Stupid

I had a great therapy session yesterday, I really did. Everything that was in my last blog post? We talked about that.

He pointed out that I still haven't completely accepted my diagnosis. I mean, I've accepted it, I truly believe I have bipolar disorder, but I haven't fully accepted everything that that entails. For example, even when I'm stable - reeeeeally stable - I can still have wide, wild mood swings for no reason at all. That's just part of bipolar disorder. That truly, for the rest of my life, I have to be hyper vigilant of my moods. I'll have to always monitor my moods, just like a diabetic monitors their blood sugar. There's no real way around it.

I hate that. Like, I really hate that. I wanted to have ECT and just be . . . okay. Normal. But that's just not the case. And it's super fucking frustrating. I don't want to deal with it anymore. I don't want to deal with bipolar disorder anymore.

I wax poetic I guess

So the stupid thing is that I'm at the point where part of me wants to give up again. I'm at the point where I want to throw in the towel. Thanks, life, it's been fun. But I'm done now. You've become too cold and hard and bitter. You've become too much trial and not enough triumph.

I know, I know. By virtue of me still being here that's a triumph, right? At least that's what some people would say. You're strong. You've been through so much and you're still standing.

Yes, I'm standing alright.

Well, more like kneeling. Not on-my-knees praying kneeling, no, not like that. But on my hands and knees, head hung low in despair, my hair sticking to my face thanks to the tears. Sobs racking my body as I wish for a swift end.

That's not what I would call a triumph. No.

Or is it? I'm still alive, I guess. My heart still beats though at times I will it to stop. My lungs still fill with air, even when they burn with exertion from crying.

I still function. I still work and carry on as though everything were okay. I would call that a triumph. Still being able to function.

So there's that, I guess.

I have a hard time finding meaning to things. Life in general, of course, but also of things. Just, everything. I get to where I feel so empty and hollow and lost that I don't know how I can possibly go on. Everything gets so bleak and I get tunnel vision. Except it's not really tunnel vision. No. It's like everything has expanded, blown apart into minute detail but it's all foggy. Foggy and thick and slow and the emptiness is all consuming and I feel myself sinking in the sludge. It feels dark. And cold. And I will my heart to stop - even if for a moment - to give me reprieve. It feels like I'm drowning. And as I try to fight it, to scramble out of the dark and cold and slowness I marvel at how insignificant I really am and how nothing I do truly matters.

But it does matter. I remind myself of this. It does matter. You matter. The depression is talking. It whispers in your ear and tells you lies and you really do matter. Life has meaning.

I force myself to look for meaning. There's the obvious ones: family, friends . . . and more subtle ones. The obvious ones give me grounding, the subtle ones give me hope.

Ahhh, hope. I've been told that as long as I'm breathing, there's hope. I'd like to believe that. It's another thing I remind myself of when depression is whispering softly in my ear.

Depression doesn't whisper softly though. Not usually. It's firm and direct and demanding. That's the problem with it. I can tell myself all of the positive things in the world and the depression throws its head back and laughs. It counters every positive with a negative as I scramble and climb and try to keep my head above the darkness. It bares its teeth and grins at me, a beastly, ghastly thing. It holds me fast.

But then my resolve strengthens and I find a new way to fight, a new way to counter.

And I'm trying yet another new way. I don't know if it will work. I don't know if it will help. I don't know if depression will release its stronghold on me. Its grip is tight and fierce and convincing.

I am, however, still breathing.

New pdoc?

I'm planning on switching pdocs. I was a bit displeased with mine at my last appointment.

(To refresh your memory, she told me that meds won't work on me and that sometimes people have a black cloud over them and are suicidal all the time and you just have to get used to it)

That rubbed me the wrong way. And by "rubbed me the wrong way", I mean pissed me off, had me sobbing, and stole away any hope I still had left of managing my depression. I couldn't believe she told me that. I mean, even if she was thinking that she shouldn't have told me that. Not when I'm depressed, suicidal, and losing hope on my own.

Not the best thing to say.

Hubby and a couple of my friends have told me to find another pdoc. That what she said was unacceptable. That it seems she's throwing in the towel. Meds won't work on you.

I am torn though. I keep thinking, what if this is all me? What if meds won't work for the depression and that I do just need to do more trauma work? What if this is a situational type of depression, that I have to buckle down and plow through and it's all on me?

What if?

What if I'm changing pdocs because I basically didn't like what she had to say? Maybe changing pdocs won't help anything. Maybe the new one will say the same thing. Maybe I'm just chasing meds, looking for the easy way out.

I look back at myself over the last 3 years, trying to see patterns, trying to see what I'm doing right and what I could improve on. I'm trying to be open and bluntly honest with myself. I need to be if I'm going to get stable.

