with Chance, I had another revelation type moment. N and J had me ground drive Chance. Don't know what ground driving is? You've seen horses pull carts, right? Well, imagine me as the cart. I walk behind Chance, directing him with the long reins just as if I was in the cart behind him. Neither of us has done this. But N sent us off on our own after showing me the basics. The first 10 minutes or so was chaos. Neither of us knew what we were doing, there was miscommunication between us and we floundered about looking like idiots. Or at least I looked like an idiot.

But then something magical happened - we connected. We got it. We drove and it went smoothly and it was awesome. And then the tractor came. And spooked Chance. Surprisingly, I stayed calm, pulled his head around so he could see me and talked to him, calmed him down. We stood for 5 minutes or so and just relaxed. Breathed. And then we moved on, as if nothing had happened. When we came back to N and J, they had things to say. First, why did we stop? I told them, and explained that we needed a minute to calm and collect before we moved on (and from a driving/horse training stand point, that was exactly the right response). Next question: you had a rough start. Did you feel like you couldn't do it? Did you feel like a failure? Well, no. Neither of us knew how to do this. We had to figure it out - it's not going to be perfect.

Oh? Said J. So you're doing something new, something different, and it didn't have to be perfect? And you didn't worry or beat yourself up over it? Isn't how you're trying to work through your moods new and different? Yet you try to be perfect . . . and you beat yourself up when you're not.

A light went on. M has been drilling this into me since I met him. My hubby has been drilling this into me for God knows how long. But it took working with Chance to make it actually click. To make me actually see what I've been doing, how I hold myself to so high a standard and then beat myself up if I don't reach that standard.

And what a concept! To work through this new way of being, stumbling now and then but dusting myself off, moving forward and going easy on myself. This is a new way of doing things, of being, for me. I won't be perfect. And that's okay! I'll get through it, I'll learn, and I'll be okay.

But I'm me. And this is hard. Amazingly hard. Stupidly hard. I have to really think, really concentrate. And I'm too analytical. Which, in this instance, is probably not helpful.

M gave me homework last week - a mood diary. I have to track my moods throughout the day, what's going on during that time, etc. Kinda like a food diary. So I'm tracking them, writing them. I'm a good, perfect little ACOA doing my homework. And this week we discussed my previous week's entries. And by discuss, I mean M had me read them aloud and then we discussed. Which is good, which is fine, and reiterates the fact that my mood shifts are often within the realm of "normalcy". They're not too far out there. And that's a wonderful thing! I'm not being completely ruled by my mood swings!

Except that I am. In a different way. Every time I have a mood shift that seems slightly outside the norm, I analyze it. Was that normal? Was that an aspect of bipolar? How can I tell? I recognize this and I tell myself to stop - that isn't important! What's important is trying to stay in the moment - it doesn't matter if the mood was caused by a normal shift or bipolar (unless the mood is exaggerated and/or out of control). So I acknowledge it, write it down, try to ignore it and downplay it and move on.

And then I end up obsessing over it. And analyzing it in spite of myself and my best intentions. Because this is what I do. This is what I always do. This is what I'm trying to correct. Because it can lead to another spiral if I let it. Which seems to always lead to depression.

Funny thing is, I don't feel depressed. I'm not sure I could make myself feel depressed. But I'm still trying to. Or at least still hanging on to these "bipolar swings", playing up their significance. Trying to convince myself that every emotional shift is the bipolar disorder and not me. Because remember? I'm ACOA. I'm bipolar. I'm different because of this and so I don't fit in and I have to categorize myself and give myself these labels - because I've held so tightly to them, and for so long that I don't know how to let go.

And there's still that part that doesn't want to let go. It's almost like a drug. Depression is my drug. I've become dependent on it to govern how I act, how I see myself, and how others relate to me. If I feel good, I start jonesing for that familiar depression. I'm a druggie - and drug addiction is a hard habit to break.

But I'm trying. By God am I trying. And I'm stumbling. So I dust myself off. I move forward. And I fight the urge to shut down and spiral. I've come a long way over the last year and 9 months. . . but that drug . . . it tempts me. It haunts me.

Say no to drugs y'all. And God DAMN that was a ramble!

