fuck

There's a good chance that I should be in the hospital right now. And if I'm thinking that . . . well . . .

It's just that I'm struggling - really struggling right now. I can't keep my moods managed. I'm irrationally angry or I'm sobbing and full of despair. Maybe it's my new med, Prestiq, causing this. Or not. Maybe it's something entirely different. I have no fucking clue but I'm not doing well.

I feel like I can't cope with anything. I want to curl in a little ball and block out all stimulation. I want to cut. I want to scream and throw things. These are the only ways I can see myself coping.

This morning I drove to my mother-in-law's house to pick up my son. I had to pull over because I was crying so hard I couldn't see. Pulled myself together, got him and went to work with my horses. Felt a little better. Okay. Good. See? You'll be fine. You're fine.

As I drove home, my anger was building. We went grocery shopping, my anger was building. Putting away groceries I yelled at my son and I could feel the anger spiraling out of control. So I went to my bedroom and sat down. Figured I'd give myself a little "time out", do some deep breathing, gain my composure and control.

Instead, I lost my shit and cried for 30+ minutes. I kept thinking, I wish hubs and the boy didn't care so much, that way I could just go, just be done with it. I was staring at my wrists through my tears, visually tracing the cuts I would make.

No.

I kept telling myself, "I don't want to die. I'm going to live." My new mantra. Over and over. I know the constant thoughts about death and suicide are because of the depression. Depression lies. I know this. Think of all the good. There's so much good. So many people love me and care about me.

I know this. I know all of this. But I sit and sob and stare at my wrists.

I'm so fucking sick of this.

My Brain is Stupid

*Disclaimer: this post might be a rambling, jumble of nonsense. There is, I think, a high probability of that happening. You've been warned.*

I have now, officially, had 14 ECT treatments. The first 2 weeks were 3 times a week (my first treatment was June 1), then I went to weekly for several weeks, and now I'm every other week. If I was following Dr. M's trajectory, I'd be every 3 or every 4 weeks by now.

But I'm not following his trajectory. My depression is stubborn. My depression is a fucking asshole. My brain, Clancy, is being a huge fucking dick and is making things difficult.

Let me start by saying this: my depression is a lot better than what it was before ECT. If the ECT wasn't helping, I would be dead. I had it planned. So let's get this important piece of information clear: the ECT is helping.

But here's the rub: it's not holding me.

What do I mean by that? Well, I'll be floating along, doing pretty well for about a week to a week and a half after a treatment. And then my mood starts to slip, my mood starts to falter, starts to sink. Depression starts to sneak its way in. This lasts several days until I have my next treatment and then the process starts again. I've noticed the pattern, the nurses at the hospital have noticed the pattern, and Dr. M has noticed the pattern.

Now, this wouldn't be a big deal, I guess, if it were only a day or two. But it's not. It's 4 days or 5 days or 7 days. Each time it's more, longer. Over the past 4 or 5 weeks I've spent more time depressed than not - and that's NOT okay with me. That's NOT how this is supposed to fucking work.

I had ECT last Monday and then saw Dr. M in his office in the afternoon for a regular appointment, where we discussed all of this. He said we need to figure something out medication wise to help hold me over between ECT treatments, as we need to at least get those spaced to once a month (the ultimate goal is once every 6 weeks). We discussed options and decided to stop my Lexapro and switch me over to Prestiq. Now, as with any med change, it will take several weeks at least to see any changes.

Which fucking sucks because I feel like shit.

I'm floating around with this low grade depression. I call it low grade because I'm not actively suicidal. Notice I said not "actively" suicidal - I still think about killing myself. Every day.

So anyway, I'm floating around in this low grade depression. I'm not sobbing every day, breaking down, anything dramatic like that. I just don't care about much of anything. It's like I can't really muster up any emotion except for anger. I feel like I need to cry; I just can't. I don't have the emotion to make it happen. I don't want to do anything. I don't want to go to work or clean the house or draw or paint or play with my son or have sex or cook or exercise or talk to people. I force myself to do stuff - I don't allow myself to just stare into space - but it's difficult and I just don't care.

The only strong emotion I can muster is anger. And I'm fucking angry at everything. That's not an exaggeration. Every little fucking thing makes me angry. The littlest things set me off. Simple things, like misspelling a word while I'm typing, or needing to go to the bathroom. People talking to me or me dropping something. Every. Little. Fucking. Thing. And the anger is very volatile. It goes from nothing to full on rage in no time. I hate it.

Oh hey - remember how at the beginning I said jumbled mess of a post? Everything prior to this I wrote Sunday morning. Then I got cranky and went downstairs to workout. I got on my spin bike and then broke down sobbing. J came downstairs and held me, stayed with me. I kinda wanted to die. And by "kinda wanted" I mean I wanted to die. Sunday ended up pretty shitty mood wise.

This little bit I'm writing Monday. I don't know how I'm feeling today. Okay, I guess. I started the day VERY angry. Then I talked with a friend and went and worked with horses and that helped. Now I just feel . . . empty. I'm sitting here drinking some hot mint tea and I start thinking, ooooo, I can't wait until it's colder outside and I can wear sweaters and sip hot tea! And then my mind immediately reminds me that everything is pointless and hopeless and I would truly be better off dead.

