You've Dreamed A Thousand Dreams, None Seem To Stick In Your Mind

And all the people who've seen it all before
And all the people who really understand
Know they're right, and have done it right, could I get to be like that
I'll know what I don't know, it's harder everyday
Can't lift a finger, can't hurt a fly
I've found I always move too slowly
One things for certain, I'm insecure
I never knew till someone told me that....
If that's all you will be, you'll be a waste of time
You've dreamed a thousand dreams, none seem to stick in your mind
Two points for honesty
It must make you sad to know that nobody cares at all
Nobody cares at all
They never care at all
- Guster

So much in this painting. And in this song. So many dreams, such indecisiveness. What do I truly want? What's important in life? Why do I have so many racing thoughts? What is this painting even about?

8X10, watercolor

I'm so bloody tired

I am so. Bloody. Tired. I haven't been sleeping well the past 4-5 nights. And when I say not sleeping well, I mean 2-3 hours a night. My mind is racing the minute my head touches the pillow. I even resorted to taking a klonopin the night before last. At least then I got 6 hours of sleep.

And there's been a lot going on. Mentally, emotionally. I'm getting so stressed over everything and angry and I just want to cry. I could cry at any given moment for no reason. I'm trying not to catastrophize things, but sometimes it's hard not to.

I had therapy on Thursday. We talked about work - I'm very stressed about work (I'll save the details for another post). I was almost in tears the whole time. I didn't cry, but it was there. I had brought my 3 latest paintings and we talked about those. I also asked him what he and Dr. C had been talking about the previous week - as they had been talking about me. And M said that they're worried about me. When they saw all of my paintings laid out before them (they had 30 of them), they were overwhelmed. The honestly couldn't go through them all because they were a little too powerful and distressing. But here's the thing - they're worried about me. About my state of mind, about my emotional well-being. I think I mentioned that Dr. C says I'm one of the worst cases of bipolar depression he's seen in awhile. M said that he's very glad that we're doing weekly sessions. And I do know that they consult each other back and forth about patients in general, and certainly about me.

And here's the thing - I know they care. I do. I always think though - I'm not that special. I wonder if they do this with other patients, this almost seemingly preferential treatment (for me, meaning using my paintings in a presentation, sharing them with other people, taking what seems to be special interest in me . . .I don't know). Or if it just feels that way. I would think it just feels that way. I feel a very strong connection to both, but I'm sure all of their patients do. And I'm nothing special. I don't even know why I'm bringing it up. Fuck it.

Anyway, my moods have been everywhere. Horrible stress at work. Melancholy to depressed feelings. Thursday before therapy was bad. Having those naughty suicidal thoughts again. But trying to look alright. Insane anger and stress and frustration and hopelessness at work. Extreme exhaustion. Some happiness, fleetingly. Most of the time I'm in this down state, pushing on through because there's nothing else I can do. Feeling numb to most things except the irritability. And it really is frustrating and stupid. It's no way to move through life. It seems I can't quite move through this stage. I wonder if this is just how I am. Numb. Little flits of happiness, extreme bouts of depression, and the rest of the time, numb.

I think I'll end this now. I'm so very tired, and I want to sleep. Later I may read through this and add to it. I don't know. Soon I'll be writing my "work" post. Next couple of days I think.

Exploring again

I'm not entirely sure how to start this post. There have been a few interesting things going on over the past few days. So lets just start with the mood run down, shall we?

Saturday. I worked Saturday, and it was my first day of training for charge nurse. Yay? Notice the question mark? Yeah. I was so withdrawn and down and otherwise out of it on Saturday. Not really there. I tried to be there. I really did. Especially since I was training with one of my two best friends. But no. I faked it alright . . .but that's not the same, is it? And it got me thinking about if I really wanted the position or my job anymore. I have, after all, been thinking of changing areas for the last 2 years. But that bit is for another post. Too long for this one. The important thing is that I wasn't there. I wasn't happy. Even though I tried to be.

Sunday, if you read the previous post, I spent in the ER and in bed. Which was a delight. I'm still getting vertigo spells every now and then. Which sucks.