Good Morning

Well good morning everyone. Nice to see everyone up. Or sleeping. I can't see you, you know, so I have no idea what you're doing. You could be sitting there buck naked save for an awkwardly large moose hat, sipping a Sangria, rocking out to Conway Twitty. And I wouldn't judge you for that. (Actually, I would. Conway Twitty? Come on!).

This isn't a real post. Well, I guess it's real in the sense that you can read it, but it doesn't have any eye opening content. That post will come later in the week. I've had a flurry of thoughts and revelations and acceptances over the past couple of weeks (no, I'm not manic - shut up) and I've been trying to organize them so that they actually make sense.

Which is hard when you're me. And you want to overanalyze and make everything perfect. Which is exactly what I'm trying not to do.

So yeah.

And I'm flying out to Las Vegas today for a mom/baby/neonatal nursing conference. Which should be fun. Except that it's in Vegas. Vegas is hot. And I don't drink, party, or gamble, and I don't like hookers, so I'm kinda screwed. Oh, and I'm too cheap to go to a show so don't even suggest that.

I'm going to learn lots and otherwise be awesome. And I got a new tattoo of Chance - my therapy horse. And it hurt like FUCK. Sweet JESUS did it hurt! I'll post pics when it's healed (my calf is still swollen from it).

Have a great week! I hope to post again on Thursday :)

Stupid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid

So remember my last post? The one about the desert and me not feeling and giving up because this is as good as it gets? (scroll down or click HERE)

Well, this is frustrating. Because that's how I feel. Most of the time. And then I get a wild hair up my ass and decide that NO. Fuck you. This is NOT as good as it gets. This is a speed bump and I WILL get better.

I got that hair up my ass on Friday, after working with Chance. And hubby, the boy and I went camping and had a lovely weekend. And I relaxed and felt a little better and was able to actually enjoy myself. Which was HUGE.

But I didn't sleep well, and I was tired. And then Monday happened and I was at work and I was cranky and irritable and tired. And one thing I'm trying to do is to separate what symptoms/feelings are from the bipolar vs what's regular human experience. The crankiness and irritability was normal. I was tired. I didn't want to be at work and it was busy.

However, I also felt distant and empty and hopeless and alone. And that is the bipolar. I'm getting better at identifying which is which. But I'm anal about it. I stress over it. I mull it over in my head trying to figure out every little minute detail. Which is certainly not healthy.

And I have days like today (and most of the past week, really), where that bipolar side is strong. Where I want to curl up in a ball and not exist. Or sleep because I don't know what else to do to cope with what I'm feeling. I try to ignore it. I try to acknowledge and move past it. I try not to obsess over it. I try to joke and talk and stay engaged and not isolate myself. I try to stay positive when all I feel is dead inside.

I don't know what to do.

I feel like friendships and my marriage are suffering. I feel like I'm neglecting everything I should be doing. Everyone puts up with so much from me and I'm tired of having to rely on them. I'm tired of wearing them out. I'm tired of wearing me out.

I know I'm pushing myself too much. I know I'm the "perfect little ACOA" and that's not helping my cause (according to M). I'm too hard on myself. I don't relax enough. I don't allow myself to enjoy anything. Maybe I'm too caught up in needing to "figure all this out" - I'm striving for control rather than managing the bipolar, and that's unrealistic.

But I still don't know what to do.

I relaxed last weekend. I'll relax this weekend (we're camping again). I'm trying not to think about things, but my mind races with what ifs. I can't seem to stop it. Or, conversely, it's blank and empty and I can't focus on anything.

And so I'm still floating along, tethered by a thread, in my cocoon of nothingness - seeing but not feeling, doing but not experiencing. And it's stupid and it's frustrating and I'm sick of it.

Chance

I worked with Chance today (my therapy horse), along with N and Ju (the trainer/facilitator and therapist). And it was . . . emotional. So very emotional. I let them both read my "epiphany" post to see where I was coming from and how I've been feeling (it's been 4 weeks since I've seen them). N gave me a key chain with Chance on it and tickets to a horsemanship show. I went to put these in my truck before we went to get Chance from the corral and I lost it. Not even 10 minutes there and I lost it (my emotional control - not the key chain).

And that kept up. I walked Chance around the facility (outside) and cried. N and Ju gave me space and let me just be. Chance would put his nose on my elbow every time I would start crying and keep it there until I calmed down. At one point, when we were stopped, he put his soft nose on mine and stayed there, his hot breath rhythmic and soothing. When he finally pulled away, he layed his head on my shoulder. This horse . . . he's amazing. He pulled me from my shell so I could actually feel. Truly, deeply feel.

