This really can't be as good as it gets

It's early - 6am - as I write this. I didn't sleep well and I've been up since 5. I've broken down sobbing once already, something I haven't done in probably 3 weeks. I don't know where I'm going with this post, I'm not sure what I'm going to get out.

Maybe some background:

It's been 2 weeks since my last ECT treatment (I go again on the 19th). The first couple of days after I felt pretty good, pretty "normal" (whatever that is). Then on Thursday the 8th I was manic. I started out hypomanic and was very giggly, fidgety, anxious, distractible, in therapy. But Thursday night . . . that's a whole other story. Hubs was very scared and was very close to taking me to the hospital. I was manic, plain and simple. He was texting my 2 best friends, asking what to do. Now, sadly, I don't have any more Xanax or Ativan that I can take to calm me down (I threw it all out 6 or 9 months ago as it was all at least a year past the expiration date). Hubs offered me Benadryl. Unbeknownst to him, I took an extra Seroquel (sorry I didn't tell you - I was kind of ashamed). It knocked me down enough that I could kind of sleep.

I remained hypomanic Friday through Monday, but it moved away from euphoria (I was crazy fucking euphoric that Thursday), and into the irritable kind. What does that look like? Racing thoughts, anxiety, panic attacks, hyper-irritability (I become a raging fucking bitch in seconds flat for no reason), and insomnia. Sounds fun, right?

Then Tuesday morning (this past Tuesday, 4 days ago) I woke up and I just knew. I knew my mood had shifted. The cloud of depression was over me again. I felt the familiar despair and hopelessness, but it was coupled with irritable hypomania. A mixed episode. Oh goody.

Mixed episodes are NOT fun. At all. They're also considered the most dangerous state to be in. Why? You have the depression, despair, and hopelessness coupled with impulsiveness. Not a good combo. Luckily, all I've done is cut.

I had therapy again this past Thursday (2 days ago) and M didn't even have to say a word to me to know something was very wrong. He made it abundantly clear that I need to talk to Dr. M about all of this when I see him for ECT on Monday.

But that terrifies me.

I mean, I know I need to let my psychiatrist know that hey: I spent a week hypomanic with a very scary-but-thankfully-short-lived manic day and now I have feelings of depression again. Of course he needs to know that. But what scares me is what he might say . . .

See, I'm worried that this is my new norm. That this is as good as it gets for me. I'm worried that Dr. M is going to tell me that I need more therapy, I need more DBT to learn how to better manage my moods. That there's nothing more he can do.

That really. Fucking. Terrifies me.

Because here's the thing: I am definitely way better than I was before starting ECT. I feel an improvement. People have pointed out that I seem better. I know it's helping. I don't want him to look at my symptoms and say, "well, it's obvious the ECT isn't helping, so we might as well stop." If it wasn't helping, like I know it is, I would be dead right now. That's the truth. It's a fucking shitty truth, but it's the truth. That's how I know it's helping. I'M FUCKING ALIVE, PEOPLE.

And here's the thing with therapy - I'm really kind of an expert now at using CBT and DBT techniques to help manage my mood. How do I know? I haven't been hospitalized in over a year. I'm functioning better than I was a year ago. Two years ago. Three years ago. And people have commented to this. I feel like I'm better in control. My fucking therapist has told me he sees a huge improvement in me.

I'M DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT.

I really, actually am.

And I'm so scared that I'm going to talk to Dr. M on Monday and he's going to wash his hands of me and I'm going to be left scrambling.

So then I overthink things and I think, wait - what if this is as good as it gets for me. That my stupid fucking bipolar truly is this difficult to manage and I need to work on accepting this so I can move on and learn to even better manage my symptoms. . .

But I don't want to settle. What if I give in and accept this as my lot in life when I could truly be doing so much better? I had a little over a week where I was enjoying myself. Where I felt happy. And I think I deserve to feel happy. I deserve more than just trying to make it through the day.

I really, truly, fucking hate bipolar disorder.

Well, it's Friday

I want to start by saying that I fucking HATE bipolar disorder. I really, really, fucking hate it. Like, a LOT.

I worked on Wednesday and it was a horrible day. It was busy, which was probably good, because it kept me distracted. My mood was awful. I was depressed, tired, full of despair, angry, and a host of other negative feelings. I cut (I have my scalpel in my locker). When I got home I lost it. And I lost it good. It was the ugly cry X10 and I wanted to die. Or, at the very least, I wanted to cut my arm to shreds. Hubs and kiddo had to work overtime pulling me from the brink. It was so bad.

Then yesterday, Thursday, I had a mandatory class for work. Knowing how my mood has been I was dreading it. But I ended up hypomanic. I was inappropriate and obnoxious. I was entertaining. I had fun. It was wonderful! It was glorious! Thank GOD!

