Is this the last time you are going to feel like this?
Do you think you will feel better by the weekend?
Holy fuck.
How do I answer those kinds of questions?
I keep telling myself that this is hard on him. I know it is.
I know it is. Because I've lived in a house with a ranting suicidal maniac. But I'm not like that.
I'm just quiet. Writing here these past few days is the most I have ever talked about feeling this bad. But I have yet to scream and yell; throw things or make threats.
At my mother's worst, she showed up on the door step of my apartment and slit her wrists. She lived that time but it was fucked up to say the least. It also made suicide real to me.
A person. Distress. Blade. Blood. Tears. Anguish. In a way it began to desensitize me.
My sister. I saw that through to completion. It's hard to look at someone so beautiful with half their skull gone to relieve pressure without euthanizing a piece of your soul.
Yesterday I went to the apartment where my mother slit her wrists. I went to the door step without knowing what I was supposed to be looking for. I stared for a minute and then I left.
I then drove to my sister's old townhouse. Where she ended her own life. I looked out the window of my car searching for a hint of lingering. I didn't see her. The porch had pretty pots full of pansies. Someone who lives there is happy enough to care about flowers. I pretended the flowers were for my sister instead.
I stopped short of going by my parent's house where my mother ultimately succeeded. That was probably a good idea. Lots of other bad things happened there too.
It is probably morbid to do these things. I'm probably not supposed to even think about them. And I bet writing this in black and white is even worse. But I wanted to see what it felt like. As if they had a disease that was catching. And I want to know what makes me immune.
So to answer his first question; is this the last time I'm going to feel like this?
Yes, has a certain finality to it. And probably not the answer he really wants even if he doesn't realize it.
No. Well, I don't want this to be the answer because I hate feeling like this.
I don't know is really the only answer I can give.
I try to do the right things; I go to therapy, I see a shrink, I take my meds {mostly}, I write, and I would like to think that I am getting better at actually verbalizing what is in my head.
So I don't know if all the right things add up to erasing suicidal thoughts forever. My other thought is that I think far more people think about suicide than will admit to considering it as an out. It's taboo right along with admitting to struggling with a mental illness. But I can't be the only one.
I sincerely hope to push past this. It's an exhausting way to live. I just said that word again... hope.
And to answer his second question, sure. Which falls under the category of if you ask a stupid question, you'll get a stupid answer.
I keep telling myself that this is hard for him.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Friday, February 10, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Air
I think about suicide every day.
That's what I told my husband last night. It's probably not the best way to qualify how I'm feeling right now but I needed him to understand that these struggles and thoughts are not out of the blue.
He did a stint in a mental hospital 10 years ago because he hit a bottom and had a plan and the materials to carry it out. He called his mother and off he went to the hospital. He stayed there 7 days, got on meds, had some therapy and straightened his thinking out. He did outpatient therapy for three months afterwards and discontinued his meds 6 months after that. And then he was all better.
So that's where he is coming from and he doesn't understand how I can feel like this all of a sudden when I'm on medication and already in therapy. I tried explaining things to him and he still didn't get it.
Finally I was over trying to make him feel better because I hardly think this is the best time to have to explain my feelings. They just are and they suck. So that's when I blurted out what I think about every day. He was shocked. So I described it like this:
His depression was like a brown paper bag. Sure, it gets a little dark sitting at the bottom of the bag but it's not stifling to exist in there either. He eventually wanted a way out and he figured it out with some help. He got out and the bag left in the wind.
My depression on a good day is like living in a straight jacket. I might be tied up but I can still walk and function in a limited way. And because I've lived like this for so long, I've grown accustomed to it and I can even free a hand or an arm on a good day. No, it's not pleasant to live like this so yes, I have thoughts of what it would be like to be free. That seems pretty normal to me.
But when this hits it is like being thrown in a trunk and buried. Still with the straight jacket on. It's dark. I can't move and the air begins to wane. I twist and fight but then I feel panicked and then I really can't breathe. So I get still and almost peaceful. That's where I am right now. That's also when I know that I need help.
That help doesn't include explaining the why's that support my feelings because those got buried along with the fucking trunk. I'm still trapped and need that last bit of air to free myself. Maybe then I can figure all this out.
Because it's a lot easier to breathe in just a straight jacket.
That's what I told my husband last night. It's probably not the best way to qualify how I'm feeling right now but I needed him to understand that these struggles and thoughts are not out of the blue.