One thing Ive noticed (and I picked up on this about a year and a half ago) is that once I start to get better I'll be better for a couple of months and then relapse. I get depressed again. And a year and a half ago M (therapist) and I discussed this. We talked at length my "not wanting" to get better. We worked through it, we found and worked through a few triggers, and having me identify this flaw within myself had curbed that tendency to self sabotage.

And I look back and I see no self sabotage for my mania (and hospitalization) last November, no self sabotage for my suicidal depression (and hospitalization), last December, and no self sabotage for my suicidal depression (and hospitalization), last May. I find no trigger, no form of self sabotage - it just happened.

July and August this year I was starting to become more stable. In October I started to slide, by November I was down and getting worse, and December has been horrid. I know I had one trigger: a piece of Al-Anon literature I read on forgiveness. It gave me icky feels. I worked through these feels in Al-Anon, in therapy, and with my hubby. I worked through them. I laid them to rest.

Now, knowing that was a trigger, I was doing all the proper things to counter the emotional response. I talked about it, I journaled my feelings and thoughts, I countered my negative thoughts, I didn't catastrophize, I did everything right.

I worked through it. I felt better about it, and felt that I had nothing more to say on the matter.

Several weeks later is when I really started to spiral. I did all of my CBT stuff that I've learned about, I talked to hubby and in therapy. I didn't let myself isolate - I forced interaction. Again, doing everything right.

So what the hell is going on?? Did I have a PTSD trigger that threw me into a bipolar mood episode? Is this just PTSD? Is this just a bipolar shift with no real trigger? Does it really matter?

Because here in lies the rub: I'm doing all my CBT things, I'm trying to stay present, stay in the moment, take it day by day (sometimes moment by moment), counter my errors of thinking, not isolate, trying to "fake it till I make it" . . . all the things I should be doing.

But they're not helping.

They should be helping. If this was all me, all PTSD, all a trigger, then this shit should be working. And it's not. M pointed out that that one Sunday at work where I was crap and laid on the floor for 2 hours because I was suicidal and didn't know what else to do was most definitely not a trauma issue - it was most definitely a chemical imbalance issue.

If all my behavioral therapies are not working that would lead to a chemical problem, right? So meds, right?

But my pdoc won't prescribe me anything else because she believes this depression is all trauma, all in my head. That if I do more trauma work I'll be fine.

I don't even know what to talk about trauma wise anymore. I really don't. We've gone over my abusive relationship and rape. We've gone over my dad's death. We've gone over stuff with my (alcoholic) mom several times. I don't what else to say on these matters. I have no idea. I don't even know what to say in Al-Anon anymore (I've been silent the last three sessions cause I have nothing to add).

So what more trauma work do I need to do??

There's only one area I see where I need more work: fake it till I make it. I've been faltering in this area. Why? Because it's hard to pretend to be positive, to be okay, to be well, to be not depressed. It takes so much energy and it's so much easier to give into the depression. It's better for me to fake it, it is. But I've been so tired lately, the past few weeks, that it's gotten harder. It's easier to give in. To not fight. See, part of me wants to give up. I'm tired of fighting my moods everyday. I'm tired of the knowledge that I'll do this for the rest of my life. It's too much to handle and so I'm slacking on forcing myself to seem okay (even when - especially when) I'm completely broken on the inside.

What the fuck do I do? Change pdocs I guess, see what the new one has to offer. I don't know. I don't even know. This is all very frustrating as fuck.

Also? I've noticed that since I've been on 600mg of seroquel my cognition is suffering. I forget letters in words or add extra letters, it's taking longer for me to think things through, to respond. Joy.

And Then My Hope Went *poof*

That's exactly what my hope did.

*poof*

Gone. Lost somewhere in the stratosphere, floating around, uncatchable.

Or it's in the trash. I'm not sure at this point. (Floating around in the stratosphere sounds sexier though).

Why did my hope go *poof*? Well, I saw my psychiatrist, Mary, on Wednesday. And . . .

Wait. Let's back up a minute.

I want to recap what's been going on, in case you haven't read any previous posts. I'm depressed again. It's bad again. I have suicidal ideation on most days. I want to cut and I have. I alternate between wanting to die or wanting to not exist. It feels as though everything is being ripped from me again - I was starting to get stable over the summer and now everything is crashing down around me, hundreds of thousands of tiny shards and there's no way I can possibly pick them all up again. And every time I shatter like this, I miss a few pieces. Or a hundred pieces. Each time I break it's harder to collect those pieces, those shards, and this time they seem to be scattered further.

Okay. Back to Mary.

I sat in the waiting room doing a word search on my phone, feeling irritable and depressed. Surprisingly, I didn't have to wait long to be called back. Mary has a psychiatric nurse working with her who starts the intake - she gets my weight, blood pressure, and starts asking me questions. How are you doing? Bad. I'll go with that - the opposite of good. What's been going on? My depression is continuing to get worse. Five weeks ago Mary increased my seroquel and I haven't noticed any difference. I have suicidal thoughts more days than not. Do you have a plan? Yes. But I have no intent. Can you contract for safety? Sure. When was the last time you cut? This morning (I proceed to roll up my left sleeve). What's been going on the last few weeks? How's home? Work? Nothing has changed. Work is busy, home is fine. No triggers that neither I nor my therapist can identify.  Any hallucinations? No.