It's like I can't just have a nice fucking thought. My brain has to go and fuck it up. This is very frustrating and I'm so sick of it. I'm tired of struggling.

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.

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.

So I want to kill myself . . .

I really do. . . at times.

Like yesterday. Yesterday was bad. Yesterday I wanted to slit my wrists and watch the blood flow. Watch the blood flow and feel myself weakening as I slip into darkness.

But I didn't. You know why?

Because deep down I know that I don't truly want to die. What I want is for the pain to stop. For my constant up and down (mostly down) to stop.

Here's a story:

Friday night I forgot to take my meds. I usually take them around 8-8:30. Well, I didn't. But when I went to bed at 10, I didn't realize I hadn't taken them because I'm so used to taking them at that time. I've been late taking my seroquel before and I typically have insomnia, tremors, nausea, night sweats, and racing thoughts until I take it (even if I'm 2 hours late taking it I have these symptoms). Friday night I had insomnia - I only got around 3-4 hours of sleep. But I had no other symptoms until 6am - I didn't figure out until then that I had forgot my meds (after having the other symptoms, I counted my seroquel and yep - forgot it).

Of course I worked Saturday. All morning I rapid cycled. I'd have depression with racing thoughts, poor concentration, and irritability. Then my mood would lift and I'd feel okay, I'd giggle a little, and become very talkative. Then my mood would plummet and be mixed again.

This happened until around 3. At 3 I became hypomanic. Euphoric hypomanic. I felt amazing. I laughed so much. I laughed at everything and nothing. I talked rapidly and became highly excitable. I had racing thoughts. I said inappropriate things. I was loud, and at times obnoxious. I cussed. A lot. In my hailstorm of activity and loudness and giddiness, I told numerous people that I was bipolar and didn't take my meds (people didn't need to know that).

But I felt amazing. Like I could conquer the world.

When I got home from work I was still giggling and talkative, but my lack of sleep was starting to catch up to me (in retrospect, this was probably good - if I had gone higher, or if it lasted longer, I may have needed to be hospitalized).

I had a great day. A wonderful, amazing, and happy day. Because I didn't take my meds. So I rationalized that maybe I should stop my meds. At least the seroquel. Now, seeing how my judgement was probably clouded, I asked my hubby and my best friend if I should take my meds. They both said yes, take your damn meds. Don't be a noncompliant idiot (my friend's words).

So Saturday night I took my meds like a good girl. I went to bed around 10. Hubby came to bed around midnight to find me unable to sleep, plagued by racing thoughts. My whole body hurt because I was so tired and my mind was going so fast. He had me take a benadryl to try and help me fall asleep, and an hour after I was able to sleep. I slept until 9am (I'm usually up by 7).

I woke up knowing something was wrong. Knowing something was off. Knowing that it was going to be a bad day.

I awoke depressed. I tried to hide and ignore it. I tried all day to hide and ignore it. How could I possibly feel so bad after having a day where I felt so good??

Throughout the day I felt increasingly more depressed. My thoughts became darker. I wanted to cut. I needed to cut - but I didn't. I tried to keep my anger in check, even as it swelled and threatened to consume me. I didn't want to be around anyone - including hubby and son. I didn't want to interact with anyone - including texting friends.

I thought more about slitting my wrists.

After putting my son to bed I broke down sobbing. I couldn't take it anymore. It was the ugly cry where your snot gets everywhere and was filled with utter despair and hopelessness.

I can't go on like this.

I told hubby that. I can't. I can't do this anymore. It's too hard. It's not fair. How can anyone possibly think that I can keep this up??

Over the past 3.5 weeks I've had suicidal ideation on more days than not. There have been 3 instances where I probably should have gone to the hospital (last night, honestly, was one of them - I really wanted to slit my wrists and I was feeling impulsive). I'm doing everything right. My therapist pointed that out as well - I'm doing everything I'm supposed to be doing. All the CBT stuff I've learned in therapy - I'm applying it. I want to isolate - I'm forcing myself to interact. I'm staying busy rather than just staring at the ceiling or sleeping (which is what I want to do).

And yet I continue to get worse.

I see my psychiatrist on Wednesday. I'm guessing she'll increase my seroquel again. To either 500 or 600mg. Then probably another month of "let's wait and see if this helps at all". I'll be curious to see what she has to say about the suicidal ideation (my therapist was a little annoyed that I didn't call her office to let her know about the suicidal thoughts - well, I don't know her well and I didn't want to be told to go to the hospital; I thought I could handle it on my own).

Something has to change. It has to because I truly can't keep doing this. I'm tired. I'm not hopeful (why should I be? Nothing has worked so far).

I don't understand why I have to exist. Can't I just disappear until something manages my depression? Until I feel better? Why can't I do that?

3 weeks later . . .

It's been around 3 weeks since my last post. Why so long? Because I don't want to post negative post after negative post. I've written some, I've just never published them.

