Today I should have gone to the hospital

I worked today. I was on the floor, backup for trans. I had easy patients. Nice patients. It should have been a nice day. An easy day.

It wasn't.

I knew this morning when I woke up that today would be difficult. I knew I would struggle. I just didn't know how much . . .

I avoided people. Coworkers, my patients even. Go into a room, do what I needed, and get out. I was irritable. I was angry. I didn't want to be bothered. People asked questions. Questions I'm sick of answering. Have you sold your house? When are you moving? Where are you moving to?

I don't. Fucking. Know.

And I'm tired of everyone asking.

Wait.

It's a simple thing. It's not a big deal. People are curious, interested, caring. Making conversation.

But it filled me with rage. I couldn't handle the questions so I withdrew a little more. I gave short answers.

In the afternoon I hid.

I stole away to the report room, sat in a chair in the corner behind the door so people wouldn't see me. That only lasted for half an hour before I got a call from a patient. I left my chair, my temporary sanctuary, to bring my patient pain meds.

I had brought my Nook with me so I decided to try reading. Reading should help, right?

Normally it does. Not today though. Not today. Today I couldn't really focus. After a few pages I would have to take a break. Walk, stretch, check my email. I couldn't focus. I couldn't focus why can't I focus what the hell . . .

My mood was worsening. I grade myself on a scale of 1-10. Five is "normal". Below is moving into depression, above into mania. I started the day at a 3.5. Yes. By 4:00, I was a 2, threatening to go lower. Ever lower.

It can't go lower.

It was. I hid. I hid in the report room again. It was dark in there, the sun was already going down and I left the lights off. I wanted the dark, the quiet. I wanted no one.

Leave me alone.

The charge nurse came in. She didn't know I was sitting there, alone, in the dark. I said boo. She jumped and immediately asked if I was okay.

No. I'm not okay. I'm far from okay.

She offered to take my patients and send me home.

I'll be alright. I'm not okay, but I'll be alright. I can last the rest of the shift. It's only 2 hours. I can do it.

She took my face in her hands and told me to let her know if I needed anything.

Wait. I need help.

Wait.

She left and I sat in the dark, alone. I started to shake, to tremble, lip quivering, tears welling up. I wept. Silently. I tried to stop. I can't have someone catching me crying. Sitting alone in the dark is one thing . . . but crying . . . no.

I stopped crying and I sat, drying my tears, blowing my nose as quietly as I could.

I felt worse. So much worse.

I need to lie down.

I laid down on the floor, in the shadows, behind the door. No one could see me if they were just walking by. Perfect.

Wait.

I was worse. I felt worse. I'm lying on the floor alone in the dark at work and no one knows I'm here and they don't know how bad I feel how bad I've gotten again and that I'm lying here and what I really want to do is die but I can't do that not here not at work and maybe not anywhere but I still kinda want to die and why isn't anyone looking for me?

My mind was racing, I was praying. Please, someone, anyone, find me. Find me and HELP ME. I need HELP don't you understand I NEED HELP!! Someone. Please . . .

Stop.

If someone finds me, if they ask me, I need help. I need to go to the hospital. I want to swallow all of my pills and slit my wrists and  want to go to sleep and not wake up and I know that that's not what I really want. What I really want is for the pain to stop. The pain to fucking END ALREADY.

I'm lying on the floor at work in the dark, hidden from everyone, praying, praying, PRAYING and no one comes. No one comes into the report room. I'm on my side, curled in a ball, full of despair and hopelessness and I start to cry again because no one is coming and no one is helping me and please just someone come and help me because I'm afraid I might hurt myself and it might be real bad this time and I'm scared. No, I'm terrified. My mind races with scenarios of my death and how I might be saved if someone would just FUCKING COME INTO THE ROOM.

But no one does.

I'm miserable. I text my husband. I tell him it's bad, I'm having a rough day, I'm hiding. I don't let on how bad it is because I don't want him to worry. I make him worry so much and I don't want him to worry because I'm okay, really, I'll be okay, I'm fine actually. Just fine.

Stop.

You're not fooling anyone. At least, not yourself. You need to get up. You've been on the floor for 2 hours.