Monday - aka Christmas Eve. My psychiatrist Dr. C wanted to see me. Because of the post I emailed him about cutting myself. He's worried. We went in around 1130, J, myself and our son. We talked a bit about my post. We talked about my continued depressive downswings. We talked about my medications and what we could add/tweak/try. What was scary is how concerned he was. What was scary is how he mentioned being able to get me in to see a specialist out of state. What was scary is how difficult he thinks my bipolar depression is and will be to treat. And what is scary is all of this. All. Of. This. And what is scary is that I'll be fighting for the rest of my life. And what is scary is the prospect of having deeper and worse depressive episodes where I may not have the self control that I do now. It's enough to make me want to scream and cry at the same time. To pound my fists against the wall, hard enough to bust through, to draw blood, to do anything to release the fear and frustration and anger and hurt.

But that would be playing it up, yes? Making it worse than it is? Being dramatic for attention? Fuck the fact that this is very real. The risk is real. All of that? All of that is real. The tears I'm fighting back while writing this . . .they're real. But why should I wax poetic . . .I'm only looking for attention . . .

Tuesday - aka Christmas. We left the house for my mom's with me in full blown vertigo - which made for interesting stumbling episodes. I have to say it was rather pleasant. Yummy food, hanging with my bro . . .and after we headed home and my friend the bottomless pit of my soul said "hey Cami, you know what would be awesome? It would be awesome to question your existence!". So instead I went and took a nap. At least with sleep I can ignore the emptiness. I, of course, didn't tell J this. Again for the seeking attention thing. So instead I hid that pit as best I could.

And now I'm typing this while listening to Silversun Pickups. Over the past few weeks, and more noticeably the past sever days, my anger and irritability has been increasing exponentially. I'm barely able to contain it. Often I can't. It's boiling just below the surface and I don't know when it will finally blow. Some escaped last night when I blew up at J over cough medicine. I screamed at him over fucking cough medicine. That's not okay. I calmed down. I apologized. But that never should have happened in the first place. And I felt horrible. And I beat myself up over it. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I just cope? I know the answer . . .but I don't. And nobody gets it.

Tomorrow I'm going to box. I'm going to kick and punch the shit out of my heavy bag. And I'm going to make tomorrow better. That's what I tell myself. And I'll believe it.

While writing this post, I've come up with another painting idea. This will be number 33 in a series that was supposed to be one . . .I don't think people will like this as much as some . . .it will invoke negative feelings. Yes. 

A quick update for now

Just popping in for a quick update - I'll be writing a lot more later, I've been a bit down, withdrawn and irritable the past few days so I'll go over that, along with my visit with Dr. C today (yes, on Christmas eve). Sorting things out in my mind and confused about some, I guess.

Also? I got to spend 4 hours in the ER on Sunday morning with vertigo. Never had it? DON'T. It sucks. It started with sudden onset of dizziness which quickly turned to having the room spin and spin and spin. Nausea followed. I started hyperventilating, mainly because I was scared and had no idea what was going on. J drove me to the hospital. On the way there I became more nauseous, my thinking slowed and I started getting confused. Tremors started half the way there and got worse and worse. When we got to the hospital (my hospital), I couldn't even stand. I also almost couldn't give them my name I was so confused. I got IV fluids, Antivert (mescaline) for dizziness, phenergan (for nausea), and Ativan to help calm me down. It knocked me out. But helped with the room spinning, etc. I slept at home for 3 hours after we left.

And delightfully I had another episode today. The ER doc said it could last on and off for 2-3 days or 2-3 weeks. I'm hoping for days. It's not fun.

Anyway, more later. Have a delightful Christmas :)

Time to sort some thoughts

There are several things I'm struggling with right now. One is working through all of the ACOA stuff. Examining how I fit into having grown up in an alcoholic household. And it's tough. Another is my job. I'm thinking about switching my area of nursing - right after accepting a promotion and getting my expert certification. Go me.

But there's something else I'm, going to write about tonight. Something that I'm truly having a difficult time thinking about/coming to terms with/accepting/believing. And that's the topic of self sabotage. It's a hard pill to swallow. One I don't want to swallow.