And what I felt was fear and sorrow and loss. I'm so scared right now. So very scared that I'm slipping and am fast approaching the point of no return. I can't end up how I was before. I don't think I'm strong enough to handle it. And with how I felt yesterday, and my emotional meltdown today . . . I'm scared. And I think I have been, all along, but I was doing such a good job of hiding and ignoring it.

But Chance made me feel safe enough to experience and acknowledge it. And God willing he'll help me beat it.

You know what's annoying?

Me. That's what. Well, let's be more specific. It's not me - it's my bipolar. And more specific than that? My mood swings. See, I keep forgetting something - bipolar disorder is a disease. A progressive disease. And every day I have to fight for my right (no, not to party), but to live. I actually have to fight for my right to live. Some days that fight is easy - I don't even have to think about it. Everything flows beautifully. I'm happy and kind and easygoing and optimistic.

And then there are the bad days. The ones where the fight is an all out war over my mind and emotions and I'm hanging on by the skin of my teeth and nothing goes right and I'll never get better and why why do I have to keep doing this?? Those days . . .suck. And I'm so irritable on those days. Okay, let's be honest. I'm a raging bitch (good GOD my poor family!).

I have to remind myself that I'm going to have to deal with this for the rest of my life. Every day is different. Hell, every moment is different. And all I can do is cope and go along for the ride.

I've been getting in the habit of beating myself up over my bad days. This doesn't work. It isn't helpful. It makes things worse. So I'm trying hard to curb this habit and get back to mindfulness (which, by the way,  is a HELL of a lot harder to do now that I've been off the Cymbalta awhile). I've even caught myself catastrophizing certain things. Feelings and thoughts mostly. Mannerisms, ways of thinking. Even had the thought of "I just want to die" cross my mind. Squelched that one though.

What's frustrating too is the progressiveness of the disease. That with each major mood episode you tend to get worse. Each episode is worse, recovery takes longer. What a horrid thought that is! And the progressive bit I've noticed the most is cognition. I'm much more forgetful, easily distracted and I have trouble concentrating and staying focused.

I've also been more withdrawn. I don't have any desire to interact with people. I have to with coworkers and patients, but other than that . . . please, just leave me alone (well, including coworkers - I avoid them if I can). That's sad, isn't it? I don't know. Just one way I cope I suppose.

Let's mention something that's going well - all my horsey stuff! Working with Chance of course (who did AMAZING in the round pen with me yesterday - which is a statement about ME - if you've ever done work in the round pen with a horse you know what I'm talking about). And I have another lady I'm going to be working with for horsemanship. Bridling and saddling the horse, working on my riding form, basic care and feeding, etc. Lot's of good horsey stuff. Hopefully I can keep finding more good horsey stuff. Hopefully I can continue to carry over the lessons from the horses to my every day life.

And hopefully I can remember that each day is a new fight, and that I can neither win nor lose - I can only be.

Good weekend and mood slipage

I'm thinking this post will be relatively short. I don't much feel like writing.

Friday was my and J's 10th wedding anniversary! Yay! We celebrated by heading up to Breckenridge for the weekend. Walked the shops, ate out, had a couples massage . . . very nice. The highlight, of course, was horseback riding. We went to Platte Valley Double B Ranch - throwing that name out there because they are AMAZING!!! Absolutely LOVED it!! OMG. Not your typical horseback riding place. It's 8000 acres of privately owned ranch land. The owner and 2 wranglers took J and I out just, kinda, wherever. And it's not nose to tail riding. No. You fan out. You trot, canter, gallop. And you have no idea how freeing it was for me. How wonderful and relaxing and invigorating and so many other adjectives!

And when we got back to the stable after the ride I took the bridle off Cotton (my horse) and brushed her and fed her treats and chatted with the owner. She offered anytime I wanted to come up and just hang out, groom the horses, whatever, I was more than welcome to. And I'll take her up on that offer.

What's annoying now, is that my mood is moving south, and I don't know why. I'm getting very irritable and I feel like crying. For seemingly no reason. Hooray.

PENIS!

This post has nothing to do with penises. I just felt that that was an appropriate title.