After class I had therapy and we started trauma work. It went well. M gave me some ideas on how to manage my overreactive emotions. Yesterday was a good day. Hooray!! A good day!

And then there's today. A day that's really not a good day. Again I want to curl in a ball and not exist. I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to be okay. To interact with people. But I'm so fucking angry today. At everything. And I feel exhausted and overwhelmed. And depressed. And like everything is pointless and stupid. I'm trying to counter, trying to stay positive, trying to remain calm and destress . . .

I really hate this. Why can't I just be normal? Why can't I just be okay? Why do I have to fight depression so much? I don't want to feel everything so much.

I'm meeting a friend for coffee which means interaction which will exhaust me more. And I work tomorrow which will mean interaction which may exhaust me more.

Or maybe I'll be hypomanic again, who knows?

That's the thing though - I never know. And that's exhausting.

I have more I want to write I just don't have it in me right now.

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.

Frustrated

Well. I have 6 ECT treatments under my belt. And overall, I'm feeling better. Hubbs has noticed a positive change. Yaaaaaay.

But I'm fucking frustrated. Why? I seem to have slipped into a mixed state. Meaning? I'm hyperirritable. I'm a cranky-ass bitch. And I feel like I may snap - either go off or break down, I'm not sure which. This is a shitty feeling to have - especially after starting to feel better.

I'm trying to keep things in perspective.  First and foremost - you were close to killing yourself. ANY reprieve from feeling that shitty is to be cherished. Secondly, the majority of your days over the past 2 weeks were an improvement over where you had been.

I don't know what it is, really . . . .

I've been feeling better. I want to go do things. I want to start working out again, get in shape, eat healthier. I want to do more things with my family, participate in life again, go back to work. I'm excited to do this stuff . . .

And then this weekend hits. And my mood is crap. I'm irritable, bitchy. And today . . . ugh. The depression is trying to weasel its way back in. The despair. Everything is trying to come back. I'm on pinterest and see a post about cutting . . . I feel the draw, it's a trigger. Why? Why is it such a trigger? I'm feeling better . . .

I'm scared. I realize, I must be scared. I've struggled for so long, I don't know how to not struggle. I don't know how to not be depressed. And I realize, I don't want to struggle anymore - I don't want to have bad days. I think I equate bad days with failure. (God forbid I fail).

Again I have to remind myself that I have a chronic, lifelong, illness and that I get to battle my brain and emotions every. Single. Day.

And I don't fucking want to. I want the ECT to work and be done with it. I don't want to have to struggle every day. I just want to be fine. Yeah, I know: whoa is me, life is unfair. Stop with the pity party, right?

Well fuck you.

Thank  God I have therapy on Thursday.. Fuck.

It's been over a month . . .

. . . since I've posted. No real reason, other than I haven't felt like writing.

And now, right now, I have things I need to write, things I need to get out, and I don't feel like I can. I feel like I have all this crap built up and jumbled up inside me and it's not going to come out.

I was supposed to have therapy this Thursday 0 it's been 3 weeks since my last session (we're slowly spacing out appointments). M called me this morning to reschedule as he had a death in the family. Now it's another 2 weeks before I see him.

I have shit to talk about!

But now it will have to wait.

Despite being on the Lexapro, my depression is creeping back in. Despite my best efforts, it's creeping back in. See, I think my default is depression. I think it's my natural state - to be mildly depressed all the time. I seem to always have this melancholy air about me (unless I'm manic). I'm trying to change that. To actively change that.

How?

By forcing myself to be happy. By forcing interaction with people. For example, instead of ignoring people at work or hiding out to be alone, I'm actively seeking and initiating conversations. I'm forcing myself to sound upbeat and happy. I'm telling myself constantly that I'm having a good day, I feel good, I'm happy, isn't this wonderful? You can actually talk and joke and interact, etc . . . I'm obnoxious in the morning telling myself that I'll have a good day.

Fake it till you make it.

I'm hoping that holds true. That all this faking will eventually change my mindset from depressed to happy. Or at least okay.

And it's actually pretty exhausting. And I get overwhelmed in social settings or with too much stimulus. Which is stupid and frustrating.

The depression is still there, though. And it's been building strength. It's no where where it used to be. Definitely not. I'm not sobbing every day (although I have had several days where I did sob over the last month). I'm not having suicidal ideation - though I've had numerous days/times where I don't want to exist. Or I want to just sleep to escape. Or I have no idea how I can possibly make it through the day.

But I'm not nearly as bad as I was before the Lexapro, so I think it is helping. And I'm guessing that next week when I see Dr. M I'll go up to 20mg. And I'll keep plugging along with my cognitive stuff.

I have other stuff to write about, but I can't right now. Not up for it. I don't have my thoughts together. I'm going to spend the day painting horses.

Because horses.

Update

On Tuesday I saw my new pdoc, Dr. M. First impression: nice, personable, and no nonsense. He read through all of the info I brought him (my med history, illness history, hospitalizations, etc) and asked him why I had come to him.