My husband has pointed out several times that he thinks I bring my depression upon myself. That I start to feel better and I get scared and find some reason to stay depressed. I asked him the other night what patterns, specifically, he saw and he couldn't tell me any - just that it's what I do. Let's be honest, that's less than helpful. So I asked him to be aware and if he saw something to please point it out to me.

There's one aspect of being ACOA that was hard to examine and write about - that we often play the victim. Whether to seek attention or approval, we often play the victim. I wrote a ton in my ACOA post about this. That I can see myself playing the victim. Seeking attention. Seeking approval. Exaggerating faults against my self. Catastrophizing everything. Overreacting. I can see this within myself and I hate it. Absolutely hate it. It's a trait I wish I didn't have. I don't want to be a victim or play that role. I don't.

Which makes me think - is this what I'm doing with my depression? Am I truly keeping myself depressed for attention? Sabotaging myself so I don't get better? It's such a difficult question. And the answers could be scary. Ugly. Things that I don't want to know let alone admit. But it's something I need to take a close look at if I want to get better.

So I started thinking. Examining. Paying attention to my thinking patterns, what I was feeling at any given moment. Looking for behaviors, patterns, triggers. And I discovered something: I have no idea what the fuck goes on in my head.

Let's look at last Thursday. The few days before I felt pretty good. Pretty upbeat, no real complaints. Some irritability, but that seems to be a staple with me the last 6 months. Then Thursday hits. I had no reason at all to feel depressed. Depressed enough to feel suicidal. Depressed enough to cut myself. No reason. I tried to find one. I couldn't. It happened. I was in a dark pit of despair for no reason I could see. Then my husband came home. We talked about it and I felt considerably better. Friday I was pretty good, a little down. Same with Saturday and Sunday. Monday, not bad. I went to therapy Monday night, where we talked about the cutting. I left laughing, having had a good session. Tuesday and Wednesday pretty darn good - the irritability again, but again, that seems to be normal for me.

I can find no reason for Thursday. None. J would assume that I caused it myself. Which is why I didn't call him when I wanted (and did) cut. I didn't want him to judge me and think I caused it. If I did, it was completely subconsciously.

And so I'm thinking. Thinking about everything. Thinking past over the last year. And there are patterns. Patterns of mood swings. Swings between depression and mixed episodes. Up and down over the past year. Could this be it? The ongoing struggle of finding the right combination of meds to balance me? It can take a year or more to find stability after a bipolar episode, whether depression or mania. Is this it?

Sadly, I don't think so. At least not entirely. I think it plays a major role, for sure. But I also think that ACOA is contributing. Part of my fucked up personality and mindset and just me. When I look at myself, really look at myself . . .I see that victim. That lonely sole looking for attention and approval. The one who sought it so often growing up. The one who sought it in friends but never had any. The one who sought it in a relationship and was met with pain and abuse. I see that. I see me.

That's who I am. I need attention - whether it's good or bad. I need approval. I seek it out. I strive for perfection. I worry about what people think of me. I push myself - even when I want to crumble. All for attention. All for approval. All to try and fill the void in my soul. In my core. But it's always empty - no matter how much I try to fill it with love or hate or attention or pity.

And I look at this, and I wonder, am I really causing my own depression? Do I need attention that bad that I would make myself feel like shit just to get it? Am I truly that afraid of feeling good? Am I truly that fucked up? I look at the patterns. I look at my behavior, my thoughts.

And the answer, I think, is no. The operative words being "I think". I think in some instances I might "play up" how I'm feeling. Meaning, I feel bad, but I portray that I'm feeling a little worse. For example, in therapy, when M and I were discussing my rape and abuse and sexual assault, it was difficult for me. I hadn't talked to anyone about it -ever- and it was over 12 years ago. So yes - it was hard. But I played up how difficult. I was a little more dramatic. Why? Seeking attention. I wanted sympathy, empathy. I wanted to be told that everything was alright. I wanted to be mothered.

But on the same token, it was genuinely distressing for me. It was genuinely difficult. I had nightmares. I had anxiety so bad that I needed xanax. That is not a lie. That is not me seeking attention. That is not me causing the pain or anxiety myself. Did I play it up? Yes. As much as I don't want to admit it, I played it up. But that doesn't discount the fact that it was painful and difficult and horrifying to talk about and relive.