She typed everything I was saying, went over my meds, and brought me back to Mary's office. I liked Mary when I saw her 5 weeks ago. I liked her more than Chika (she works with Mary and is who I've been seeing since June).

Mary is reading everything her nurse wrote about me. I sit down. She looks up at me over the rim of her glasses. Cami, right? Yes. Seems like you're not doing to well. Tell me about the suicidal thoughts.  Um, well, I have ideation more days than not. I think mostly right now of slitting my wrists. Before it was always an overdose, but not now. I've had 3 days in the past 5 weeks that I probably should have gone to the hospital. But I'm stubborn and I didn't want to go - I wanted to try and manage it on my own. My therapist was a little mad at me because 1. I didn't go in, 2. I didn't call or email him (but he was in Italy on vacation and I didn't want to bother him), and 3. I didn't call you to let you know.

Before she asks another question I pull a piece of paper from my purse - the results of my genetic testing - and hand it to her. As far as my current meds go, my dosing is fine (the genetic testing was for medication metabolism - so, for example, if you're a high metabolizer for such and such a class, you'd need a lower dose of that drug).

Mary is looking at the results and to her computer screen. Results. Computer screen. Then she looks at me. You've been on a lot of meds. I know. She sighs. I don't think meds are going to help your depression. Look - you've been on so many and none of them has really helped, at least not more than a few weeks. Meds aren't going to help. I stare at her. The force of what she just said hits me hard and I'm speechless.

Wait. No.

Meds aren't going to work? You're telling me meds aren't going to work? (I think this, rather than say it).

She continues. Have you ever considered ECT? (I'm staring again). It can be very successful in treating depression. I haven't really thought about it for myself. Seriously, at least. It's just . . . the memory loss associated with it. Not such a good thing when you're a nurse. I'd have to be on leave for the entire duration of treatment (3-6 months). That's true. Have you heard about EMDR? Yes. You have a lot of trauma in your past, EMDR would be beneficial. I already do trauma work with my therapist. His specialty happens to be trauma. We're just moving at a snail's pace because it can be so triggering. My session last week was crisis intervention because of my depression. But we've been working on trauma. Okay, good. Have you heard of DBT? Dialectal behavioral therapy? There are group DBT sessions that you may want to look into. You learn coping skills and ways to manage your emotions. Okay . . . You could also look into neurofeedback. What's neurofeedback? You have electrodes placed on your head to measure your brain waves and then you learn how to change your brain wave pattern.  Oh. Okay. Do you give me referral? How does that work?

I'm almost in a trance at this point. My head is reeling. I'm going into shutdown mode. Meds aren't going to help your depression. You don't understand Mary. I need meds to work for me. They have to work for me. I've been doing everything right. I'm trying my hardest. I'm fucking trying and I need a little help here!

She continues. You'll need to research groups nearby and contact your insurance company to see if they cover these treatments. Some companies do, most don't. You do need to work through your trauma. I think that will help. It complicates things. Okay. (I nod. I'm on the verge of tears. I'm trying desperately not to cry). She looks sternly at me. You know, sometimes people have this black cloud around them their whole lives and it never gets better. Maybe they have suicidal thoughts all the time and they're just there. It doesn't go away. 

I'm staring again. I wouldn't doubt that my mouth dropped open a little bit. You're sitting here telling me that this won't get better. Meds won't work. Here are a few therapies you could try that may or may not help and that insurance probably won't cover but I'm trying to give you something to grasp for because let's face - nothing has worked before so probably nothing will work now, either. The same person telling me this told me 5 weeks ago that I didn't have to feel depressed - that we would find something that works and we can manage the depression better and don't give up because I'm hopeful that you'll get better soon.

This is not okay.

She must have read my face, my thoughts, my posture. Look, you should be proud of yourself! Look how far you've come! You're doing every possible thing you can do to get better. You're doing everything right. Okay. How about we try increasing the seroquel to 600mg? Maybe you just need more. Maybe your body needs a higher dose for the antidepressant effects. (I nod. I'm not hopeful. You told me meds won't work, yet we're going to increase a med that you don't think will work. Are you trying to placate me?) Okay. We'll try that for 4 weeks and I can even increase it to 800mg in 4 weeks if we want to try that. But we'll try 600mg for now. Look into DBT group and neurofeedback. And have a Merry Christmas! Okay.

I nod. I'm in disbelief. I make my way to the front desk and make my follow up appointment. The tears are threatening. I make it to my truck before I completely break down. I sat for 10-15 minutes sobbing. Uncontrollable sobbing full of pain and despair and frustration.