Well, because the NP I was seeing told me she wasn't going to prescribe anything new, that meds won't help me, and that I'll be depressed and suicidal for the rest of my life and that I need to get used to it. Oh - and have you considered ECT?

His response? "Looking at your med history I can see why she would say that. She could have done so a little more tactfully . . . I think she's stumped. Have you considered ECT?"

"Um, no. It's probably not a good idea because of the short term memory loss, with me being a nurse and all."

He then went on to discuss ECT with me a little more in depth. He's been doing it for 20 years and has seen remarkable results with it. The vast majority of his patients have little to no issues with memory. The talk put me a little more at ease.

But I still really don't want ECT.

One thing he was willing to try was to start me on Lexapro (an antidepressant). Before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder I had been on Lexapro for depression. Any time we increased the dose, I would get hypomanic for a couple of weeks. The hypomania would slowly wear off and then I would be okay for awhile. But then the depression would creep back in. Dr. M is hoping that since the Lexapro made me hypomanic in the past, that it will lift the depression now.

And that's it. That's all he's willing to try. If the Lexapro doesn't help and I'm still having issues with depression, my next step is ECT. Because I'm doing all the other stuff (CBT, trauma work, DBT, Al-Anon . . .). There's not much left.

Fingers crossed that the Lexapro helps.

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.

Procrastinating . . .

That's what I'm doing right now. Procrastinating. Writing this post. I've been looking up random shit on the internet instead of writing. For a couple reasons, really. One, I'm depressed, and sometimes I want retail therapy when I'm depressed (hence looking up shit to buy on the internet), and two, I'm depressed and emotionally drained and writing is sometimes difficult when I'm like this.

Wait.

Let's go further back.

To Sunday. Sunday was a bad day for my depression. Very bad. The highlight of the day was seeing Big Hero 6 - a funny movie that was pretty epic.

Monday. Monday wasn't great. Had some suicidal ideation (it would be so easy to take all of my seroquel and just go to sleep . . . just sleep and not wake up . . .). There was that, and that's bad enough. But around 3 my tummy wasn't terribly happy with me. Around 5 it was kinda angry. And then after dinner my ENTIRE INSIDES waged war on me.

That's right. Food poisoning.

I was stationed on the toilet with the trash can in front of me for almost 2 hours. The stomach cramps left me moaning in pain, hyperventilating and both cursing God while begging him for mercy (you son of a BITCH PLEASE make this stop . . .). I stripped down to nothing because I was sweating so much from my misery. Hubby tried to help, which involved getting me some water and watching helplessly as my gut tried to kill me.

What made my shenanigans worse was that I couldn't take my meds. Nope. Even water was making my intestines angry again.

So I couldn't sleep. See, my body is now wholly dependent on seroquel for sleep. Stupid, right? And my stomach was churning and gurgling and angry and nauseous . . .

But by 12:30am I couldn't take it anymore. I got up, had a slice of bread, and took one seroquel (I usually take 2). I figured, hopefully one won't upset my stomach as much as two, and it should be enough to go to sleep.

Nope.

Too little too late I guess. Or my tummy issues were enough that I wouldn't sleep no matter what. I finally fell asleep around 3:30 and promptly woke up at 5. Yay! So much sleep!

I had therapy at 8:30 yesterday morning. I'm depressed, my stomach is still all wonky, I haven't had coffee thanks to stomach wonkiness, I'm tired, and now I have therapy. It was a long session. And exhausting (it would have been exhausting even if I had gotten sleep).

We're trying to figure out the depression thing and M has a way of challenging me and my thinking. Which is good. That's what he's supposed to do. So I'm telling him how I have an appointment with a new psychiatrist on the 27th, that I'm no longer going to see Mary. "And so you'll make sure to tell this new psychiatrist that if he says something you don't like, he'll be fired too," M quipped. I glared at him. "No. That's not what I'm doing", I growled. "Chika has always been very business and short and cold. Mary, the first time I saw her, said that I didn't have to be depressed all the time. That we should be able to manage the depression so that I could actually feel good. And NOW she tells me that meds won't help and that I need to figure out how to deal with feeling suicidal every day. That is NOT OKAY in my book!" I almost spit at him. "Even if that's what you believe, you don't tell your depressed, suicidal patient that."

I lean back against the couch. I didn't realize I had crouched forward, wringing my hands. "I've been seeing them since June. I've given them a fair shot. They took 2 months to get my med prescriptions straight and their secretaries are horrible. And good luck getting seen if you have an emergency - they already double book appointments." M nods. "I just want to make sure you have realistic expectations," he says.

Yeah, well, I probably don't.