Get up.

I can't. I need to stay longer. Someone may find me and I can get help. I need help. Remember?

Get up.

I sit up. I feel defeated. I feel empty and hopeless and scared and depressed and I don't want to move but I have to move I have to check on my patients and no one is coming to check on me so I have to get up.

Get up.

I stand. I look into the hallway to make sure no one is around while I make my way to the bathroom to clean myself up. I need to be presentable. People can't know that I was crying. That I was silently breaking down and losing my shit while they were doing their work and being happy and normal and not looking for me or helping me because apparently I still do a good job of hiding my suicidal thoughts and depression and no one seems to be the wiser.

Wait.

I check on my patients. They're fine. I was on the floor for 2 hours and they didn't call me and they didn't need anything and they're fine. I sit in the nurses station staring at my phone, scrolling through facebook, trying not to think about how much I hate life and how much I really want to die and then countering my thinking because I know I really don't want to die, remember? You want the pain to stop. You want to not feel like this anymore.

Please.

My shift ends. I give report. I drive home. I tell my husband if I have another day like today I need to be admitted. I need to go to the hospital.

I don't want to go to the hospital. Not again. Please not again.

Help.

 I feel empty and drained and horrifically sad and hopeless and it's maybe more than I can handle. Is it more than I can handle? I wish I knew. And how will tomorrow be? The same? Worse? Better?

Stop.

I wrote this. Before going to bed because if I didn't write this it would consume me and I wouldn't be able to sleep and my mind would probably race even more and I can't have that, not now. Now I need to sleep. It's the only real escape I have.

Guilty

So here's something stupid: I feel guilty sleeping. You read that right.

I feel guilty sleeping.

Let me try to explain this. Do you remember back in July when I overdosed on Risperdal? You don't? Well, go read this. It'll help this post make more sense. Don't worry - I'll wait.

Did you read it? Did you really?

Okay. So, my sleeping has been "off" since I've been on the Geodon. My first night on it I was a zombie. I could hardly keep my eyes open in the hospital during visitation hour (I was falling asleep on my husband). The next 2 nights were actually pretty good. Then I went up on the dose. The first night I was a little drowsy. Okay, not bad. That following morning I was very groggy, lightheaded. I felt like I was going to faint. But it passed. That night (the night before last), I slept only 3 hours. I was a little groggy yesterday morning, but not bad. And last night I slept 5 hours. This morning, only slightly groggy.

Now, why do I feel guilty about this?

Because all of this reminds me of how I felt while in my Risperdal induced coma.

My first night on Geodon, with not being able to stay awake but desperately trying to - just like my first few hours on the Risperdal.

Two mornings ago feeling groggy and lightheaded and like I was going to pass out - that's how I felt during the night and next day on the Risperdal.

Last night, the time that I did sleep, it was like I was only dozing, waking up groggy and feeling . . . weird - like I spent the entire day on Risperdal.

The day and a half I spent in and out of consciousness on Risperdal was possibly the most terrifying and shameful time of my life. Terrifying because of how I felt, what was going through my mind, I could have died. All I wanted was to sleep and I could have died. Shameful because my hubby and son had to watch me and deal with me in this semi-comatose stupor.

I hated myself. I truly hated myself.

And my sleeping habits right now remind me of this time. This time where I was terrified, depressed, and full of self loathing.

I know my body needs to adjust to the Geodon and that in time it will. I know that I haven't done anything stupid or bad. I haven't taken or done anything I shouldn't have. I know this.

But it doesn't change how I feel. So I feel guilty and bad and a little scared.

But mostly guilty.

Which is stupid.

Frustrated. Yep.

I'm thinking this is going to turn into a mini rant. Let's be honest, I kinda know it is. Because writing is a good way to sort out my thoughts and get stuff off my chest.

I feel so weird. I'm not quite sure how else to describe it. I feel frustrated, restless, confused, conflicted, unsure, impatient, up, down, and everywhere in between. I'm fidgety and need to move but I feel stagnant and I can't or don't want to move. I'm in this strange limbo.

