I don't even know what I'm feeling anymore . . .

The last month has been exhausting, confusing. A cyclone of emotions that pull and tear at me, stripping me down to a blank husk of nothing. I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do. I don't even know what I feel anymore. . .

An overdose, an ER visit, nearly shattering my hand by putting it through the stone tile of my fireplace . . . Things I never thought would happen, places I never thought I'd arrive at . . . And I'm scared and I'm confused. And I don't know what to do.

I'm trying not to catastrophize but I'm also trying not to minimize what's happened. I'm trying to stay positive and derail negative thoughts. And all of this is so tiring. And I'm tired of fighting. And when you've felt so bad and so out of control for so long (over a year now), it's hard to see things ever getting better.

And still I push on. There's nothing else I can do. Regardless of how tired I am or how hopeless I feel or how badly I want to throw in the towel . . . I have to push on - my hubby and son are depending on me - they need me to push on.

I take things minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. I have to stay in the moment or I risk losing everything. I'm pushing on in hopes of better times, of stability, and of actually being able to feel again.

I don't even . . .

This first writing I wrote today. It explains yesterday a little, which was a VERY bad day. The section underneath, I had actually written yesterday morning but never published. I was going to write more to it but I wanted to shower before the dish network guys came over to install dish. And after my shower, that's when I lost it.

I won't use any trigger words - or at least I'll try not to. 

Yesterday was very bad. I broke down completely - crying harder than I think I ever have, VERY bad thoughts about hurting myself and worse. Very ACTIVE thoughts. I put my fist through the stone tile of our outdoor fireplace - surprisingly, I didn't fracture anything.

Instead of doing more, I was smart for once. I called my therapist and then my husband. My hubby picked up our son from school, came home and took me to the ER. That was the first time EVER I've gone to the hospital for wanting to do more than hurt myself. 

 And it was demoralizing. Put in a room with only a bed and a blanket. Huge window on the door and no way to open it from the inside. They took all of my clothes and belongings except for my chapstick and phone - and I was only allowed to keep them as long as my hubby was there. The nurse had to pull everything out of the bathroom and stand in there with me if I had to pee. I had a guard watching me at all times - I had to be in his view constantly. And keep in mind - this is the ER at the hospital I work at (I'm an RN), and I know these people. That was the worst part.

The ER doc was a dick and you could tell that he couldn't give a shit about what was going on. He just had to do his intake, order labs and a urine, and get the psychologist down to see me. And the faster he could do that and get outta there, the better. The psychologist was very nice, understanding and straight forward. I liked her. She talked to me alone for awhile and then both me and my hubby together. We made a plan so that I didn't have to be hospitalized (I was refusing that anyway).

I'm home now, and I'm safe. I feel a little better. I took a Nuvigil this morning (my "happy" pill - my upper), and it's helping. I'm still depressed, I still feel like crap - but I'm better than yesterday. I was started on Prozac last week and hopefully that will help. My primary doc and I are adjusting my thyroid meds again as I am once again hypothyroid (which might be the explanation of this horrid downward spiral over the last month). So, we'll see.

This is just all so frustrating. I don't seem to be getting better and I know it takes time to get the meds right, and life factors right . . .but it's so frustrating. We've been trying for a year now and I'm not much better. Hopefully it will change.

As long as I'm alive, I have hope. 

This part starts what I wrote yesterday morning and explains how I've been feeling.

It's amazing that I'm even writing. I don't feel like writing. I don't feel like doing anything. I don't feel.

I don't feel. Hardly anything. Only emptiness, sorrow, hopelessness. I feel my depression. I feel the hurt and pain. I feel a hollow void. Nothingness. I'm flat. A shell. A husk. I'm no longer me. I don't care. I can't. I don't have enough in me to care.

Joy and happiness elude me. No contentment. No feelings of pride or warmth. No feelings of love. I look at my son, and I love him, with all my heart. But I don't feel it.

 Do you know how FUCKING SHITTY IT IS TO NOT FEEL THAT WARMTH AND LOVE FOR YOUR OWN SON? YOUR OWN HUSBAND?

I doubt it.

And this is the hardest thing I've ever experienced. I feel so horrible for it. Because I love them both so much and they're the only reason I'm still alive. If I didn't have them, if I lost them, I would kill myself. No questions asked.

Why. . . .