"I don't know what to do med wise," I say. "See, I've been doing 'research'", I make air quotes, "on what was going on this past summer when I was the most stable. I was stable when on geodon and brintellix. But we had to stop the brintellix because of the anxiety and then switched from geodon to seroquel to try and help the depression. Well, there's no difference in my mood between being on 50mg of seroquel vs 600mg - except for more pronounced side effects. So what's the point of that? There's no point!" I stop a moment, rubbing my temples. Everything is so muddled. "My thinking is slow. I'm sorry." I wait a minute. My thinking is slow, but my thoughts are racing. So many things I want to say but they're not coming out. "Okay, so Mary had mentioned that I need to do trauma work, right? And so did the doc in Boston. Okay. Trauma work. We've been doing trauma work almost every week since the middle of June. We've done that. We went over my past relationship and rape almost 2 years ago and I'm comfortable with that. We've been going over the ACOA stuff for a while now. I'm going to Al-Anon. I'm doing stuff in workbooks on my own. And honestly? If you were to say, right now, what do yo need to say about your mom, I would have no idea what to say. I have no idea what more to talk about. We went to her house Christmas Eve morning and it was good. I've been texting her here and there and it's been good. I'm not feeling triggered by that like I used to be. I've invited her and her boyfriend over for dinner. She's respecting my boundaries and I feel good about it. Is there more stuff to work through? Yeah, there probably is. But I don't know what it is until it punches me in the face, I guess. Point is, I don't know what more to say, I'm comfortable with her, I'm not getting triggered like I was . . . so what then? What do we do when this happens? She says trauma work but I don't know what more to do with trauma work." Big sigh. I don't know how much of that makes sense.

"That was really nice," M remarks. "That shows how much progress you really have made. You've kind of come full circle and you're recognizing it. You have done a lot of work. You've made a ton of progress. You really are exceptional."

I blush. "I wouldn't say that . . ." Truthfully? I have done the work. I've been in therapy for 3 years. Weekly sessions almost the entire time. And I have learned a lot. I recognize me errors of thinking and then stop and replace them with positive things. I'm doing much better at mindfulness - being present (I'm not great, not perfect most of the time, but I try all the time). I'm truly taking things one day at a time. I'm recognizing triggers and either avoiding or minimizing them. I'm trying not to isolate. I do positive readings, track my moods via chart and mood diary, take my meds, go to therapy, keep a regular sleep routine, am cleaning up my diet, trying to get back into exercise . . . I'm not exceptional, no, but I'm doing the fucking work, that's for sure.

"No, Cami, you are. And with all of this, maybe this depression is a bipolar chemical thing."

I nod. I'm hoping it's a bipolar chemical thing. It has to be a bipolar chemical thing. Why? Because look at all the shit I've done. All the shit I'm constantly doing. If this isn't chemical? Then what the fuck else am I supposed to DO??? Seriously. There's not much more I can do. I'm trying a DBT group. I met with the therapist who runs the group yesterday and my first session is next Monday. It meets every other Monday. So there's that. I guess I can always try neurofeedback (but there aren't any good studies on it, it's expensive, and insurance doesn't cover it). Then there's good 'ol ECT. Which is not even choice for me.

Truth is, I'm doing everything I can. So if this new psychiatrist tells me that changing my meds, in what ever way, is not going to help . . . I have no idea what to do. Because I'm doing everything I can already.

M wanted me to describe an acceptable level of functioning for me. Here it is: I would like to be able to enjoy my husband and son. I would like to enjoy their company and doing things with them. I would like do enjoy doing things. I would like to not have suicidal ideation every day. I would like to not hate my job.  I think that's pretty reasonable. I think that's pretty realistic. M thinks so too.

And I know that that's not a destination. I know it's a journey, something M always points out. I know that I'll always have to manage my moods and triggers and meds. I get that, I really do. I hate it, but I get it. It's a lifelong journey. I just don't think I should have to spend so much of it so depressed that I want to die. Is that so much to ask?



I know I've had a lot of posts about this lately. It's been bugging me. Trying to figure out what is going on and how to best handle it. I don't know what is bipolar or PTSD or situational or environmental . . . I don't know. I just want to feel better.

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.

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.

Some thoughts on stability . . .

It's awesome.

That's it.

Nothing more to see here.

Okay, there is.

If you've been following this blog at all, you know how much shit I've gone through. You know about my total of 4 hospitalizations. My self harm (my arm looks like shit, by the way). My very real brush with death. You know about how every single day of my life is a struggle against my brain. And there are some things that you don't know about - the things that I don't share here because they're too personal or awful or embarrassing.

Which is why this post is kinda special.

Because I finally feel stable. More than just stable - I feel good. I feel like me. I'm actually feeling happy and joyful and upbeat and positive. I'm enjoying life.

I'm enjoying life.

That's huge, y'all. I have hated life for the last 2.5 years. Hated it. I knew for certain that I would die by my own hand - it was just a matter of when (and that almost happened the end of May).