I saw my pdoc, oh, I don't know, 2.5 - 3 weeks ago? Something like that. She said that we should be able to manage my depression better. So she upped my seroquel from 300mg to 400mg. She said that on doses up to 300mg seroquel works on mania and as a sleep aid. At doses over 300mg, it works on mania and as an antidepressant. She's confidant that this will work. I see her again on the 17th.

Long story short, it's not helping much. My depression is still bad. Most days I battle with suicidal ideation. This past Saturday was particularly bad as I was actively suicidal and wanted to slit my wrists. Luckily hubby was with me all day. I didn't quite let on how bad I was though (I don't want to go back to the hospital).

I want to spend all my time sleeping. That way I don't have to deal with how I'm feeling. I've been reading a lot to escape too. And art. I've been drawing.

I'm really getting tired of this. This stupid depression. I'm trying so hard to stay positive and yet it beats me down. I tell myself over and over that life is worth living, but the majority of the time I don't feel that way. I do have good moments, sometimes even a pretty good day, but they're few and far between. It's mostly me trudging through, faking it, forcing myself to talk and interact. I had started pulling away from hubby and son and I talked to him about it - I can't let myself pull away.

I still feel distant though. I feel like a lie.

I'm trying not to talk about this much, to anyone really, because 1. I don't want to be a burden, 2. I don't want to seem selfish and self absorbed, 3. I don't want people to think I've brought this on myself, and 4. I'm hoping minimizing/ignoring/denying how I feel will help (I'm aware that this is not the best tactic and usually doesn't work - and yet I try it anyway).

I'm done for now. Maybe I'll write more later, maybe not. I'm trying not to go to in depth as I don't want to break down right now.

Ugh.

Well fuck . . .

So here's the scoop. My depression is kicking my ass. For reals. This past weekend was particularly bad - lots of crying, wanting to die, suicidal ideation. It was not pretty. Yesterday I spent the whole day alternating between reading and sleeping. Two ways to escape how crappy I was feeling. Today has been better - thank God.

All this got me thinking. About a lot of things. Where to start . . .

I'm not taking my Brintellix anymore (antidepressant). I've been on it for like 14 weeks now? Something like that. And the past 5 weeks I've been in a depression. I've been depressed despite my fancy antidepressant. So I stopped it. Might as well save myself $60 a month if I'm going to be depressed on it. I stopped it cold turkey and have noticed no ill effects.

But I still have this damn lingering depression. I see my pdoc tomorrow and I'm faced with a decision: do I start a different antidepressant? Or not? It's this decision that's had me thinking.

The past 3 years have been a struggle for me. No one would argue that, and if you read this blog you know this. The past 3 years I have fought against my diagnosis, never really accepting it. I've tried many different medications trying to "control" this illness and my moods, certain that once I had the right combo I'd be happy and never have to face my violent mood swings anymore.

Well that's not how bipolar disorder works. That's not how the medications work.

The medications are designed to manage the major mood swings. True mania, and, to a lesser extent, major depression (medications sadly don't do that well with bipolar depression). My combo of lithium, Lamictal, and Seroquel are doing what they're supposed to be doing - managing the huge swings. My hypomania has been virtually nonexistent since my hospitalization for it last November. The bipolar expert agreed that this was an excellent combo.

But then depression rears its ugly head. And these meds let it happen. So I try Brintellix. It starts to work, amazingly, it starts to work. But it caused crippling anxiety and I had to stop it. After a time, the depression came back. I had since switched from geodon to Seroquel so we went ahead and tried the Brintellix again. Guess what? I didn't have the same results that I did the first time. I didn't really get the anxiety, but I also didn't really get any benefit.

And so I stopped it. Four days ago.

My depression persists. So, do I ask my pdoc tomorrow about trying a different antidepressant? Part of me says YES! Try something! Maybe this will be the med that gets rid of your depression!!

Or maybe, like every antidepressant I've tried (6 of them), it won't make any real difference. Maybe I'm still in denial of my illness and I'm still convinced that it's more meds I need (even when I state, often, how I don't want to be on more meds). Maybe I'm still holding out hope that I'll reach that place of always being happy and never having to worry about my illness if I just have the right meds . . .

Like I stated in my last post, this is not how bipolar disorder works. I can be on all the meds and still cycle. That is the nature of the beast. This recent depression while on Brintellix proves it.

Part of me doesn't want to accept this.

I want it to be easy. Change a med, you're all good.

That's not how this shit works. Accept that.

I have to learn to accept that some days I might wake up suicidal for no apparent reason. Or that I may wake up feeling okay and stable and even. Or that maybe the hypomania will decide to come back. And that even though my meds manage most of the big swings, they don't manage all of them.

This illness is managed, not controlled.

I've been trying to remind myself of this - often. I'm trying to be mindful and stay in the present - not worrying over yesterday or how I may feel tomorrow. I mean come on - Sunday I was suicidal, yesterday apathetic, and today I'm okay. If that doesn't show you how quickly my moods can cycle, while on meds . . . (fun fact: my moods can cycle that quickly in hours).

So then what have I decided about seeing my pdoc? I'm not going to go on another antidepressant. I'm going to try managing without one. I don't have a good track record with them anyway. I'm going to do what I can to manage my illness on a day to day basis. Doing everything I've learned in therapy, exercising, eating well, and taking my other meds as prescribed (even though now and then I want to stop them all).

