I don't know how to NOT be depressed . . .

No seriously though. Is that maybe what's going on? I don't know how to not be depressed?

It's Wednesday. I had ECT on Monday and I don't have my next treatment until next Monday. Dr. M wants to try once a week. He's worried that 3 times a week might be a bit too much for me - what could be throwing me into a mixed episode. I don't know. We'll see.

Today I feel a little depressed. More than a little, I guess. I want to cut. Yesterday and today both. I don't really know why. I know it won't help anything . . . but I still want to.

I don't know what that's about.

But it's annoying.

I don't know how to qualify or quantify how I'm feeling. Because I'm better. Overall, I'm better. I'm not suicidal. I don't want to die - and that's huge.

I just don't know exactly what to do? I don't know. I don't. Know.

I want to feel content. Happy. I don't want to have to struggle for my feelings.



. . . . ugh. I feel like I have so much more to write, but I have nothing coming out.

I guess I'll just have to see how I do over the next week. I'm going back to work on Saturday.

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.

My First ECT Treatment

I arrived at PVBH at 6:45am, the time they told me to be there. Hubby and son were with me and they planned on staying and waiting. I didn't wait long before Chris came and brought me back. Chris is a portly, young fellow, jovial most of the time in my dealings with him (from being hospitalized).

I followed him through the familiar hallways to the pre-ECT room - the room where I had done my initial intake. I sat in a leather recliner, tried to make myself comfortable. Another girl had come in with me (Samantha? who cares . . .). A female nurse whose name escapes me and a male nurse I knew, Johnny, came in to start IVs, while Jim (the RN who heads the ECT program), went through my paperwork, had me sign consents, and asked me orientation questions.

A third woman was brought back, an inpatient, and she sat in the far chair, wrapped in a blanket. She was the first to go back. Chris put the Princess Bride in the DVD player to keep us occupied while we waited.

I went back second - Dr. Chu came and got me and leaded me to the ECT treatment room. She made small talk and joked, seemed genuinely concerned about my wellbeing - the opposite of how she seemed for my intake. A pleasant surprise. She had me place my purse and glasses under my bed, and remove my shoes and socks.

Since this was my first ECT session, she explained, they do things a little differently. She has to experiment a little to find what my seizure threshold is - how much electricity to cause a 30 second seizure. She would start with a dosage and measure the seizure activity - and adjust the electricity dose accordingly (meaning I might have 2 or 3 seizures). She laid me back and began hooking electrodes to my ankles and wrists while Jim attached them to my forehead and temples. The anesthesiologist was applying a blood pressure cuff, a finger probe, and chest leads. A cuff went over my left ankle and one on my right. (The cuff on my left ankle cause my toes to spasm - the intent. When they stopped spasming the docs knew the paralytic was working. The cuff on my right ankle kept the paralytic from reaching my right foot so that they would see it spasm from the seizure).

Dr. Chu and Jim are explaining everything as they're doing it and the room seems in utter chaos. Jim remarks on my new cuts. Dr. Chu asks how bad I was getting - bad enough I almost admitted myself on Friday. "These probes are going across your forehead" "Jim, do you see the mark here?" I feel wetness on the tip of my head and what feels like a marker tip "You just have to move her hair a little - I marked your head so Jim knows where to place the probe" "Can I get another lead? This one isn't sticking" "I'm going to put this mask over your face, just breathe deeply" "If you need to be admitted, come in - it's what we're here for" "You said your cut could have used stitches?" "Just breathe. You're going to drift off to sleep now . . ."

I had felt panic welling up in me. The mask made me feel claustrophobic and the talking and questions and noise were overwhelming. And the burn of the anesthetic through my veins . . .

"Would you like some juice?"

"What? Yeah, cranberry." I'm sitting up in bed. My vision is blurred - but that has more to do with the fact that I'm not wearing my glasses rather than the anesthesia. The nurse, the one who started my IV, hands me cranberry juice and I drink it greedily. "What time is it?" I ask.

"8:30"

I was brought back shortly before 8. She asks me my orientation questions and leads me out to the lobby, where hubby and son are waiting.

We went home and I ate and had coffee, and then napped for 2 hours. I had a wicked headache for about half of the day. Around bedtime my neck and shoulders were starting to get sore and this morning my whole body is sore. Like I spent hours in the gym and ran a marathon.

Without the health benefits.

But no memory issues. So far. Hopefully that will be the norm.

Treatments are Monday, Wednesday, Friday for 4 weeks.

Cheers, y'all.

In a bad way

I'm in a bad way again. A very bad way.

Every day is a struggle. I don't want to exist. It's too hard. Everything is too hard. Being awake is too hard.

I wake up every morning not knowing how I'll make it through the day. Not knowing how I can possibly do it again. I tell myself over and over again that it's worth it. Living. That living, pushing on, existing, is worth it.

I often don't believe it. I mostly don't believe it.

But I tell myself that. That it's worth it. I have my son and my hubby and friends and family and my dog and my job and all that shit and that's why it's worth it.

I tell myself that all the time. Because I have to remember. Because otherwise . . .

. . . otherwise I might forget.

I take naps. Naps to escape my mind. Naps to escape my feelings. Every day, every night, I look forward to bedtime. An escape . . . but I dread it, too. Because I know I'll have to wake up in the morning. Wake up and do it again. Struggle again. Push again.

I don't want to. Sometimes . . . I'd rather forget.

I'm tired. I'm trying, but I'm tired.

Fucking Clancy . . .

My depression, truly, is back full force. It's exceedingly frustrating. I've been crying so much again lately. I don't want to exist, and yesterday I didn't want to live. I've considered myself doing a little better than in the past in that I'm not having suicidal ideation.

Except yesterday I did.

It wasn't a planning-it-out kind of ideation. More the recurring thought about how I don't want to live. About  how I can't continue to live if I keep feeling like this. How is anyone supposed to?

So I do all my CBT and DBT tricks to counter these thoughts, try to counter my emotions/feelings, and stay positive/interact/etc. And these things help, they do. I'm certain that they're what's keeping me from being actively suicidal.

I'm just so tired of all of this. And it appears I'm on the fast track now for ECT. I know I'll be having that talk next week . . .

Ugh.

Been awhile since I last wrote. I don't know how long. I don't really care, either. I really don't fucking care about much right now.

Why?

Fucking depression. It won't. Fucking. Leave.

I was started on Lexapro, 10mg. Then we increased it 20mg. Then we increased my Lamictal from 200mg to 400mg. And you know what? Fucking nothing.

Nope. Depression is hanging on, gaining strength, trying to overtake me completely. I've cried so much today it's stupid. It's pathetic. It's tiring and I'm so fucking done with this.

Hubby tells me to hang in there. This will get better. We'll get you better.

Really? Because the depression is fucking here. It doesn't go away. From where I stand, it's not getting better.

Everything is overwhelming. Interacting with people is overwhelming. Going to the store is overwhelming. Packing is overwhelming. Everything is fucking overwhelming.

I put on my happy face. I try to "fake it till I make it". I do all of my positive CBT stuff I've learned. But I'm dying on the inside. I'm shattered and broken and I'm trying so hard to hide it.

I'm fucking tired and I'm sick of it.

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.