But now . . . Stability. Happiness. Hope.

I think there's a couple of reasons for this. First and foremost, Brintellix. A brand-spanking new antidepressant that I've been on for 2.5 weeks. The first week and a half sucked. Royally. Mood swings and uncontrolled rage. But then something magical happened: it worked. I started feeling better. The anger lessened. My mood improved. I started feeling like me. Me.

And second, trauma work. As much as trauma work sucks (and it does suck), it's helping. I'm identifying triggers, working past them, learning coping skills, and learning forgiveness.

These two things are feeding off each other and I'm continuing to improve. That's not to say I don't have my moments - I'm still bipolar after all and my mood can change in an instant - but I'm definitely coping with that more effectively to where it's not debilitating like it was before.

This all feels so very strange and wonderful. I honestly never thought I'd reach this point. I'm so glad I did.

I officially started trauma work

And it kinda sucks. And by "kinda sucks" I mean it's pretty awful and I'm not looking forward to this every week.

But it has to be done.

Today was my first full session of trauma work. It started with a brief recap of my past week and a half (which has been damn crappy with break downs, self harm, and tons of icky feels). Then M said, bluntly, "So let's talk about your childhood". I didn't know where to start. There's so much and it's overwhelming.

I started with my mom's fractured ankle. She fractured her ankle last Friday night falling down her stairs (I can only assume she had been drinking - she's done this before). I took her to the orthopedist yesterday and it turns out she needs surgery and can't drive for 6 weeks. Which means I'll be helping her around. Which means I have to have more interaction with her than I want to. Which raises my anxiety level and icky feels and makes me angry and uncomfortable.

I had a crap day yesterday. I only got one hour of sleep and I was in a foul mood. Then the above happened. I spent most of the afternoon crying uncontrollably. I wan't so badly to self harm. I had decided that anytime I feel like self harming I'd draw a butterfly on my arm instead. I ended up with 9 butterflies yesterday. I shredded 2 lawn chairs and threw them across the yard. I sat outside listening to music while it sprinkled on me (I was hoping for a downpour) trying to calm down, crying off and on.

And then something dawned on me. I started thinking that I was having a PTSD overreaction to something. Namely, having to help my mom out was putting me in the position of caretaker to her - the role I played growing up, taking care of her when she was drunk. Even though the situation for helping her out is different, emotionally I'm going back to when I was little. I'm dealing with childhood feels.

I told M this and he agreed that it was very probable that this is what was going on yesterday. It was a good segway into our discussion. Now, I'm not going to go into detail about what all was said. Not publicly. I'll probably write about it separately as I try to process everything.

One thing that did happen during therapy is that I emotionally shut down. I became guarded. I didn't want icky feels to flood me. This is something that I shouldn't do - I need to feel these things in order to process them, and I shut down. I'll be trying not to do that next week. I think I just had such a crappy week with feels and crying and such a horrible day yesterday with feels and crying that I couldn't take it today. So I shut down.

We spent our last 10-15 minutes talking about horses and horseback riding (I went riding last Saturday). It was a good way to decompress and try to release some of the icky feels.

This is hard, y'all. Trauma work sucks. I know it's necessary and that's fine - we'll muddle through as best we can. And hopefully I won't get thrown into a mood episode in the process.

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.

Having some icky feels

Yep. Icky feels. I fucking hate icky feels. There are several things going on, all of which are contributing to my current state of being.

First, the Denver Comic Con was this past weekend. Hubby and I dress up, we kinda go all out. And in Cons past I've enjoyed this and have had a good time. Not the case this weekend. I spent pretty much the entire time emotionally numb. Just . . . numb. I was just kinda there. I didn't feel anything. Except when I was hyper irritable. I did have that. How fun. I was worried I was going to have issues with anxiety, but, save for one panic attack, I was okay on that front. Little things I guess . . .

Second, I'm kind of a shitty wife. And by "kind of", I mean I've been a shitty wife. Why? Well, I have had lots of shit going on mentally/emotionally the past several months and I've let it overtake me. I've become a bit self-centered. I've been very difficult to be around. And to top things off, I forgot that yesterday was father's day. Which hurt my hubby. We typically don't do gifts, but I failed to even say Happy Father's Day until I heard something on the radio about it. Oops. I feel terrible about this. I was going to write something up last night that explained things, that let him know how much I appreciate him.

But nothing came out. Not because I couldn't think of things, but because I couldn't put it into words. I felt horrible. I hurt his feelings. After everything he does for me, I couldn't even make one small acknowledgement of how amazing he is. Which made me realize that I have, indeed, been self-centered and have put my family and everything else on the back burner. Which compounded my feeling horrible but also brought up anger. Anger at what I've been doing, and anger at hubby because he's making me aware of my shortcomings.

