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.

Been a bit

It has been a bit and a lot has happened since my last post. Most notably, I was hospitalized at an inpatient psych unit for suicidal ideation. I went voluntarily at the advice and recommendation of my psychiatrist and therapist. It was not an easy decision, and I spoke with them at length about it. And in the end, I went in.

I went in Sunday afternoon and was discharged Wednesday afternoon - I think my psych doc would have preferred another day or two, but I missed my son too much (they wouldn't let him visit). What was good about it was that Dr. C had his friend and trusted colleague Dr. S oversee my care while I was there (they both collaborated on it). It gave me a few days with no responsibilities and no stress.

Eventually I'll write more about all of this - I even journaled and took notes of people/behaviors there - but right now I'm still very exhausted. The last several weeks have completely drained me. I don't think I've ever been so tired in my life.

In short, my meds were tweaked, I got a little bit of rest, I met some interesting people and had some good group therapy sessions. I'm still depressed - quite depressed - but I'm not having suicidal thoughts at all and no thoughts of self harm. It's still a long road ahead of me, but I'll get there (and hopefully my meds will start working soon).

More to come later.

Almost hospitalized

This post is what I posted in my "diary" on an online bipolar support group I joined. I was going to write something a little different for here . . .but I'll be honest - I'm too exhausted to do that. So, enjoy. Though it's a bit heavy.

I'm not going to get emotional with this. At least not too emotional. Hell, who knows.

The last several days, weeks probably, have been bad. And getting worse. Two weeks ago I took pills. Not too many - 3 xanax, 2 ativan and one klonopin. I was unconscious for over 12 hours - it was considered an overdose though I didn't go to the hospital.   I talked with my therapist about it. He talked to my hubby about it. My pills are under my hubby's control and hidden. All the razor blades are gone. The keys to the gun safe are hidden. 

I kept telling myself that it was okay, it was no big deal, it happened so let's just move on and forget it.

But the depression got worse. I became more withdrawn, irritable, empty and hopeless. I tried to hide it. I did a good job until 2 days ago. I was too tired. Too mentally and emotionally exhausted to keep the facade up. I had to work, of course, and I did okay with my patients. I hid the rest of the time, avoiding coworkers. I was thankfully able to leave early last night to see my psychiatrist (let's be honest - if I didn't have someone to cover me, I would have left anyway).

My psych doc is starting me on prozac and trying to get me an appointment with a specialist in Boston. Which is fine. I'll try the prozac, and I'll go to Boston. Anything to make this feeling go away. All I want to do is curl up in a ball and not exist. I don't know why I can't just do that. Why can't I stop existing? The pain and the hollowness is too much. It's all too much. I'm at my breaking point and I don't know if I can go on. I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of wearing my mask and pretending everything is okay when I'm crumbling inside. I'm tired of the pain and the emptiness and the anger and irritability. I'm tired of everything I've been going through.

So I'll take the prozac, and I'll go to Boston if I can get an appointment.

I had therapy today. And it was rough. I was in a very bad place this morning. And therapy was good . . .until I walked out the door. I lost it. Completely lost it. Leaning against the wall, sobbing. I couldn't control myself. My therapist walked out and found me. I, of course, tried to stop and hide it and convince him I was okay. He didn't buy it and suggested that I may need to be admitted. The tears poured again. I told him no. I pleaded no. I told him I'd be okay, I'm always okay, I always push on. I know I didn't convince him, but my hubby was home and he could keep watch, and so he let me go. I went into the bathroom and cried and cried until I was drained. I was so frustrated. I punched the wall. It's plaster. I punched it again. And again. It hurt like hell. I punched again. I did nothing more than take a small chunk of the plaster out . . .and bruise the hell out of my knuckles. Battle scars, I guess. 

After I composed myself, I went downstairs out to my truck. I sat there for awhile, staring blankly out the windshield. I opened the center console and pulled out the multi-utility tool and pulled out the knife. I turned it over in my hands, watching the sun glint of the sleek metal.  I pushed the tip of the knife into the tip of my pointer finger. I thought about using it as I spun it around, just shy of puncturing my fingertip. I could end the pain, it could stop. I wouldn't feel anymore . . . .

Except I don't want to die. I don't want to die. So I put the knife away and left. Dropped off my prescription and went home. And the rest of the day I've been trying to recover. And that's so hard to do and I'm so tired. And I'm hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. It has to be a better day because I can't go on like this much longer. I don't have the stamina, I don't have the drive. I don't have the will. 

I have to stay strong for my hubby and my son. I have to keep trying for them. They're the only ones keeping me alive. 

.....

I feel like I'm slowly self destructing.

I don't like croup. Or ear infections. Or illness. Or flies.

That last one has nothing to do with this post, but I figured the info needed to be out there - you know, just in case.

My poor kiddo has been sick for almost a week now. He came down with a cold last Wednesday which quickly turned into croup. Which is pretty awesome. He has asthma so every time he gets sick, he gets croup. Which exacerbates  his asthma. Which then exacerbates the croup. It's the vicious cycle that is rather annoying and stupid and should be out-lawed in at least the lower 48 states (I don't care what Hawaii and Alaska do).

Anyway, he was on 3 days of steroids and cough syrup with codeine. He was coughing so hard he was throwing up. Which is nasty. It's not fun to be called into your son's room at 1am to find him laying in a pool of his own vomit (and if you think that's fun then you have more issues than me - which is impressive, let's be honest). But that wasn't the worst part. Oh no. We had to be whiny and cranky and then cry when we didn't get our way. And crying made us cough. And coughing made us barf. Goody.

By Sunday, he was feeling a little better but his cough was still horrific. So off to the doctor again on Monday. More steroids! Regular use of his inhaler rather than just rescue use! Hooray!

Now, keep in mind that I was with my whiny, sick son Thursday through Monday. My hubby was home Saturday and Sunday, but he was sick too. So I'm stuck dealing with two sick males - neither of which wanted to leave the couch. Well, by Monday I had had it. I was stressed and tired and frustrated and ready to burst. When I got home from taking my kiddo to the doc,  again, what did I find? My dog had puked all over the couch. Apparently she didn't think my son's puke was enough. Very kind of her to remedy that problem for me.

I lost it. I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to scream or cry of punch something or all of the above. So I did what any reasonable adult would do - I smothered my son with a pillow.

In my mind at least. No, I told him that I had to go in my bedroom to cry because I was upset. And you know what he told me? "Good luck with that. I hope you don't throw up."

Needless to say I didn't cry much. It's hard to do that when you're laughing at your 5 year old's logic and wit. God love him. Even if he does have an ear infection now too. (as a friend put it - he's bringing home germs like they were damn puppies). So true.