Or not.

Let's dive right in, shall we? On Friday, I worked with Chance (therapy horse). My mind was racing and I had to speak deliberately and slowly. If I didn't, my words jumbled together because they were coming out so fast. I felt withdrawn and irritable. So I didn't really do much with Chance. I was just . . .there. I groomed him. Meticulously. He had a huge knot in his mane and I spent quite a bit of time combing it out. I talked with the therapist (Ju) and my trainer (N) while doing this. Trying to relay my state of mind and the struggles I've been having with mania. I tried to lead Chance, but I couldn't - I couldn't clear my mind and focus. So I stood there with him and brushed him, leaned on him, and was there with him. Ju and N suggested that I put my hands on him and count his breaths. I couldn't. Numbers made my brain move faster. So instead, I leaned against him, my whole body, and laid my head on his side. I tried to match my breathing with his. And I could, and my mind slowed, and I felt like crying. I felt like curling into a ball and crying.

But I didn't. I talked some more and my words came easily. I didn't have to think about each one before I spoke it. And I felt better. When I left, I made it about half a mile before I had to pull over. I was crying so hard I couldn't see. I sobbed, big, ugly, wailing sobs for 15 minutes. Horrible sobs wracked with anguish. I let them come. I think I needed it. Though I don't know why. It took me another 10 minutes or so after crying before I felt I could drive home.

The rest of the day I felt pretty crappy. And Saturday I felt crappy. Down and very irritable. More stable - not rapid mood swings like I've been having - but still crappy. And Sunday, better, stable, still irritable.

And today I've felt . . .I don't know how I've felt. Irritable as fuck. Impulsive and saying a few inappropriate things. Down. I feel again like I want to cry. I'll perk up suddenly with crazy energy and say bizarre things and then I'm back down - as if nothing at all happened. I mean within minutes.

So this has been stupid. I work the next 2 days and then it's mini vacation time in Breckenridge complete with an awesome horseback riding day. This will be good.

In other news, I'm going to slowly introduce a few select sources of gluten back into my life. Mainly whole grain breads, some baking flours. Here's the thing - I feel better physically, I do - but I think that has more to do with the fact that I'm cooking our meals from scratch - not from being gluten free. I've had regular bread twice with no noticeable side effects. I'm having regular bread again tomorrow. If I continue to not have side effects, then I will have select sources of gluten. I will continue, of course, to cook our meals from scratch.

Well, that's all for now. Time to finish my ice cream, fart around on Pinterest, and go to bed.

Some shit . . .

So. The hypomania thing. Getting old. Hear that Clancy? Fucking stop it. (Clancy is my brain btw, for those that don't know). It's getting bad at times. Bad.

For example, over the weekend I was at work and charge nurse. Saturday I was mostly just hyper and joking around. All fine and good. Sunday . . .yeah. Sunday was not good. I was hyper again, sure, and it escalated from there. I told one of the physicians to drop his pants so I could spank him. I said this in front of other nurses. Loudly. Who. The fuck. Does that? And I continued on. More inappropriate things were said. My only saving grace was that I had already been joking around with the labor nurses (who were around me) and that I BS with this particular physician all the time. Otherwise? This could have been bad. Very bad.

But that's not all. After that I skipped through the hallways on labor and delivery and post partum. Skipped. I was skipping y'all. All over the fucking place. Then, at the front desk on post partum I was joking with the CNA. A social worker who I've known for years came around, showing a new social worker our area. I was eating a granola bar. Half of it fell off and onto the floor. God fucking dammit!! That's what I yelled. Yelled. The social worker laughed and said "I can't believe you just yelled that!" Me? "I don't fucking believe it either!" Then I started laughing. Uncontrollably. I collapsed to the floor I was laughing so hard. I couldn't talk. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stop.

Everyone watch the train wreck. I crawled to the hallway behind the front desk where my locker is. All I had was a Xanax. I hadn't put any Risperdal in my purse - I didn't think I would ever need one. So all I had was Xanax. I took it sublingually and went into my office. I sat, breathing deeply, trying to center myself, calm myself, get myself back in control. It was hard. And I was scared. My behavior was so erratic, so inappropriate . . . it was not good. The last thing I need to do is get in trouble at work.