Bottom line, I have to accept my illness and work with it to truly manage it and thrive. I can't keep doing what I've been doing and expect different outcomes. I need to keep my head out of my ass. Besides, how can I help others with mental illness if I can't help myself?

Spoiler alert: I'm planning on switching to psychiatric nursing and going back to school to get my NP in psychiatry. More on that later.

Apathy and Anhedonia are my Friends

And I hate these friends. I wish they would go the fuck away.

If you don't know what apathy or anhedonia is, google it.

The week after my hospitalization was filled with depression and despair. Then came Boston where I was warned that my moods might get a little screwy. And they did get screwy - I cycled through depression, irritability, giddiness and feeling okay several times a day. Fucking tiring.

But now . . . for the last week . . . I have been either irritable or nothing. I touched on it in my last post, my icky feels. I just can't shake this numb feeling. I've felt it since last Friday. Almost a full week now. I have the hyper irritability - I've got that emotion down pat - or I have this all encompassing nothingness. This lack of feeling. I try to feel. I force laughter, I force myself to be upbeat (which is all fake - I don't feel any of it). I force myself to talk, to not be as withdrawn as I feel.

And it's not really working. All I want to do is lay on the couch and stare at the ceiling. I want to not exist again.

Tuesday I had no choice but to do something, to interact - I was volunteering at the riding center all day. But I was a hollow husk. Yesterday I forced myself to do things. I had to take my son to therapy, I had acupuncture, I met a friend for pie and coffee. But other than that I just kind of floated around in a numb haze.

Today is looking to be, uh, not good. Today I have more feels and they're of the bad variety. They're of the depressed, self destructive variety. I've spend all morning on the verge of tears but I can't actually cry. Maybe it would help if I could. I want desperately to not exist. I feel like everything is pointless again. I'm always going to have these stupid fucking mood swings to deal with so what the fuck is the point of continuing on?

I want to self harm. I want to burn myself again. I have a string of 4 very noticeable burn marks from Monday on my left inner arm and I want to add to them. I want to feel the searing white flash of pain. I want the momentary adrenaline rush. More importantly, I want the outward expression of the pain I feel inside. I'm hoping my previous burn marks scar. I want the reminder.

It's taking every ounce of self control I have to not burn myself right now. I'm writing this hoping that it will help dissipate the urge. I may try going downstairs to box. I remind myself that self-harm serves no purpose and can even makes things worse. But I may end up burning myself, I don't know. I'm trying not to.

I feel like I don't know what to do with myself or my life. Right now, at this moment, everything seems so bleak. I'll be dealing with these swings my entire life - which is daunting and depressing. I have all this fucking trauma work to go through in therapy which is daunting and depressing. I have no desire/inspiration/get no joy out of my artwork anymore which is depressing. I'm getting no joy out of life right now which is depressing.

All of this is the apathy. All of this is the anhedonia. All of this is part of a possible major depressive episode. I'm hoping not. I'm hoping my brain is just in shut down mode from the whole depression/suicide/hospitalization thing and that soon it will kick into gear again. Who knows, maybe this is my new baseline. Whatever the fuck it is I want it to stop.

Also? All of these thoughts, these words I'm fleshing out here, represent several errors of thinking, or, cognitive distortions. Namely, catastrophizing, fortune telling, all or nothing thinking, overgeneralization, and disqualifying the positive. There are 10 "official" cognitive distortions and I'm practicing 5 of them right now. Intellectually, I know this. Intellectually, I try talking myself out of these, point out the flaws, counter them. But sadly, it's not helping. That's part of the problem with me - I know this shit. I recognize it and work against it. I try. But I still fall prey to it and it makes my mood cycles worse. I've been working on all of this so much in therapy over the past year and still it gets me.

I don't know what else to say. I hate being so negative but that's where I'm at right now. I'm trying not to ruminate, I'm trying to counter my distorted thinking, and I'm trying to not burn myself. I see my new pdoc at 3 today so maybe that will be helpful.

Ugh. I'm tired of having shitty feels or no feels. Fucking brain.

So some shit happened

And by shit, I mean SHIT. Serious shit, y'all. And I'm going to write about it, and I'm going to be blunt and visceral and personal.

Because I'm lucky to be alive to be writing this.

Last week I came the closest I ever have to killing myself. And had I attempted, I probably would have completed. I had a plan and a backup plan. I had a backup plan to my backup plan.

If you know me, you wouldn't have known any of this. I hid it. I hid it as well as I could from everyone. Even my hubby and best friend. Why? Because if they knew then I couldn't carry it out. Now let me tell you something that may not make any sense - I don't want to die. I flat out don't want to die.

So why suicide . . . ?

I was put on a medication called Depakote. It's a mood stabilizer that was going to replace my lithium. I was started on a low dose - 1000mg. After 2 weeks I was more depressed. I was having some thoughts of death. And I knew it was the Depakote. I saw my psych doc and told him this. His response? No, it's not the Depakote, you need to go up on the dose. We're going to double it. I stared at him a minute. Seriously? I just told you I've had worsening depression since starting it! No, go up to 2000mg.