If we look at my second major depressive episode this year (starting in October, building to a crescendo on Halloween and the week after, and slowly now leaving), I did not cause that. I was suicidal. More so than I have ever been (even more so that my episode that started this whole year long process of recovery). I felt so empty and hopeless and worthless that I almost took a gun to my head. I did not cause that. No one wants to feel like that. I don't want to feel like that.That is depression. That is bipolar disorder. That is not me.

I'm coming out of that depressive episode. It was pretty bad until the beginning of December. My meds were changed. It takes awhile to adjust. Anyone who has been through something like this knows that. I have good days and mediocre days and bad days. That's normal . That's part of bipolar disorder. That's part of being human. I have days like today where I'm down. I'm angry and sad and all I want to do is sleep. And that's okay. And maybe on a day like today I'll play up my mood. Just a little, to get attention.

And then I have days like last Thursday. A day, randomly out of the blue, where the depression is back full force, making me question if life is worth living. And those days? They happen. Do I like them? No. Do I cause them? No. I sure as hell better not because how fucked up would that actually be? And when I feel like that, I don't play it up. I'm not acting. When I feel that bad, there's no need to play it up. My actions and words - or lack there of - speak for themselves. My cuts speak for themselves. And lets be honest - I'm a highly educated RN who knows cutting does nothing. But when I felt like I did, it seemed like the only thing I could do to stop the pain. That is not looking for attention. That is looking for help.

Do I play up my moods for attention? Yes. Do I play up my mild depression for attention? Yes. Do you know how difficult it is for me to admit this? Probably not. Do you know how shitty it makes me feel? I doubt it.

Let's move on to the second part of the issue. Am I scared of being happy? This is troublesome. Because I don't know. It's true - I've dealt with the depression for so long . . .my whole life, honestly. But I had ups and downs, times where I was relatively happy. Times where I wasn't depressed. That being said, this past year has been hellacious. I've spent most of the past year either horribly depressed or in a mixed episode. It's what I'm used to. It's familiar. So might I be scared to feel good? Hell yes. I'm not sure what it feels like anymore. It's been too long. I have days, days where I do feel happy and good and okay. And yes, those days scare me. I wonder when the crash will come. If I feel really good, I automatically wonder if I'm starting to swing the other way - mania.

My thinking about it is fucked up. I don't know what to think. How I should feel. So when I feel okay, I second guess myself. It's not what I'm used to. Conditioned to. I think I should still feel bad. That I've felt so bad for so long that I can't possibly feel good - it's not in the cards. I never will. In this respect am I sabotaging myself? I guess yes, I could be. But how? How the actual fuck am I doing it? I can't find any triggers. Nothing. No trigger for last Thursday, no matter how hard I look. And if I'm doing this, it's obviously for attention. The only thing I can think of. Attention from J. From Dr. C. From M. That I don't want to lose the attention I'm getting from them. If I feel better, I won't see Dr. C as often. If I feel better, I won't have weekly or bi-weekly therapy sessions with M. I won't get as much attention from J. I won't get a pass from doing housework sometimes because "I'm depressed and have no energy". All of these things . . .

I can see how this is plausible. Part of me even believes it. Part of me fights this thinking tooth and nail. Why? What a horrible thought. What a horrible truth. I making myself sick, suicidal, because I want attention. That would be something that no one wants to admit to. Myself included.

But the possibility is there. My fucked up personality, whether a result of ACOA or not, is causing a detrimental worsening of my bipolar symptoms. Is causing me to become suicidal for attention.

I don't quite believe it. And I have to think more about it. And talk with J and talk with M and write and explore and figure out what's going on. Between my bipolar disorder, my fucked up personality and my ACOA traits . . .I have my work cut out for me.

And damn this post turned out to be long.

I'm not sure what to say

I want to write but I'm not sure what to say. That's a lie - I know what I want to say, I just can't do it now. I want to talk about my ACOA. I want to talk about my previous post and the cutting and my therapy session and the other things racing through my mind but I don't know how to say it right now. I'm not sure how to express it. I don't know exactly what to say or how to say it.