And then today. I had therapy today. Yesterday and today I had been feeling pretty blah, flat and subdued. Cranky and irritable as hell, but otherwise subdued. I chalked it up to having a bit of a cold. So I'm talking to M, telling him about how I feel detached from my mom. Whatever. I start telling him about the weekend and the hypomania. And I start escalating. I start getting manic. Distractable. I'm talking and wait is there a guy yelling outside? Where's that van going? Look it's still raining. Oh my nose itches. What was I saying? Oh yeah <rapid vomiting of words with wild hand movements> And I tried to reel it in, I did. I tried to stop, I did. And I was having a hard time. I laughed hysterically at nothing. Nothing at all. I couldn't stop.

I finally lowered my head, near tears, because I didn't know what to do. M helped me focus, helped me breathe. I focused on Chance (my therapy horse). It helped. Greatly. Chance will be my anchor. My family is my anchor for the depression, Chance for the mania.

This is . . .too much. After the mania comes almost crippling exhaustion. And irritability. And a feeling of fear and depression and hopelessness and despair. But the exhaustion. Holy fuck. Complete and utter physical, mental and emotional exhaustion. I want to cry and pass out. And then I get pissed. And even more tired. And then comes the mania again.

This happens numerous times a day. Rapid cycling is a bitch. This is not fun. I've gotten good a being mindful and managing the depressive symptoms, but this is a whole other animal. It's harder. Partly because when I'm manic I feel good. And I've felt shitty for so fucking long that I really want - really deserve - to feel good. And so it's harder to manage it before it gets out of control.

And there's other things. I have the Ridperdal (which I have some in my purse now, lest I have another day like Sunday). But I thought about taking it all, just to see what would happen. What the fuck do I think would happen??? I would die!! The fuck?! But that thought was there and it was tempting. Easily managed and controlled, but it was there.

Some old thoughts and habits are trying to creep back in as well. Patterns of thinking. In my current state of rapid cycling I find that it's much more difficult to combat this. Ugh. There's crap happening at work that is a bit shady and unfortunate and I'm trying desperately to react appropriately and not overreact. It's difficult. If I get worked up and upset over it . . . well, that leads to the hyper-irritability and hypomania.

Fuck this shit.

Oh, and I cuss more when I'm like this. That might be obvious.

Alright. That's all I can muster up right now. I'm exhausted yet wide awake. Joy.

Grey Pubes Suck

They do. Nobody likes grey pubes. I found one a few weeks ago, which was distressing. So I plucked it and was quite pleased with myself. Well, this morning I found a grey eyebrow hair. AND another grey pube! WTF, body? I don't want this! Why must you torture me so???

Enough of that. I'm feeling better most days, which is fantastic. Not where I want to be, but better. I have days still where I'm flat and withdrawn - these happen most when I'm at work. I think from all of the stimulus and all of the different people - almost like sensory overload. But I'm getting there.

Mucking with my thyroid meds again. I was taking 90mg of armor thyroid and my TSH is critically low and my T4 and T3 are in range of causing thyroid storm. Very scary. So Dr. C dropped me down to 60mg (the last time I was at this dose I was hyPOthyroid - we'll see how this works). I can't see an endocrinologist until May 7th.

I found a horse for sale named "Icky". And he pokes other horses with sticks. He pokes other horses with sticks, people!! This is the PERFECT horse for me!! I need him. If only we could afford boarding fees . . .

That's all for now, I'm lazy and want a nap. 

Whoooo!

I went almost a week without a post! I've actually been busy and not quite in the mood to write. Mainly because I've been busy. And tired. But lots happened.

Last Sunday, my first day back to work (when I was put on call), I ended up being called in at 1400 for the nursery. I did a whole buncha nothing until 1830 when I was called to a delivery. It went well, I did my thing and was leaving the room around 1850 when the labor and delivery charge came racing towards me yelling "STAT C/S NOW, DR. B's PATIENT! ABRUPTION!" (an abruption is when the placenta detaches before the baby is born - very bad). I ran back to the nursery, literally threw my stuff down, grabbed a new tackle box and ran to the OR. Got in there at 1852, baby was born at 1855 essentially dead. Resuscitated and baby did great. An interesting first day back (I should also mention that I LOVE doing resuscitations - I think I'm the only one there that does).

I worked Wednesday and Thursday, both days in the nursery, and both days went well (and were very busy). So far no issues with going back to work and everyone is respecting my privacy and not asking questions.