So I did. He knows what he's talking about, right? Wrong.

During the first week at 2000mg, I became obsessed with death and dying. I purposefully read books that centered around suicide - it was on my mind all the time. The thoughts were intrusive - I didn't want them there - I really didn't. They were disturbing. They were scary. I had my hubby lock up all of my meds.

My second week at 2000mg was the most horrific week of my life. I spent hours sobbing, curled in a ball on the floor, wishing I could just die. The pain was so bad I just . . . I needed to die.

If you've never been at this place, this place of utter terror and pain and despair, you'll never quite understand this. The pain is guttural, animalistic. It reaches into every fiber of your being. It hurts emotionally, mentally, and physically. While I cried, while I sobbed and wailed and screamed and pounded my fists, all I wanted was the pain to end. The torture to end. I hit my head against the wall. I burned myself with a cigarette lighter. I would have cut myself but the blades had all been locked up. There was no way I could go on like this. No way I could possibly continue to live like this. How could anyone? How could anyone be expected to live with this much pain?? Death was the only way out.

Last Wednesday night I told my hubby that it was a matter of when, not if, I would kill myself. I know I scared him. I was sobbing, laying on him, hurting and scared and tired. I was so tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of hurting. Tired of trying and having nothing work. I was tired. I told him that I wanted to die and that it was a good thing my pills were locked up. I knew I needed to go to the hospital then, but I didn't. He knew, but didn't press it.

Thursday morning was bad. I felt worse. But I had to press on, right? I had to take my son to his therapy session. And his therapist, upon seeing me, told me to call my therapist. I trembled. I knew I needed to be admitted but I needed someone to tell me that. I needed validation that it was okay. That I needed to be safe. I went into the bathroom and called my therapist, sobbing so hard I was almost incoherent. He told me what I needed to hear: go to the damn hospital.

And I did. I admitted myself on Thursday afternoon. Had I not, I would have overdosed on Geodon. One medication that isn't locked up because I take it every day. I have way more than enough to do the job. And had I not gone to the hospital, well . . . well those pills would have been down my throat.

I was discharged today, Tuesday. I'm still depressed. Damn depressed, actually. But I'm no longer suicidal. Depakote was the culprit in this - my first day off of it and the suicidal thoughts went away.

Last week I felt the worse that I ever have in my life. I never want to feel that way again. Ever. I can't. I came scarily close to killing myself. Closer than I ever need to come because I have wonderful friends and family.

I can't put into words the amount of pain I was in. I wish I could. I wish I could make you understand. But until you've been there, you can't possibly.

I'm alive. I'm going to Boston on Sunday to see the bipolar specialists and maybe get a new perspective. I'm trying to stay positive.

But I'm still so tired.

Some Thoughts on Suicide

Suicide is a touchy subject. It is, isn't it? The proverbial elephant in the room. Mental illness is bad enough, but bring suicide into the mix . . .

There are two things that that really get my goat about talking about suicide. Two stereotypes that people seem to hold onto.

1. People who talk about suicide are looking for attention

2. Suicide is selfish

Going into a talk about suicide with this mindset is a recipe for disaster.

Let me start by saying this: unless you've been at the point where suicide seems like the only answer, you don't get to tell me how I feel. You don't get to tell me to "buck up and look at the bright side."

There are a few things I want to address and I don't think I will do this as eloquently or as straight forward as I would like. My brain is scattered right now.

We all know what suicide is - taking one's life. We all know there is attempted suicide, completed suicide, and suicidal ideation (thinking about suicide). And there are warning signs, which often go unnoticed. I will be addressing the warning signs, don't worry.

Here's a point I want to drive home to y'all: most people who contemplate suicide truly don't want to die. They simply want the pain to stop and they see ending their life as the only way to accomplish this. Let me sat this again: WE DON'T WANT TO DIE.

Have you ever been in that much pain? That much emotional pain that you want to die? I have. Several times. Sobbing, rocking myself, knowing that things can't possibly better, that I'm a burden on my family and friends because of my constant mood swings and neediness. Knowing that my illness, bipolar disorder, will be with me my entire life and that I'll face more episodes like this, worsening depression, mania, and shorter periods of remission. I can't face the truth that I don't feel - that I often don't feel love for my husband or son - I can only fake it. That I don't feel joy or happiness and everything that once has meaning is now dead to me. That sometimes I'm so apathetic I can't even move. It's a physical pain too - exhaustion beyond belief, headaches, nausea. I'd give anything to make it stop. I'd do any thing to make it stop. And in those moments, in those moments of weakness . . . suicide seems plausible. Suicide seems like the only answer.

But I'm lucky. I'm still able to rationalize things. I think of my son and husband and I don't want to hurt them. I mainly don't want to scar my son with losing his mother. He's the reason I haven't taken pills. He's the reason I've had my husband lock up all of my pills in our safe, to which I don't know the combination.

Why am I telling you this? Why am I getting so personal with this? Because it's real. Because it happens. Because an educated, rational, once happy person has recently considered taking a whole bottle of propanolol to end her life - even though she has a wonderful family and group of friends and support system.