That was not what I was expecting from that appointment. Well, increasing the seroquel I expected. But not to be told that meds probably aren't going to work, aren't going to help, and we're kinda at the end of the line so maybe you should look into ECT because there really isn't much more out there for you. I was looking for hope, and I didn't get that. The thin strand of hope I'm desperately holding on to is unraveling.

And it fucking sucks.

I'm looking into DBT and neurofeedback. I'm going to discuss them with my therapist (I don't see a huge difference between DBT and what I've learned doing CBT with my therapist).

All I want is for something to work. I don't think that's too much to ask.

I've two docs tell me I need to sort through my trauma stuff and I have been. And even though I have been, I still can't identify triggers (I know some, and I can counter them so I don't have such a large emotional response, but I don't know most).

So I went up to 600mg of seroquel Wednesday night. Yesterday morning and this morning were hard to wake up to - for many weeks now I've been having a progressively harder time waking up simply because I don't want to be awake - but jumping from 400mg to 600mg seems to have made me more drowsy in the morning (hopefully that will go away).

The only thing I can do is to keep trying. At least my stubbornness comes in handy with this. My therapist had told me that as long as I'm breathing, there's hope.

I'd like to believe him.

SSDD

Same shit, different day.

My mood is still shit. I'm still depressed, still having suicidal ideation, and have been cutting. That is most certainly not a good combo. I have had 2 days in the last 3 weeks where going to the hospital might have been a good idea - except I don't think it would help much (I have been able to keep myself safe . . . well, except for the cutting).

I had a talk with hubby about everything a couple of nights ago to let him know what goes on in my fucked up brain. Maybe I scared him a little, I don't know. He thinks I need to add something else to my cocktail again. Maybe I do. But I don't know what. I don't have a good track record with antidepressants. He gave me homework though - to look back through my mood journal and see if there was something that I was on in the past that helped, even if I had to stop it for some reason.

Here's what I found:

I've always been on lithium and lamictal  - l&l - (both are mood stabilizers). For awhile I was on those with an antidepressant (most of the time, wellbutrin). This combo had me in a constant mixed state. I had mostly irritable hypomania mixed with depression, with a few short stints of euphoria. Reading through my journal, seeing how much irritability, distorted thinking, and depression was there makes it obvious that this is not a good combo.

I've also been on l&l with cymbalta. This combo lifted the depression a little but still kept me in a mixed state. L&l by itself renders me with deep depression.

I was on l&l with wellbutrin when I was hospitalized last November - wellbutrin was stopped while I was in the hospital and I was started on zyprexa. That knocked out the mania, but depression was still there and I was hospitalized in December after Latuda pushed me over the edge.

While on l&l and geodon, I had depression, sometimes a little more mild, often times more moderate and I lost my creativity. Mania/mixed symptoms are gone. Then, geodon was stopped and I started on seroquel. Still no mania/mixed symptoms. Well, irritability, but I'm not sure if that's mixed or more the depression. And I've been on wellbutrin and brintellix with these combos with no real benefit.

So, l&l with antidepressant alone = mixed episodes. L&l with antipsychotic = no mania/mixed, but depression. L&l with antipsychotic and antidepressant = no mania/mixed, but depression.

I'm not sure what to do. I'm sure my pdoc, whom I see next Wednesday, will suggest maybe upping the seroquel again. But I don't know what else would be helpful. I need something. Something has to change because I can't keep feeling like this.

And how, exactly, am I feeling?

Let's take a "good" day (good being a relative term). Today is a "good" day. I start the day not wanting to be awake because being awake is pointless and stupid. I spend the day going through the motions, feeling empty, and vacant, and detached. I don't really feel anything. I'm flat, apathetic. Why should I bother cleaning/drawing/etc when everything is so pointless and hopeless? It doesn't make sense. Sleeping to escape makes sense. Cutting makes sense. If I cut at least I can feel something physically - pain. That's almost like a feeling. My urge to cut is strong, sometimes overwhelming. I float along, feeling nothing, doing nothing. Well, that's not entirely true - I feel irritability. Easily. It's the only thing I do feel. I get snippy and bitchy. And in trying not to be snippy and bitchy, I tend to withdraw more.

Now, a bad day. Again, I awake not wanting to be awake because everything is pointless and stupid. Only now, I feel despair. Overwhelming despair and depression and darkness. Not only is being awake pointless, living is pointless. I want to die. I don't know how I can possibly make it through the day. The emotional pain is so great that all I want to do is curl in a ball. Curl in a ball and not exist anymore. Sometimes I do this - even at work - because I don't know what else to do. I get overwhelmed easily, I feel like giving up, and my irritability can get out of control. I tear up easily and often break down sobbing. I want to cut - this time not to feel physical pain, but rather to numb the emotional pain. I want to cut deep enough that I need stitches. My mind fixates on death - my death. Suicidal ideation. I hurt so bad that I don't know how I can go on living. I can't live like this - this is torture, not life. I know that if it does continue to go on like this, I'll kill myself. It's a certainty I'm terrified of.