I had therapy with M on Tuesday which went very well (as always - love that man). Towards the end of my session I mentioned how with everything that had been going on, I felt like I needed a parent. A parent to hug and cry to. I don't have that with my mom and wouldn't be comfortable with it. At all. And my dad . . .well my dad died in 2000 of lung cancer (he was 43). Now, I'm not going into any detail right now. My dad was my confidant, my hero. I only really opened up to him. I was a daddy's girl 100%. I love him and I miss him. And that grief and sense of loss was raw and overwhelming on Tuesday. I spent the afternoon and evening crying. I cried the big ugly cry every time - you know, the one where you sob uncontrollably and snot is flying everywhere . . .THAT cry. And I needed to. And it was good to let it out. And it was actually refreshing to be crying for something OTHER than depression/hopelessness/emptiness/etc.

Therapy with Chance again yesterday (Friday). He was helpful as always, knew what I needed and responded quickly and comfortably with me. I drew on him with chalk. And he rather enjoyed it. :) The next 2 weeks are the weeks off for the horses so I won't see him until April 5th. Makes me sad, but I'll live :P

One last thing - I'm trying something risky. I'm stopping my thyroid medication. Why is this risky? Because my catastrophic depressive downswing could have been triggered by hypothyroidism. So I'm stopping my thyroid meds. To purposefully induce hypothyroidism. To see if the same thing happens again. I have an appointment with an endocrinologist, but the earliest I can be seen is June 10th. Yeah. JUNE 10TH. The fuck. So, trying this. If I go hypothyroid, and the depression doesn't come, well, then it's probably not the trigger. However, if depression DOES come, then I'll be having my primary doc give me a referral to Denver or ANYWHERE I can get in to see an endo doc WAY sooner than June 10th. And with the current dose of thyroid meds I'm on, I'm HYPERthyroid (if I drop the dose slightly I swing the other way). And let's be honest - the hyperthyroid symptoms are becoming quite bothersome (constipation, hot flashes,increased appetite, brittle nails that split and crack, insanely dry, itchy skin, and my hair is starting to thin and break). So we'll see. This should be interesting.

Well now . . .

I was actually going to write last night. I put it off because I was tired and brain dead and with the stupid "spring forward" time change . . . well, I wanted to get some sleep. Because I'm supposed to be working today (my first day back). But I'll have you notice that I'm writing (and I can't access blogger at work anymore). Meaning I'm home. I was put on call. Sadly, I didn't get the call until I was out of the shower and I wasn't able to fall back to sleep. Boo to that. Now I need coffee.

I cried Friday during my horse therapy. I worked with Chance again - he's a great teacher. Justin, the therapist working with me there, is very perceptive. He pointed something out about me that I've buried and hid and try to ignore. He did this by watching me with Chance. I was trying to get Chance to follow me/listen to me off lead. At first he wouldn't. I picked up his lead again but kept hesitating to let go and try again. Justin called me over and asked me why I wasn't letting go. I wasn't really sure, said I thought that maybe Chance wasn't going to follow. Here's the gist of what he said: "It seems that you don't want to let go because you're afraid to trust that he'll follow you. Is that maybe what you're doing with your negative thoughts? You're holding on to them so tightly because you're scared to let go and trust you'll get better?" That's when I started crying. He asked what was going on right then. And I told him yes, I thought he was right. It's scary to let go. I've been so depressed for so long (15 months) that depression is familiar. We tend to stay with what we're familiar with. I know this. I've KNOWN this. And still I'm stuck there. So I cried. And I took Chance off lead and he followed me and did everything that I asked. And he nuzzled me and leaned on me.

And I think that I really AM stuck there. It's what I'm working so bloody hard on correcting. It's why I'm in therapy, equine therapy, doing positive readings, mood tracking, trying to block negative thoughts and purposefully look for  anything and everything positive. It's why I've been changing my diet, getting to the gym and trying to stay consistent with my sleep schedule. I'm trying to stay calm and relaxed and stay present in the moment. And keeping up with all of these things, all the time, is taxing and exhausting. Especially when I'm not seeing the results I want.

I think I'm going to bring this up with M this week. Because it's true - I can't let go. I can't just let go and trust and be. And if I could, I think I would be much better off.