I've been talking about suicide lately, about not wanting to exist. I always say that I don't want to die, but that I don't want to exist. If I could just not exist until I felt better. Or that I want to sleep and just not wake up . . . those are words to pay attention to. Those are words of someone looking for help - not someone looking for attention. Do I get attention from saying things like that? You bet your sweet ass I do. I get attention from my hubby and my therapist mainly. My manager. But I need that attention. I need for someone to say, "you matter. You're important. I'm here for you." And that's all. I need to hear that. I have all the reasons I need to kill myself - give me a reason not to. And not by chastising me and telling me that I'll be hurting my family - do you think I don't know that? Trust me - I know that. But part of me thinks they'd be better off without me. Gently remind me that you'd rather have me around, even if I'm depressed and moody and sullen. That you love me no matter what. Don't make it about you. Don't tell me how it would affect you.

So is suicide selfish? In a way, yes. But when you're in that frame of mind, when you see it as your only out, it doesn't seem selfish. It seems like your only saving grace. It seems like you're doing everyone else a favor. When you go on about how my suicide will affect you, about how it will affect your family, my family, my friends, this person and that person, you diminish my feelings. You're telling me that everyone matters more than me and what I'm feeling and what I'm going through. What I'm feeling is real. Even though it may be twisted, illogical thinking, it's real. And to stomp on that, well, it does more harm than good. Acknowledge my feelings, try to understand them - even you you may not. Tell me you care and you want to help. Validate me. Hear me. Let me vent. Don't make my feelings about you.

Let's look at some warning signs for suicide:

1. Talking about suicide
2. Preoccupation with death
3. Feelings of hopelessness/despair
4. No hope for future
5. Self loathing
6. Withdrawing from others
7. "Getting affairs in order"
8. Self destructive behavior
9. Sleep problems
10. Sudden changes in mood or appearance
11. Sudden calmness

If you notice these signs in someone, talk to them. Let them know you care. Ask them about suicide - asking them isn't suddenly going to make them suicidal if they weren't before. On the contrary - it lets them know that you're open to talking to them about it and helping.

I have many things on this list tucked under my belt right now, which is why I'm worrisome to my hubby, therapist and psychiatrist. But we've taken precautions. We've talked openly about it. And I feel safe. Help someone else feel safe. Please.

If you're feeling suicidal, call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at: 1-800-273-8255

Want to more things NOT to say to someone who is suicidal? Read this blog post.

On Med Changes

Cinco de Mayo heralded in major med changes for me. I wrote about them in my last post, but let me refresh your memory:

I stopped lithium, decreased my lamictal by half, and started depakote. I will be stopping wellbutrin but not until I finish what I have left in my bottle (I figured that maybe that would be way too much of a change all at once).

My body and brain, true to form, are not liking the changes. Almost overnight depression. With suicidal ideation. It has been . . . not fun.

If I'm not horribly depressed and sobbing, I'm stuck in a state of apathy - of not caring. And no matter what state I'm in, there's a strong sense of anhedonia.

Nothing that should bring me joy or pleasure does.

I'm merely existing right now people, and existing and living are not the same.

I'm trying to keep in perspective that this is all most likely thanks to my med changes and it will pass. With time, it will pass. But that's difficult to do when your thoughts are so dark. When your thoughts are becoming increasingly more centered on death, dying, and suicide. It's difficult to do when you count how much propanolol you have (178 pills) meticulously, several times, to know for certain that you have enough to do the job (that's probably 5-6 times more than enough - propanolol is a blood pressure medication).

I'm not going to take it.

I have self control, even though it wears thin sometimes. I'm thinking it best, though, that I give the bottle to my hubby, just to be safe. Just to take away that out.

The apathy and anhedonia are almost worse than the sobbing and despair. I don't know what to do with these feelings. I don't want to play with my son. It's tiring and bothersome and I just don't care. Which is horrible because I should. He's spending the weekend at his grandma's house which is good for me because I don't have to deal with the horrible feelings I get for not feeling anything for him. I love him - obviously - I just don't feel it.

The same, too, goes for my hubby. I love him, dearly. But I don't feel it. And it makes me feel terrible.

Work is the same. It's a chore. I can't feel happy for the new parents. I can't share in their wonderment of their new child. I can't honestly joke with my coworkers (I can fake it, though not very well any more).

My art, sewing, writing? All desire, and hope for desire to do these things, is gone. Picking up a pencil is a chore - not something to look forward to and enjoy.

I can feel despair, depression, anger, and nothing. And that's about it.

I'm going through the motions, I'm existing. I'm muddling through as best I can.

Hubby had me make an appointment for next week with my therapist. I've been trying to see him only every other week, with the goal of spacing it out further. But now I'm seeing him next week. Which I'm honestly not happy about. Sounds stupid, yeah? I feel as though it's a waste of his time. That I should suck it up and deal with what I'm going through. It's probably the med changes anyway and it should get better with time. Put on your big girl pants and get through it. I feel weak and embarrassed and stupid for making the appointment.

But I probably need it.