There's so many things on my mind at the moment, all these thoughts racing around, jostling for a position. I have a lot of things to sort out. A lot of things I'm thinking about - some bad, some good. Some things that I don't want to think about. But I am. I'm trying to sort things out. Over the next days and weeks and possibly months.

There will be plenty more coming. You can expect that. I just don't know what will be coming. And now I'm going to bed. Busy day at the baby factory, and another one tomorrow. And I'm tired. All these racing thoughts. They keep me up at night.

I did something I shouldn't have. . .

And what is that something? Well, let me start by saying that yesterday sucked balls. Big, hairy, sweaty balls. I woke up in a bad mood - irritable and a little down. It got progressively worse. I tried to stop it. I couldn't. I went to the gym. I went shopping with a friend. And my mood worsened. It spiraled down. Lower and lower, out of my control. My thoughts became darker, increasingly more concerning. Suicidal thoughts started. Slow and insidious, they permeated my mind. I should have gone downstairs to box. I should have called for help. I did neither. I reached for a blade instead. And I cut. Not too deep. Not too many. Just enough. Enough to feel the pain, to feel something. Enough to feel something other than the bleak and all consuming darkness that was sweeping over me, threatening to crush me under its oppressive weight.

And so I cut. Six parallel slits. All the same length. All in a neat little row. On my thigh. Easy to hide. Not like my arm - I can't hide that at work. And they bled. And I cleaned them and covered them with a gauze pad that I taped down. And the emptiness was still there. And I didn't feel better. I stared off into space and wondered why these feelings kept coming back. I felt good on Wednesday. I felt normal and okay and happy and better. And yesterday . . .yesterday I did not. And so I cut. Because I didn't know what else to do.

Except I did. But I chose not to do it. I went against my better judgement. And I felt bad. And I felt guilty. And at the same time I wanted to cut more. To cut more and cause more pain and try to break through the darkness enveloping me. But instead I threw away the blade and cleaned myself and cried. Silently, I cried. And wondered what my problem was. And wondered why these thoughts still came. Why they came when I was feeling better.

And I thought. And I stared off and I listened to music and I told myself this was only a setback and that I would feel better tomorrow. I would feel better tomorrow. Now was bad. Tomorrow would be better. And the emptiness wouldn't be as deep and the despair would fade and I would be okay. I would be okay.

And I wondered if I did this on purpose. If I felt like this on purpose. If I made myself feel so bad on purpose. I've been told I do. That I'm scared of feeling better. That I find a reason to feel bad. That I do this on purpose. And I believe it. And I feel bad for it. And it all feels useless. And I wonder, why would I do this? I don't want to feel like this. And I try to think of why I would do this. And I try to find a trigger and I can't. And I try talking about it and writing about it and thinking about it and I can't see. I can't see in front of my face and it's useless.

And I don't want attention for this. I don't think I do. I don't like this. I don't want this darkness, this darkness that follows me like a cloud, even when I feel good. Even when I feel well. Even when I feel happy. If I stop for a minute, it's there, always willing to take over. Maybe it's my upbringing. Maybe I'm sick and twisted and am doing this to myself and I don't even notice. Maybe I want attention. Maybe I'm sabotaging myself.

And maybe I'm not. And maybe I don't know what's going on. And maybe all of this is right and I just can't see what's right and what's happening and what to do about it.

And so I cut. Six parallel slits. All the same length. All in a neat little row. And I cleaned them. And I cried. Because I didn't know what else to do. And I thought about everything and told myself that I was okay and that this was only a setback and that tomorrow would be better.

And it was. Today was okay. It was a good day. I felt good and I felt happy and I looked at my six parallel slits on my thigh and I wondered why I didn't cut more. Then I pushed those thoughts aside because I felt good and I wanted to feel good and I was going to feel good. And I did.

And this is only a setback. This is what I tell myself. I'm getting better, I am better. I tell myself I'll have setbacks, that every day is a new day. That I don't want to feel bad and I won't sabotage myself and I'll stay positive and I'll prove people wrong and yesterday was only a setback.

And I believe it. And I look at my six parallel slits. But still I cry.