I'm not as depressed as I was 2 days ago . . .thank God for that. I'm not suicidal (though I still have the thoughts) . . .thank God for that. I want to hurt myself (hurt myself bad), but I haven't . . .thank God for that. I have an amazing hubby and son who love me and stand by me . . .thank God for that.

With all of these things to be thankful for, and countless others, why do I still feel like crap? I'm completely empty. Devoid of any feeling. I can't feel joy or happiness or love. All I am is flat and emotionless, save for irritability and anger. And sadness. I can feel sadness. And loss. And frustration. And hopelessness. But as for anything positive . . .the best I can do is to feel nothing.

We went horseback riding today. Something that I love. I love horses. Always have and I've always wanted to own horses. So anytime I can actually go riding . . .well, that's awesome! And so today we went because I thought it would lift my mood. It was supposed to lift my mood. And while I enjoyed my ride, it wasn't as pleasurable as it should have been, as it's been in the past. I was uncharacteristically  quiet and withdrawn. I didn't want to talk - I almost couldn't talk. I just couldn't feel. I was just . . .empty.

And this is horrible. It's a horrible feeling. My son gives me a huge hug and tells me he loves me and I say it back . . .but I feel hollow. Fake. I watch him play or act silly and I fake my smile. I put on my mask for him because I don't want him to know how sick his mommy is. I feel guilty enough that I don't feel what I think I should.

Here's where I'm stuck. Here's where I don't know what to do. I've been told that this will take time. And I get that. But it's been a year. And it's the same cycle. And it's frustrating. And I want to be done with it. And I need more help than I ask for . . .and I still don't want to ask. Because it's an endless cycle that's tiring for everyone and it's the same thing over and over and it doesn't change.

And so I still don't ask.

Almost hospitalized

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.....

I feel like I'm slowly self destructing.

Fweeeeeeee

I don't even know what that title means . . .

I'm trying not to write depressing vent posts - at least not too often. I've been slacking in my posts recently as well. Stuff going on, stuff that I'm not sure I want to share here. So let's just say that I've been mentally and emotionally drained. And so very tired. I haven't been sleeping well the past week. At all. So much on my mind.

I'm still battling my depression, and it's been worse lately. I'm not catastropizing it, I'm trying to ignore it and move on. I'm trying to stay positive and I'm changing things that I'm doing (for example, I'm not painting anymore of my Bipolar Chronicles paintings unless they're not dark or focused on suicide). Hopefully that will help stop the suicidal thoughts. I know I'll still get ideas for new paintings - and I'll write them down and then not paint them. I'm going to sew again and try my hand a acrylic painting (I've always done watercolor).

I'm frustrated, to say the least. I've taken a nuvigil (my "upper") every day this last week and I'm still below the surface. I'm still drowning. I'm functional, yes. I can fool people into thinking that I'm doing well, yes. But I certainly don't feel that way. I'm empty and withdrawn and a shell. I want to stay away from everyone. I want to be alone. But I'm ignoring this (or at least trying to), and forcing myself to stay busy, and do things, and interact with people.

I made a bad decision last Friday night (suicidal+pills=bad). Discussed it with M, and I did email Dr. C about it. I'm terrified I'll be put on another medication - I don't want that - but I don't know if there's any other option at this point. I definitely don't like how I'm feeling now and I don't need another Friday night.

We'll see what happens. I'll of course update here for the 3-4 random people who read this. Until then I'll be plugging along, telling myself I feel fine and trying to ignore how empty and sad I actually feel.

Things to come

I'm working on a long post about suicide. Not all of it will be posted on here - it's for my book, but you'll get an excerpt. I'm doing some research on it and have found out some interesting things - especially when it comes to me asking people of their opinions. You'll see.

Mood wise, I've been a bit of a mess. I've taken Nuvigil (a temporary "upper") every day, and still I'm having problems with depression and emptiness. I've had some extreme suicidal thoughts and was scarily suicidal on Friday - to the point where I took pills (xanax, ativan, and klonopin). Not enough to kill myself (obviously), but enough to render me unconscious for around 12 hours. An escape. Just an escape.

I'm downplaying that. Probably too much as it was serious (I had a hard time not taking more), but what can I do, really? Nothing. Let's be honest - people don't want to hear about it. So I'll downplay and ignore it.

So there we go! Short and sweet tonight, as I'm in desperate need of ice cream. Double fudge brownie, if I remember correctly.