Just this morning I noticed how preoccupied with death I am when looking up new books to read. They were all stories about death, suicide, or very dark in nature. I've had a couple ideas for macabre paintings again, though I have no desire to paint them. These are warning signs I should probably heed. And, I guess, I will.

In the meantime I will continue to exist, I will go through the motions and hope things get better and not worse. I will try to find some meaning in life. I will remind myself that anything I do to hurt myself will only hurt my hubby and my son - more profoundly than it could ever hurt me.

That is the only thought, honestly, that keeps me going.

Stuck

You see that cow? That cow is me. Although, if I was going to be a cow I'd be one of the black and white dairy cows because I find them way cuter. Anyway, that cow is me. Stuck.

I'm in full blown depression again thanks to med tweaking. The last 3 days have been a complete hell of apathy, sadness, crippling depression, hopelessness, and constant crying. In short, it has sucked. The past 3 days I haven't known how I was possibly going to make it through the day. I did, obviously, but I marvel that I was able to pull it off (it helps that my track record for making it through shitty days is 100% . . . think about it).

When I'm not balling my eyes out I'm stuck in this no-man's-land of complete apathy. I don't care about anything. I don't want to do anything. I could just stare off into space or at the wall and that would be perfectly fine with me. Or I could sleep to escape everything (which doesn't work for me because my body seems to have forgotten how to nap).

This is the part of depression I think that many people forget. It's easy to pay attention to the person in pain who is sobbing uncontrollably or who is suicidal. But to look at me today, right now, you may balk at the idea of me being depressed. Because I'm not actively showing it.

Here's my day so far: I drug myself out of bed at 8 for the sole reason that I had to pee. Once up, I decided it would be better for me to just stay up, rather than just lying around in bed. I came out to the living room and sat on the couch. I then proceeded to stare off into space for about 30 minutes. You need to do something, I told myself. Okay, alright, I'll make coffee and check my email. That killed about 5 minutes. I sat back down on the couch and stared at my coffee cup for about another 30 minutes. You should do something. Okay, what? Go to the gym, clean the bathrooms, shower, get your son from Grandma's who YOU HAVEN'T SEEN FOR 3 DAYS BECAUSE YOU CAN'T EVEN COPE WITH THINGS!!! That's too much work. I don't care. So I got on the computer and got on Pinterest fro 20 minutes, not even paying much attention to what I was scrolling through.

I won't work out today because putting on gym clothes is too much work. Seriously. That, and I don't care. I'm going to do my best to clean the bathrooms - not because I want to or need to or have the energy to, but because I don't want my hubby to judge me for not accomplishing anything. However, if I don't get it done? I don't care. I want to go to the grocery store and get strawberries and a pineapple but that will involve me showering and leaving the house. And interacting with people. This, I probably will do because my craving for strawberries and pineapple is great. So that's one thing. (but how long will it take me to get showered?)

Now the hard thing . . . picking up my son from Grandma's house. He's been over there since Sunday. He's spent the night every night. My mother-in-law is watching him because I haven't been able to cope with things. Like being around my son. I want to see him, truly, I do, but I'm worried about breaking down in front of him. I'm worried about how I'll act around him (bitchy and snippy and short-tempered is my guess). He's 7 - he doesn't deserve that.

My apathy is pronounced. I don't want to do anything. I don't care about anything. Everything that used to bring me joy (family, drawing, painting, sewing . . .) doesn't anymore. At. All. I'd do just as well staring at the wall. I forced myself to paint yesterday and I felt nothing doing it. Just going through the motions. I'm just going through the motions with everything.

It's easy to see "how depressed" I am when I'm crying. When I'm laying on the floor sobbing and wanting to die. It's obvious then. But at times like this, when I'm emotionally walled up and apathetic, it's a bit more difficult. It's just as bad right now, it's just not as raw. And I can certainly hide it better in this state (which I hope I can do at work tomorrow).

So I'm stuck. I'm stuck in this depressive, apathetic state, which is no fun at all. And even though I'm trying to do things differently so I can change this, I almost don't care enough to do that.

Almost.

Stupid Med Changes

First let me remind you about my med changes. Almost 2 weeks ago I saw my psychiatrist. My depression was coming back and I wanted to get on the ball and take action early. So I made an appointment and we talked about what as going on. He agreed we needed to be a little more aggressive and not wait for it to get worse. He raised my Lamictal does from 200mg daily to 250mg daily and started me back on Wellbutrin.

The other thing I had talked with him about was stopping the Geodon due to sexual side effects. He said he thought it was safe to do so. After my first decrease from 80mg to 40mg I had rebound hypomania the following day (read about it here).

This past Thursday (the 20th) was my first night not taking the Geodon. I slept for 1 hour. Maybe. Could have been less. Friday was weird. I was depressed and felt . . . off. Even mucking stalls and being around the horses didn't help. But I minimized it and told myself that that was Friday and it was probably due to lack of sleep and that Saturday might be different. Day to day.

Saturday came and I was at work. It was not a good day. I spent much of my time hiding in the report room curled in a ball in the corner because I was depressed and couldn't face people. I'm exhausted, I told myself (I had slept 6 hours the night before). Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be better.