Now, don't get me wrong, none of that is his fault, but it's what I felt and was why I couldn't write anything. So instead, I tried in vain to verbalize my appreciation and apology, tearing up and trying desperately not to. (which, hubs, I love you more than anything and I still don't know how you put up with my crazy ass).

This whole situation led to something else - me trying not to catastrophize the situation. Something I'm an expert at and something that is exceedingly detrimental to my emotional well being. So I rationalized, told myself focusing on my shortcomings would do me no good and that I needed to focus on not doing this again. Crisis averted.

Or so I thought.

This morning my icky feels were worse and I felt very self destructive. So much so that I burnt myself with a lighter. Part in punishment, part out of anger/frustration/confusion/fear. I'm not entirely sure why I did it, just that I did it and it helped very briefly. I actually wanted to be more destructive, but I at least stopped myself from doing more.

Third, I had therapy this morning. M and I went over my report from Boston (it came in and Dr. Schulman change my diagnosis back to Bipolar 2 - make up your mind!). So we talked about that and discussed my weekend, lack of emotion, the hubby situation, and my burning myself (M said he'd smack me if I did it again - I wouldn't put it past him). It was all very tense for me and not the easiest to talk about.

And then . . . and then we spent the last 20 minutes or so discussing how we were going to go about all of the trauma work that needs to be done. This is very treacherous, complicated terrain, and we have to be very careful lest we send me into another major mood episode. We agreed that the most troublesome area is my ACOA/alcoholic upbringing/mommy issues - especially since my mom is alive and I have a very strained relationship with her (and she wants desperately to be a part of my life). He asked when I last spoke with her (which was last Tuesday, after Boston) and just talking about that phone call made me tense, apprehensive, and brought up lots of nasty feels. M actually specializes in trauma (works very closely with the military and local law enforcement here) and redirected and "reset" me before I left. It was very clever, actually.

I still have all these icky feels though. From everything mentioned above. I'm trying not to dwell, not catastrophize, not ruminate, not fortune tell - all of the things that I automatically do. Which is hard and puts a lot of strain on me. I'm trying to redirect myself like M did in therapy. I'm going to read today so that I can escape my own mind for a bit. I'm not allowed to do any ACOA/codependency related stuff on my own - only during actual therapy (M doesn't think I'll be able to handle it right now and I tend to agree with him). So reading. And probably sketching. I'm forcing myself to sketch every day in hopes that I'll get my muse/inspiration/creativity back (since the Geodon stole it away).

Stupid fucking icky feels.  

Back from Boston

And can I just say "wow". It was a whirlwind of a trip - we were only in Boston for around 24 hours. But I learned quite a bit - and can hopefully move forward in my recovery.

I'm still processing everything I was told, and probably will be for some time. A bomb of knowledge was dropped on me and, while some of it is just speculation, it's a lot for me to think about.

Let's start with this: I saw Dr. Brian Schulman at the Bipolar Clinic and Research Program at Mass General. I was sent to see him as a "second opinion". Basically, my psych doc (pdoc) has no idea what to do with me so he wanted me to see the big dogs - the guys who work only with bipolar patients. The appointment was 2 hours long and started with a thorough health and mental history (hubby was not in the office for most of the visit - only for about 30 min). He had me explain things about my past (my upbringing in an alcoholic home, my abusive ex, my father's death) in way more detail than anyone other than my therapist. He had me explain what my mania and depression were like, going over the big episodes and as many of the little ones as seemed relevant.

This lasted the first hour.

We spent only around 10-15 minutes going over meds - what I'm on currently (which he said is a good combo and he wouldn't change it) and what I've previously taken. My reaction to 2 meds (Latuda and Depakote) is highly unusual.

But we all knew that I was unusual.

And then the meat. Then he got to work. He pointed out that the most recent 2 diagnoses that I have been given (rapid cycling bipolar 2 and rapid cycling bipolar 1 with psychotic features) sent up a red flag. See, rapid cycling - true rapid cycling - is rare. (Rapid cycling is defined as having at least 4 distinct mood episodes in a year - each episode lasting at least 2 weeks). He said I didn't actually fit this criteria (while I've been told by my current pdoc, my new pdoc, my second opinion pdoc in Pueblo, and the docs at the hospital that I am rapid cycling). He said that since my hypomanic and mixed states (except for one in October/November 2013) don't typically last for more than a few days, they can't be considered a major mood episode. Hence, I'm not truly rapid cycling.

He told me that 9/10 times when someone comes to him with a "rapid cycling" diagnosis, something else is going on too.

My something else?

Chronic PTSD.

From my childhood. From being raised in an unpredictable, often unstable home with my mom. From my dad, who was my safety net, my confidant, and my strength, dying so young (he was 43 and died from lung cancer). From being in an abusive relationship. From being an RN (yeah - RNs actually build up chronic PTSD - we see some fucked up shit, y'all).