See, I've been feeling better. Pretty good for almost the last 2 weeks. It seems like the Welbutrin is kicking in and then I had my big "ah ha" moment in therapy about not wanting to get better. On the up and up. I even had a few days where I was hypomanic and felt really good. Big sigh of relief.

So why these mixed feelings . . . ? I have no idea how to "feel good" or "normal". It's foreign to me. I've been depressed or mixed for so long that I don't know stability. I don't know what to do or how to act or be or anything. It's unsettling. And, quite honestly, terrifying.

And how bizarre is that, really? I have no idea what it's like to feel happy. Just . . . happy. I used to know. I had a period of almost 6 years where I was stable and happy. When I first met J I was manic. Coming out of a horrible relationship and I had been out of control for about 3 months prior to meeting him. And he calmed me down. I don't know how, but he did. I slipped into hypomania, and then into "me". I was happy. I was content. I was who I was meant to be.

When we had been married for around 2 years, I became hypomanic. And I almost ruined my marriage. The depression that followed was bad and I was suicidal but I pulled through it. I saw a counselor at the college, we saw a marriage counselor a couple times, and I pulled through. I was stable again. I was me.

And then we decided to have a baby and I was pregnant the week I went off birth control. Literally. My pregnancy was hard for me. I hated it. Loathed it. My anger was through the roof and I was becoming depressed. And I hid this pretty well I think. After my son was born, the depression got worse. I downplayed it as much as I could, but by 5 or 6 weeks post partum I needed help. I saw my primary and was put on Lexapro (post partum depression the diagnosis).

The depression eased briefly, but, as insidious as depression can be, it came back. My meds would be increased or changed. Each time we changed or increased my meds, I was hypomanic for a week or two and then would slide back into depression. These brief periods of hypomania got me in trouble at work and had J wondering if I was bipolar.

When my son was about 3 (2010), my primary doc started to question me more deeply and suspected that I was bipolar. We added Lamictal to my Zoloft and I became highly hypomanic - so much so HR was involved because of my behavior. So I stopped taking it and tried to find a psychiatrist. I didn't find one accepting new patients until January 2012. The day after seeing Dr. C for the first time I only narrowly escaped slitting my wrists.

From January 2012 until now, today, I have been either severely depressed or mixed. I haven't felt like "me" since 2006. Seven years of not knowing what stability or consistent happiness feels like. SEVEN. FUCKING. YEARS. And two of those 7 years have been complete hell; a nightmare.

And yet I wonder why happiness feels foreign to me. I wonder why "feeling good" confuses me. I don't know how to be happy anymore. J and M say to "just be - you don't need to do anything. Enjoy it." I don't know how. I don't know how and it scares me. Is it any wonder I sabotage myself when I start to feel better (mostly subconsciously, lets get that straight)? Why would I want to get better when it feels so wrong and scary? Why not stay where it's comfortable and familiar?

Because it will kill me, that's why.

J misses the old me. The me that was carefree and happy. The me that was stable and didn't overdose or need to be hospitalized. And I want that me back - I really do. For J, for myself, and for my son. But I'm terrified of the process and I'm terrified I'll fail. I identified part of my problem and I'll be working on fixing it. But I start to feel better and it feels so strange and I don't know what to do because I don't want to go down the same path. I don't want to sabotage myself and I try just to be in the moment but my brain doesn't work like that. For all my artistic qualities, I'm analytical. I turn things over and over again in my mind. I overanalyze things. And I try not to over react or catastrophize days like today where I come home from a training class and cry because I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. And my mind automatically starts to cascade. So I put my foot down and say "NO. This is NOT what I'm doing. I am NOT going down this path again."

But see, I was starting to feel good again, and it confuses me and I feel strange and alien in my own skin. And my meds are starting to work, and I did identify a major problem so I should be good, right? I'm feeling better so I should be better. But I feel strange and alien and confused and scared and I beat myself up for that. I should just feel better. I should just feel happy. I shouldn't have this conflict because I know what's going on and I get frustrated. I get frustrated with myself and impatient that I'm not done with all this. I figured out the problem, I should be good!