I struggle whether it's a good day or a bad day, just in different ways. Neither of these days are really okay with me. I have to feel something other than this. I'm so fucking tired of dealing with this. No one should have to - especially for as long as I've had to. I'd really love to throw in the towel.

But I can't.

So there's where I am. Stuck between shit days and shit days. We'll see what my therapist says this week and what my pdoc says next week. What else can I do . . .

The thing is . . .

. . . I really kinda feel like shit. Super irritable and depressed. There isn't a day again where I don't break down sobbing. I don't want to exist - if I could just sleep until I felt better. But the scary thing? I'm moving into the "I don't want to live stage". That's not  a good place to be. I'm so tired of feeling like crap. And thinking that this will go on for as long as I'm alive . . . well, that's daunting and depressing in and of itself.

I had therapy on Tuesday and M had me do an exercise where I pretended my mom was sitting across from me and I had to tell her what I was feeling. I kinda failed at it. I was so emotionally drained that I couldn't really do the exercise justice. I want a do over. He also gave me homework of sorts: to cut all communication with my mom. Now, she's a pretty big trigger for me and even getting a text with her fills me with anger and icky feels. M is worried about my current emotional/mental state and said that contact with her is probably too much right now.

I tend to agree. I've said for a long time it would be so much easier if she were dead. Which is a horrible thing to think - trust me, I know (though M said it's a very common thing for ACOA's to think of their alcoholic parent). So I decided that yes, cutting contact for now would be good for me.

Thinking about that conversation fills me with dread. Hubby suggested that I write her an email outlining everything and then have a very brief conversation with her. I convey everything more eloquently through the written word and I can avoid a confrontation that way. It'll still be hard because I know it will "break her heart" (those would be her words, not mine). And that will make me feel guilty (M says I need to get over my guilt). And my mom really isn't a bad person - she's not this abusive monster or anything. She's just an alcoholic ( a very functional one) who happens to be an extremely big trigger for me.

I really hope she doesn't take this too hard.

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.

OMG WTF and THANK YOU

This is a two part post because I feel like doing that. Deal with it.

Let me start by saying this: this past week (since last Friday) has been HELL. It has been complete and total emotional CHAOS. You may remember that I went of my Geodon last Thursday and that Friday started my living nightmare.

I worked last Saturday and Sunday. Saturday I spent most of my shift in our report room, in the corner, curled in a ball. Pretty great, yeah? I worked Sunday as well. And Sunday I was sent home early because I couldn't stop crying and was having suicidal ideation. Awesome, right? Monday and Tuesday were spent sobbing uncontrollably, wishing I would die or at least not exist anymore. And Wednesday . . . Wednesday was complete apathy. It was a chore to go to the bathroom. I spent most of the day laying on the couch staring at the ceiling. I felt nothing. I cared about nothing. Until that night when, again, I couldn't stop crying.

My mother-in-law watched my son Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday because I was such a mess. I couldn't cope taking care of myself, let alone taking care of my son.

And yesterday, Thursday, was a real shit show too. I worked and people could tell something was wrong. I was either given a wide berth or was asked repeatedly if I was okay. I broke down crying in the PACU talking to my friend and coworker. I had emailed my therapist the night before, telling him what was going on and he had emailed me back saying that he needed to see me, ASAP. He wanted me to come in at three. So I had to leave work. Which I felt absolutely horrible about. I mean, I had to leave on Sunday and now today too?? But I left, fully intending to come back after my session.

So I went to therapy, flat and withdrawn and miserable. M had me tell him about my week. He helped me vent. He had to help me because I was so depressed I was hardly saying anything. I got angry. I teared up but didn't cry (I wouldn't let myself). And then M sat on the floor and asked me what the fuck I was going to do. That's seriously what he said. I couldn't help but laugh. With that, he broke through. He told a corny joke. I told a better one. I made fun of how I'm living day by day and how every day I'm like "well today was horrible, maybe tomorrow will be better. Oh FUCK! Today is fucking horrible too!" But I was laughing as I was saying it. We talked about our dogs and I told him about how I talk for my dog and that she cusses a lot. I gave examples. He was laughing, I was laughing. It was exactly what I needed. He also told me I was not allowed to go back to work, but that I had to go home and relax.

And that's what I did. My hubby was at his mom's house having dinner (I got home at 1630) so I went to McDonald's and got cheeseburgers and ate them watching Ghost Hunters. My mood had gone from a 1-2 to a solid 3.5.

I missed 3 doses of Geodon and my life fell apart. Needless to say, I'm back on the Geodon but it's taking awhile for it to kick in. I've never done well with med changes and this was one of the worst (only the Latuda beat it - which sent me to the hospital in December). Slowly though, I'll get better.