Then Sunday came and again I was at work. I started the day almost a little hypomanic. I had tons of energy, I was joking around, I was inappropriate, I was talking fast. I calmed a little after report and assessed my patients. Around 9am I started to feel funny. I started to feel down. At 9:30 it hit me - severe depression. I was charting. I closed out my chart and just barely made it to the bathroom before I started balling. I was in there, crying uncontrollably, for 30 minutes. I felt horrible and alone and empty and I wanted to die. But I composed myself, walked out and walked behind the front desk. I meant to ask the CNA there if I looked okay when one of my managers saw me. Her eyes got wide and she asked if I was okay. I shook my head no and started crying again. She rushed over and hugged me and asked what was wrong.

"I just had a med change and I think it's made me depressed and I want to get a scalpel because I kinda want to die." I hadn't intended to admit my suicidal thoughts (though I'm glad I did).

She looked at me and told me that I couldn't hurt myself because there were too many people who cared for me. She asked if I needed to go to the hospital. I told her probably, I was feeling bad enough to but that I didn't want to go back - it's only been 3 months since my last hospitalization. We talked and agreed that I could go home to be with my hubby and son with the understanding that if I didn't improve I'd admit myself.

So home I went and I did everything I could to lift my spirits - including a nap and a hot bubble bath (while listening to music that makes me happy). I emailed Dr. C and he agreed that this was due to me stopping the Geodon and he said I obviously need it and to start back up at 40mg. I emailed my therapist and he told me if I needed to see him this week (my next appointment is the 1st) that he would make time for me.

Today I'm mildly depressed and have no motivation for anything (except maybe staring at the wall). I was a little better this morning than I am now, but I'll manage. I'm hoping that with being back on the Geodon my mood will improve quickly.

I'm tired of setbacks like this. I just want a med combo that works and that I don't have to keep tweaking. Hopefully this current one of lithium, Lamictal, Wellbutrin and Geodon will work (I also hate being on 4 meds for this stupid disease).

Oh well. As long as I can reach - and maintain - stability, that's all that matters.

Back to work . . .

So I'm going back to work on Monday after having been off for 5 weeks. Am I ready to go back? I don't know. I mean, I'm ready in that I want to be back and I'm getting pretty bored at home . . . but I don't know if I'm ready to be back.

I had coffee yesterday with a couple of friends and was, yet again, surprised at how tiring it was. It shouldn't be tiring - it's just coffee - but it was.

If seeing friends, and having coffee with friends is so tiring, so exhausting, how is a 12 hour shift at work going to be?

Well, we'll see.

The past few days I've been coming to terms with something else: how sick I truly was. I can't deny it anymore, even though I still try. I was sick. Very sick. I was mixed and then I was manic - full blown manic, for the first time ever. Then back to mixed. Then suicidal. All in a short period of time. It took a lot out of me. I'm still reeling from it.

There are other changes happening too. Something that I never even dreamed would happen . . .

Hubs and I are considering foreclosing on our house. Foreclosing and filing bankruptcy.

Because of my bipolar.

See, there's a very good possibility that I'm going to be going part time - less stress, better for my brain. But going part time puts an added financial strain on us. Could we afford to stay in our house? Of course! But things would be tight. And if something happened, if I was hospitalized again, or needed disability . . . well, that would be another story.

So we're considering foreclosure and bankruptcy, which is terrifying.

So much going on.

I hate it when I can't lie to myself . . .

I'm sitting on the couch watching the Broncos and Patriots game (going for the Broncos, btw - they're my team) and said to myself, self, you know what you should do right now? You should write.

And so I am.

I had a disturbing revelation yesterday while having lunch at a friend's house. These friends are pretty good friends, just ones that hubs and I don't see too often (they live over an hour away). We can share anything with them - we're comfortable like that. And so I shared about my last 3 months with them, as they only knew the bare basics.

This is where I had my disturbing revelation.

I was sick. Sick. Recounting my story, watching the expressions on their faces - expressions of mild shock, pity, and almost disbelief . . . It was difficult. It was eye opening. They saw the humor in my mania. They could joke about it which made me more comfortable. They asked questions. But I realized just how sick I truly was.

Talking about it takes away my ability to lie to myself about it. See, I like to tell myself that the last 3 months weren't as bad as they were. That I wasn't really that sick. When I say it out loud, all that goes away. I lose that lie. And losing that lie scares me a little.

I also realized this: I'm still sick.

We spent 5 hours at our friend's house and I left feeling emotionally and mentally exhausted. Completely drained and exhausted. Which forces me to consider the fact that I'm not recovered yet. Which scares me a little.

I was so sick I lost touch with reality - I was delusional. I was so sick I was suicidal.

And I'm not better yet. Yesterday made me realize how fragile I still am. How much my illness impacts my friends and family. And how quickly things can change.

And it makes me wonder how I'm going to do back at work. I go back the 27th. One week. If five hours with friends exhausts me, how is 12 hours at work at a busy birth center going to affect me?

I'm worried and a little bit scared.

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.

Losing it. . . .

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

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

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

           - The Bravery
(italics added for emphasis)

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

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

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

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

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

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

God help me.

As Good As It Gets

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

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

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

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

But I'll try.

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

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

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

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

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