The impatience and frustration and self deprecation breed shame and defeat and complacency. It breeds failure. And all of this feeds the depression and I'm back where I started. At the bottom trying to crawl my way out of the pit I just threw myself into, wondering what the hell just happened - I was starting to feel good!

I know all this. (Obviously - I just wrote it all out). And yet I do it. Over and over again. I'm trying to stop it today, at this very instant, by writing all this out. I can see this happening, right in front of me, and I'm terrified I can't stop it. I'm terrified that for all of my work and good intentions and insight I will fail and this cycle will continue. That it will continue until either J leaves me or I end up killing myself.

Hello again

It's been a while since I last wrote, and quite a bit has happened. A lot has happened. And I'm still trying to process it all. I don't know how much will come out in this post, I have no idea.

We'll start by saying that I had some more crappy days. Followed by a few good ones. And then some crappy again. Two weeks ago in therapy I was bad. I was low. M suggested hospitalization again and I said no. He told me he was at a loss. He didn't know what to do at that moment. Stay present? Dig deeper? That day all he could do was support me. That was a Thursday.

And Friday happened and I was a little better. And then weekend I was pretty good. Hubby, son and I worked with mini horses for a few hours, grooming, picking hooves, laughing. Sunday hubby and I spent the day touring the parade of homes (an annual event where different homes are showcased - usually expensive fancy ones that are neat to look at because shit - I'll never live in a home like that). It was fun and I felt good. I felt good.

That feeling continued. And I made a decision. A tough one. I decided to face the root of my problem. Something I've avoided and denied and buried. But something that finally needed to be addressed.

I don't want to get better.

You read that right. I don't want to get better. Which sounds stupid and counter intuitive. And here's the kicker: I actually DO want to get better!! I'm tired of feeling like shit all the time. I'm tired of how I act around and treat my family. I'm tired of everything I've gone through and yet . . .

 See, when I'm depressed, it's much easier to stay there than to fight - because fighting is exhausting. And I've been depressed literally most of my life. It's almost my natural state. It's what I'm used to - it's comfortable. It's familiar. But that's not the half of it. If I get better . . . I don't have this . . . thing making me somewhat unique. I have this internal struggle going on, I'm brave and strong for fighting it. So strong for being able to put on that mask and do what I'm doing. And I am - I am brave and strong for doing that. No one would deny that. And in doing this, I'm getting attention. Attention I've been seeking my whole life. Knowing that I'm loved and cared for and needed. And if I get better, that all goes away.

Now, I want to make something perfectly clear: MY DEPRESSION IS REAL. MY BIPOLAR IS REAL. The pain I feel, the emptiness and sorrow and hopelessness - all real. The utter despair that drove me to overdose 3 times - real. NONE of that is fabricated in any way. It's there, it's real, and it sucks. But the reality? I perpetuate it. I let my thoughts spin out of control sometimes. I keep a pessimistic attitude. I temper any joy or happiness I might feel with the thoughts that "it won't last - an hour from now I'll be crying and want to die." I'm not allowing myself to get better because if I get better, the attention goes away.

And that's messed up. I could have easily killed myself with my overdoses and for what? So people can go "oh poor Cami, she has bipolar, she's depressed, but look at how well she's doing! She's an inspiration!" Yes. For that. And to prove to myself that I have worth and that people care about me.

The depression is there - I think it's always there, and will always be there - but I know how to manage it. Sometimes it's a lot harder to do. Genuinely harder to do. And sometimes . . . I make it harder to manage. When I feel myself getting better, I think I make it harder. And when I make it harder, it is harder. And then I spiral. And I let myself, maybe even nudge that. And then I feel like dying and I'm terrified and all I want to do is feel better and not do this again and why the hell am I back where I started??

Because I put myself there. And I'll put myself there time and time again until I finally put my foot down and say enough is enough. Which is what I'm trying to do now.

I'm realistic about my disease. I know I'll have relapses. True, genuine relapses. But if I can manage that shit above? The personality flaws? Then my relapses maybe won't be as severe, or last as long.  And that's what I need.

And a swift kick in the ass if I start to self sabotage again. Form a line, people. Form a line.

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.