And now, the thank you's.

First, my hubby. He's always there for me, encouraging me, trying to make me smile and laugh, comforting me, listening to me and even yelling at me when I need it. He's a trooper and I don't know how the hell he handles being with me. I wouldn't be here if not for him and my son. I love you more than you know. Thank you.

My friends, especially L. My true friends have helped me so much. Again, especially L who keeps my ass in line and is never afraid to speak her mind and put me in my place (which I totally need). They listen to me and support me. Thank you.

My coworkers, especially over the last week. I have been a handful. I have been a mess. I have been needy and had to go home early 2 days - 2 days that were terribly busy. But they covered for me. My NICU manager who set me straight and sent me home on Sunday. My assistant manager who let me leave yesterday and made me feel a little bit better for having to leave. To my friend B who was charge both those days and had to pick up my slack. And for everyone else for being understanding. Thank you.

My therapist. Therapy is always beneficial, but yesterday it was especially so. Thank you.

I also need to say thank you to my mother-in-law for keeping my son and giving me a reprieve. Thank you.

That's it. That's all I got right now. Boom.

My Therapist Made Me Mad

Let me start by saying this: I love my therapist. Love him. He's supported me, helped me and saved my life twice (literally - twice). He's funny, thoughtful and compassionate. He's everything a therapist should be.

But he said something at our last session (2 weeks ago) that made me mad. More than that - it pissed me right off and hurt me.

Just how much therapy do you need, Cami?

He was getting confrontational with me (which he does sometimes to make me really think) when that gem popped out. I was too flabbergasted to say anything at the time. As the week went on, I thought about it more and more and realized how much it affected me.

Why? Well, I've been seeing him for 2 years and I've just started figuring shit out. Finally I'm making great progress. I'm figuring this shit out people. I've been working hard. And that comment . . . it made me feel like a failure. Like I should have hit this point long ago.

I was furious over this, over how it made me feel. How could he say such a thing? I mulled it over and over in my mind, no doubt making it worse. I considered throwing in the towel. I told no one about it until last night when I broke down to my husband. He pointed out that M probably didn't mean anything like that, didn't mean to hurt me. And pointed out how I overreact emotionally. To everything. Which is true (part of bipolar, right?). Talking to him calmed me and made me feel a little better.

This morning I had therapy and planned on confronting M about his comment. And confront him I did. I told him exactly how it made me feel. I didn't raise my voice and I didn't cry. I was visibly angry and nervous and I was shaking (I don't do confrontations well).

I also cussed. Cause that's what I do when I'm upset. Apparently.

M apologized profusely. He said in all honestly he didn't remember saying that but he would never say anything to hurt me and was very sorry that he had. He thanked me for bringing it up and pointing it out to him - he wants feedback if he says something wrong or inappropriate. We talked at length about the situation and how I felt, what I needed, what I wanted.

And what I wanted was to be heard and to be validated. Which M did time and time again throughout our session. And I feel much better now. I feel at peace about it. He even said he wouldn't even think about discharging me a a patient - I need quite a bit more therapy (I'm crazy y'all! :P )

So in the end, I feel satisfied. I feel happy about it, I feel validated, I feel at peace. I feel that our relationship is actually better because of our honesty with each other.

So yeah. There ya go.

My horse, my hospitalization, and my meds

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

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

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

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

Or so I thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it did.

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

And was confirmed by Dr. S in the hospital. 

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

Latuda literally made me crazy.

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

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

I'm me. And that's huge.

Sunday

I'm drained right now. Utterly, emotionally drained. Yesterday was exceedingly hard mood wise. I was up and down and everywhere in between. And by "up, down and in between" I mean I was hypo for about an hour, numb for a few, depressed and crying, followed by more numbness, followed by depressed and crying. And angry and irritable the whole time.

Sounds fun, yeah?

So here's the thing - I'm pretty sure I'm rapid cycling. I'm pretty sure I have a bipolar chemical swing going on here. That this is a bipolar issue. Not a character issue. Not a "me" issue. I think my chemistry is a little outta whack and I'm along for the ride.

Which is never a fun ride people - this is the roller coaster from hell operated by the love child of Richard Simmons and the devil.

I mean look at that. Fuuuuuuuuuck. That's just not fair.

But I digress.

I tried to talk with J last night about this. I've been trying to hide my swings from him, from everyone because I'm so worried and convinced that everyone is going to think that I'm doing this to myself. That I'm self-sabotaging again. I'm all but paranoid about this. 

Let's be honest: I'm so paranoid about this that I've become hypervigilant of everything I'm feeling or thinking. However, even though I'm hypervigilant, I think I've been doing well at tempering that with letting go and not catastrophizing. Which is hard for me. Because I'm an idiot. 