Dr. Schulman said that people with chronic PTSD react differently than say a war veteran with PTSD or a one time rape victim with PTSD. With the acute PTSD, you think of flashbacks, nightmares, all of that stuff. Not so with chronic. We don't adhere to the typical fight or flight - instead, we freeze. We either become numb, or we overreact emotionally.

Now, think about this. I have bipolar disorder. A mood disorder. Characterized by exaggerated moods. And chronic PTSD, in which I overreact emotionally. Let that sink in. I did.

Dr. Schulman explained that the 2 almost feed off each other and it's hard to tell which is which - which mood change that I have is from the bipolar and which is from the PTSD. He said that in the brief time he'd talked to me he saw only 2 "true" manic episodes (meaning they lasted 2 weeks or longer) - one in college and my one in October/November 2013 (this alone earns me a Bipolar 1 diagnosis). My hypomanic episodes (which can last hours to a day or two) could be bipolar mood shifts or PTSD overreactions. Or both - acting off one another.

So, in other words, it's complicated.

My medications, he explained, do an amazing job at warding off the big bipolar mood swings - the true mania and sometimes major depression - but do nothing for the little swings. Which is why changing medications all the time trying to manage these swings is ineffective (and mimics the unpredictable environment I was raised in, he pointed out, which can trigger more cycling).

We've been doing everything ass backwards it would seem.

So what helps these little swings? Psychotherapy. He said I had a lot of work to do in that area, in going over my past. Which, I know. We've spent so much time in therapy doing damage control and crisis intervention that we haven't spent much time delving into my past. I wouldn't even know where to start.

Now, there's the depressive side to this too, we can't forget that (especially since that's what I struggle with). I've had depression for as long as I can remember - 4th or 5th grade at least. And I always seem to have this underling depression, this black void in me that never goes away. Dr. Schulman believes that I also have Major Depressive Disorder - and that it's difficult to tell which depression is bipolar related, and which is depressive disorder related. So the depression is harder to treat. Most likely the constant underlying depression is depressive disorder and my more acute, suicidal depressions are bipolar related. But there's no way to know for sure.

Listening to all of this just kinda . . . clicked. It made sense to me. It seems very plausible. Dr. Schulman pointed out that some of this was speculation, based on the short amount of time we had to meet and talk, but that that was his professional opinion. Does that mean that this is a set-in-stone diagnosis/treatment plan? No. It most definitely isn't. This is another set of eyes taking a fresh look at my situation. This set of eyes just happens to be from a bipolar specialist. And what he said did make sense to me.

So I'm left with this - my diagnoses:
1. Bipolar 1
2. Major Depressive Disorder
3. Chronic PTSD

And work. I have a lot of work to do now. If Dr. Schulman is correct about my smaller swings, then it's all on me to manage them. And I've been doing a piss poor job at that because it's fucking hard, y'all. My mood swings, whether bipolar, PTSD related, or both, are unpredictable and difficult for me to manage - if it were easy, why the hell would I be going through everything I've been going through?

But hearing this, that all these little swings are most likely up to me to figure out and will probably never go away . . . that's fucking daunting. You kinda hold out hope that the right med combo will make it all better - and that's just not going to happen. He warned me that the weight of this would hit me - and might hit me hard. He even wanted to make sure I was seeing my therapist this week because of this. He told me to warn my hubby about it.

As I write this, I feel mostly numb. Mostly. Given the right trigger, I'd break down sobbing. I am so grateful that I had the opportunity to see Dr. Schulman. His opinion is by far the most different from any that I've received, but also the most comprehensive - it seems to take in the whole picture, whereas others are just about the meds.

At any rate, I have more of something that I've been lacking for awhile now. . .

Hope.

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.

It's been awhile

So yeah. It's been awhile since my last post and quite a bit has happened. Let's see, last post was about depression coming back.

And that is still the case I'm afraid. But I also have this really awesome thing called anxiety. And it's been bad. I have panic attacks when I try and sleep. At first it was just with trying to nap. Then it started with going to bed at night. Racing heart, feeling of impending doom, shakiness, panic. It happens at random times throughout the day too. Sometimes it's constant throughout the day.

Hell, I'm almost in a full panic attack right now, writing this.

I've had irritability and insomnia - to the point where I've been taking klonopin to sleep.

I have all the symptoms of a mixed episode starting. At first I was thinking it might be caused by Deplin - a folic acid supplement that my psych doc put me on. I found one site that listed insomnia, irritability and anxiety as side effects. But I looked it up on my work's fancy info site and it seems that this is not the case (at least for 99% of people - who knows, maybe I'm that 1%). It can cause acne though - which has gotten horrifically bad. So I stopped taking the Deplin, just in case.

The anxiety and irritability continues (the insomnia has gotten better, thank God).