So I've been writing in my mood journal, making note of my mood shifts, trying to find a theme or pattern or trigger. I have been thinking about this. Quite a bit. It's hard not to when your mind is constantly racing, constantly interjecting thoughts (it's gone back to the you're-a-failure-because-you're-not-better-and-everyone-would-be-happier-without-your-crazy-ass-around type of thoughts. The not good thoughts). It's hard not to when you're hypomanic and you have to be aware of where you are and what you're feeling and thinking so that you don't completely act out or act inappropriately or say inappropriate things. I mean, I will literally puke up some obscene line of nonsense and not even realize what I've said until I get nasty looks.

So I have to be aware. I have to think about my moods. 

But I don't have to overanalyze - one of my favorite pastimes. One that I've mastered expertly. A flawed coping mechanism that I rely way too heavily on. I've spent my entire life coddling this ability and fuck you I'm going to use it!

I shouldn't though.

J pointed out the whole "overanalyzing" thing to me. I got defensive and bitchy. I think all I am lately is defensive and bitchy and snippy and miserable to be around (oops - negative thinking there - another flawed coping mechanism. I seem to be full of those!). But I started thinking . . . maybe I am overanalyzing myself right now. I mean, I'm riding these emotional ups and downs, trying to stay in the moment, not catastrophize, and move on. And, I am doing that. But maybe not as well as I think I am. 

Maybe I'm overanalyzing a little.

Something else - the last couple of days where I've had some really bad lows (most notably yesterday), I find it difficult to bring myself back up. It really is easier for me to stay there because I know how to do that. I know how to feel like shit. I often think I deserve to feel that way.

Which I don't.

But it's easier to stay down than spend a ton of energy to pull myself back up again. So I've got that going against me. I'm starting to overanalyze and I'm finding it easier to completely give in to my lows. Not a great combo. But something I can change.

Let's do a quick recap: I'm rapid cycling. I'm having true bipolar controlled mood swings. I'm not doing as well as I could managing them thanks to flawed coping mechanisms. But I can change those coping mechanisms.

Which leads us to my next problem. How do I change those coping mechanisms? I've started that process. Working through ACOA and codependency. Reading the books, answering the questions, discussing with M. And that's awesome, right?

Right?

It is, if that wasn't the probable trigger of this current rapid cycling episode.

Wait, what?

Talking about ACOA and my alcoholic mom and codependency is VERY difficult. It's VERY emotionally taxing. It's distressing. So much so I've had some anxiety coupled with it. So much so I've had some nightmares about it. So much so that I want to blaze through everything and not even touch it at the same time. 

Blaze through it?

Yes. A handy nugget of info my best friend L gave to me last night (her and J are just full of these goddamned nuggets of wisdom that I should be figuring out on my own and I both hate them and love them for that). 

I'm diving headfirst, blindly, into a sea of nasty emotionally charged shit. I'm not even thinking - I'm just doing. I need to work through this so let's fucking do this! Baby steps need not apply. And, as L pointed out, I've built this shit up over the last 35 years, so how the hell am I going to work through it in a few weeks??

She also pointed out that I'm an idiot. A fact we already know, L. Bring something new to the table!

Recap time again:

1. I have bipolar disorder. Having bipolar disorder makes it difficult to regulate moods. When you're bipolar it's more difficult to cope with everyday issues. This makes it even more difficult to cope with anything that goes above and beyond this. Both bad and good.

2. I dove in head first trying to work through the pain and grief and anger and rage that took me a lifetime to acquire. I dove in expecting to blast through this in a matter of a few therapy sessions and I got in over my head. Now I'm drowning in the muck.

3. This (most likely) triggered my current rapid cycling episode. 

So now I'm rapid cycling. I'm bipolar and by nature have a difficult time coping with things. I'm trapped in the thick sludge that is my childhood and, even though I'm drowning, I'm still insisting that I can go deeper, faster. 

Is it any wonder my moods are everywhere? Is it any wonder that I'm having issues coping? Is it any wonder that I'm bitchy and snippy and sad and unstable? I'm denying everything above because it's easier to. It's more convenient to. I'm at that ledge where I can exercise all of my negative coping mechanisms, ignore logic, buck any help offered, and plummet. 

Or, I can take a step back, slow down, be kind to myself. I can allow myself to take breaks. I can take some pressure off of myself. I can take what I've learned so far and actually use it. I can listen to, and use J and L's advice without getting defensive and angry - despite what my sick brain thinks, they're actually not out to get me. 

That's the hard part though. Going against 35 years of flawed coping and thinking. And doing that while doing battle with my sick brain. 

But I can. I have people just as, or more, stubborn than me on my side.

Confusion, feels, and general badassery

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

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

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rough Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey! A real post!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

Stupid

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't know what to do.

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

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

But I still don't know what to do.

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

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

Chance

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

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

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

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

Today is a bad day

Today is a bad day and I don't really know why. There's no reason it should be. I have ideas, maybe, but I don't know.

Let's start with how I feel, shall we? Today I actually feel depressed. Before, I've just been feeling down, weird, withdrawn, annoyed . . . but not depressed. Today though . . .it's a different story. All the other feelings, they're still there, but now we've thrown in that other one. That one I've been trying to escape from for so long.

So why the change? Why is today so bad? I have only a few ideas, none of them very good. First: I saw M yesterday, and I brought him a copy of my previous post to read. We talked a lot about it and about how maybe I'm trying too hard to be perfect at getting better and still being a wife and mother and RN, etc. Which may be true. I have been trying hard to keep myself from getting worse through the mixed episode and this downward trend. And I haven't truly relaxed much. Not as much as I'd like to. All my days off are spent running around with appointments or errands, or playing with my son (not that that's bad, but it's nice to just sit and read). And then M said that he thinks I'm closer to full depression than I think. I disagreed with him. I'm managing, most days are okay (not great, and I have bad ones, but they're okay), I'm functional. But he said he's a little worried. And my thought with this is, if I had this notion in my head that M thinks I'm getting bad again, maybe it's becoming a self fulfilling prophecy. I don't really believe this, but it's something to think about.

Second: When J got home from work yesterday, we talked a little about my therapy session. He's very apathetic about everything pertaining to my mental health. At least that's how it seemed. Like he's given up and me being depressed is just the "new normal" (his words). This is how it is so why bother trying anything to fix it? He mentioned again how he thinks I latch onto something so that I become more depressed - that I'm doing this on purpose. And I'll be honest - that hurts. And then I start thinking, what happened? What event? What thing? What thought? What whatever that could possibly have started this? And I can't come up with anything. Nothing. But I'm wracking my brain for any explanation. Maybe J has an idea. And maybe he could share it with me. But I just don't know. And maybe this hurt and trying to figure this out is contributing to my mood today - I think this is probably true.

The good news, I guess, is that I got to come home early from work today. Which is a very good thing. I was not in the state of mind to be delivering babies. I'm distracted, irritable, withdrawn, annoyed, depressed, snippy, having trouble concentrating, and feel on the verge of tears.

But I'm home now, and I'm probably going to nap. It's much easier to sleep and ignore how I'm feeling. I don't feel like coping right now. I feel like hiding.

I had an epiphany. . .

Well, no, not really. Or maybe. I don't know.

Anyway, this always seems to happen late at night or insanely early in the morning when I'm in that not-quite-asleep-but-not-awake-either state of mind. Needless to say, I did not get up and write this then - shame, too, because I think it would come out more eloquently. But I'm going to do my best.

I've mentioned that I've felt "weird" lately. Not depressed, not me, not always okay, not sure what the hell is going on. Like I'm in this strange holding pattern and there's all these lights and sounds and whispers and I can't quite see the ground I'm flying over.

There's this part of me right now that doesn't care. About anything. She's very flippant and blase, short and to the point, quick to anger and annoy, and very much dissatisfied with everything. Dissatisfied with work, family, friends, coworkers, meds . . .everything. She's dissatisfied with and tired of everything. No longer does she want to do things right. No eating healthy. No going to the gym. No meds, no therapy, no mindfulness, no trying. Nothing. She doesn't care. She doesn't feel - other than anger, frustration, annoyance and hollowness - so how could she even begin to care?

Now this part of me, sadly, has been gaining a foot hold. She whispers seductively in my ear, her breath hot on my neck. It's so much easier not to care. When you don't care, you're not let down as much if things go wrong . . . .everyone else can handle it. You really don't have to worry about anything . . .no responsibility . . . Her words are poison, her breath acrid and stinging . . . but alluring. There's something sweet about the promise of not feeling and not caring . . . .

Except . . . .

Except for the fact that I do care. See, there's this other part of me - the part that's actually me - that's screaming out in tyranny over the false prophet gaining ground. NO! This is not who I am! I am a mother, wife, friend, nurse, artist, sister, daughter, idiotic goofball and I DO care! I DO feel!

And I want to care and feel and do things right. I want to be me.

And right now, these two are in a power struggle. Over me. Over who I am, really. And as they fight, what's left at the center is who I am now. The person who can feel, but doesn't all the time. The person who functions and copes and for all appearances looks in control and put together . . .but who is floating along the surface in limbo, barely participating in life. There are moments - sweet beautiful moments - where the real me shines through . . .but there are moments where the other one stands front and center, feeding me with lies.

Who I am right now, with this power struggle going on, is the girl who is withdrawn and quiet. She is often slow to smile and distances herself from others. She stays on the surface of conversations and offers little to them and often seems to be staring off in the distance, unsure of how to act or what to say. This is me right now.

I am the "me" of my childhood.


(now, I may elaborate more on the "me of my childhood" line later on - I'm still mulling this over in my mind - I have some interesting thoughts)