I've had some other issues (that I won't discuss here) which has led to my psych doc having me increase my geodon back up to 80mg - which I really do not want to do (last night was my first increased dose and I certainly feel the effects today - namely fatigue and grogginess). He's also considering starting me on Depakote, which we'll discuss when I see him on Monday (I have strong reservations about going on this drug because of the side effects). He's also started the process of trying to get me seen by the mood experts at Mass General in Boston. I want to go so badly but I'm not terribly hopeful that it will happen.

I've taken to rating my mood on a scale from 1-10, and most days it's around a 3. I'd like it around a 6. I've had some 2's, and I've had a few 4's as well. But, still pretty low. And did I mention anxiety? And irritability? Oh I have? Okay.

What else . . . I was in on a code on a baby and the baby died. This was my first infant death (though I've coded many babies). I took it pretty hard - harder than I thought I would. So hard, even, that my brain went into overdrive giving me full blown depression with suicidal ideation for a day. And then - poof - gone. My brain does not handle stress well at all apparently.

Speaking of stress, I still get overwhelmed at work. I'm keeping my shit together just fine, I just feel overwhelmed and exhausted after working. And during working. Especially since almost every day I've worked we've done 8-10 deliveries. So crazy busy. But I'm handling it better than I was even a month ago, which makes me feel hopeful that at some point I'll be able to go back to full time. Probably not anytime soon, but at some point (I still have a hard time handling two days a week - let alone 3 right now). But I'll get there.

And lastly, my son has been having some anxiety issues of his own - mostly about something happening to my hubby or I (or his uncle). This has been going on for weeks. A few days ago he asked me tons of questions about my bipolar (not that he called it that - he's 7). Wanting to know why I act the way I do, why do I get angry or cry for no reason, why am I sad, why doesn't my brain work right, why do I have to take so many pills, will I always be like this. That kinda stuff. And he made a request that actually kinda hurt - he asked to see a therapist. He wants to "talk to someone about this like you do". It broke my heart a little because I know that quite a bit of his anxiety is cause by my instability. But I'll find a child therapist for him so he can talk - as much as he needs to. Maybe it's only one session. Maybe it's several. I don't know.

Alright. I've written enough for now. A brief overview of what the hell has been going on.

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.

Fuck you, self

I'm sitting here very restless but very apathetic. There is a torrent of thoughts racing through my mind, none of them good. I hate this feeling. This feeling of needing to do something, anything, but having no idea what to do. But of also not caring enough to even try. Of knowing that everything you do is pointless so there's no sense in doing anything.

I have still been down. I have still felt empty and lost and confused. I have still been horribly withdrawn and, early this morning, I was unaware of this fact. I felt somewhat okay this morning. Sure, maybe I was a little down. Maybe I was feeling a little empty, even a little irritated, but I was okay, right?

Until my best friend, L, came over. Then, I realized, just how not okay I was. I was acutely aware of how down I was feeling. I was acutely aware of how withdrawn I still am (she even made mention of it). Truth be told, I didn't want to talk, I didn't want her company, I didn't want anything except to disappear.

But I couldn't disappear. I couldn't even go on a drive and smoke. See, my son is home sick from school. Can't really take him around with me on a self destructive spree.

So I painted/drew with him and then read while he played games on his kindle.

And I had bad thoughts.

I thought about taking pills. I needed to escape what I was feeling and taking pills seemed like a viable option. But everything I have will sedate me. Which is fine if it only did that for a few hours but the last time I tried it I was in and out of consciousness for a day and a half. I need uppers. I have no uppers. I need percocet so I can feel high. I have no percocet.

So then I thought about alcohol. But the problem with that is drinking with my meds. I can't even take a fucking Benadryl with my meds without being so knocked out the next morning that I can't function. I have therapy in the morning! I have to be functional!

I thought about stopping all of my meds. So that I can maybe be manic. Get the high of mania - the euphoria, energy, on top of the world feeling coupled with invincibility. But that would prove highly destructive.

I'm considering anorexia. I'm not even fucking joking. A slow form of self harm that, hey - will maybe make me look good! Weight loss isn't all bad!

I want to destroy things but I don't have the energy. I want to punch but in order to be satisfied I need to hurt myself.

And I think about all of these things, these self destructive things, and I can't help but wonder if this is all just me trying to self sabotage. I'm trying to make my situation worse. Bring about crisis. Because we all know that I don't seem to function without some form of motherfucking crisis.

I know this. And I'm doing everything to try and counter this thinking. It's not healthy. I'm not healthy. But no matter how hard I try and counter, it doesn't change the fact that the feelings are there. That the thoughts are there. They're FUCKING THERE and nothing I do seems to work!

What the hell am I supposed to do? I see what I'm doing. I know what I'm doing. It's there, right in front of me. And still it happens. And I try, and right now I seem to be failing. I'm too much for myself. I can't counter my own sick mind and I'm going to make things worse.

What. The fuck. Do I do?