He did a stint in a mental hospital 10 years ago because he hit a bottom and had a plan and the materials to carry it out. He called his mother and off he went to the hospital. He stayed there 7 days, got on meds, had some therapy and straightened his thinking out. He did outpatient therapy for three months afterwards and discontinued his meds 6 months after that. And then he was all better.
So that's where he is coming from and he doesn't understand how I can feel like this all of a sudden when I'm on medication and already in therapy. I tried explaining things to him and he still didn't get it.
Finally I was over trying to make him feel better because I hardly think this is the best time to have to explain my feelings. They just are and they suck. So that's when I blurted out what I think about every day. He was shocked. So I described it like this:
His depression was like a brown paper bag. Sure, it gets a little dark sitting at the bottom of the bag but it's not stifling to exist in there either. He eventually wanted a way out and he figured it out with some help. He got out and the bag left in the wind.
My depression on a good day is like living in a straight jacket. I might be tied up but I can still walk and function in a limited way. And because I've lived like this for so long, I've grown accustomed to it and I can even free a hand or an arm on a good day. No, it's not pleasant to live like this so yes, I have thoughts of what it would be like to be free. That seems pretty normal to me.
But when this hits it is like being thrown in a trunk and buried. Still with the straight jacket on. It's dark. I can't move and the air begins to wane. I twist and fight but then I feel panicked and then I really can't breathe. So I get still and almost peaceful. That's where I am right now. That's also when I know that I need help.
That help doesn't include explaining the why's that support my feelings because those got buried along with the fucking trunk. I'm still trapped and need that last bit of air to free myself. Maybe then I can figure all this out.
Because it's a lot easier to breathe in just a straight jacket.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Joke
Hope doesn't always float. Sometimes it drowns you instead. I feel like shit. The fuck-I-woke-up-again kind of shit feeling.
I despise people who throw these kinds of feelings around like they are nothing. I grew up with a mother who threatened to kill herself at least once a week and it sucked. And then my sister actually did. And then my mother did too. And all that really sucked. So I don't write these things without carefully considering how I really feel.
But with all that being said, because I know how bad it hurts to remain on the living end, I feel stuck with no options. And little hope. What if this is all there is for me? This vacillating between flat and the place I'm in now. It hurts almost as deeply as the shit done to me that got me here in the first place.
When I wake up and it's disappointing, I know I'm not on the right track. But when I wake up, take my daughter to school while thinking the whole time how everyone would be better off without me; that's when I know there is no faking my way out of this pit.
This morning I left for work without even drying my hair; I didn't feel safe alone and that scared the shit out of me. All of my typical reasons for not hurting myself were not working and that's when I knew I had to say something.
I called my husband and made the other appropriate phone calls. I promised to be safe. And because I keep my promises I will do just that: be safe.
But what will "safe" cost me? More disappointment... even more pain... devastated hope... an ever deepening loathe of my brokenness? Or the worst; revealing just how weak I really am? I hate this and how unjust it feels. If someone lives through abuse isn't that enough? That is the cruelest joke.
I'm so scared that this is as good as it gets. I can tell myself to keep going. To keep fighting. To hope. But I also have this nagging feeling that the joke is ultimately on me and I suddenly find myself very, very tired. Sometimes all the self pep talks in the world aren't enough to make this spinning descent stop.
Just a huge joke that stupid, miserable people hold on to in an attempt to feel better. What if that's all hope is?
What then?
I despise people who throw these kinds of feelings around like they are nothing. I grew up with a mother who threatened to kill herself at least once a week and it sucked. And then my sister actually did. And then my mother did too. And all that really sucked. So I don't write these things without carefully considering how I really feel.
But with all that being said, because I know how bad it hurts to remain on the living end, I feel stuck with no options. And little hope. What if this is all there is for me? This vacillating between flat and the place I'm in now. It hurts almost as deeply as the shit done to me that got me here in the first place.
When I wake up and it's disappointing, I know I'm not on the right track. But when I wake up, take my daughter to school while thinking the whole time how everyone would be better off without me; that's when I know there is no faking my way out of this pit.
This morning I left for work without even drying my hair; I didn't feel safe alone and that scared the shit out of me. All of my typical reasons for not hurting myself were not working and that's when I knew I had to say something.
I called my husband and made the other appropriate phone calls. I promised to be safe. And because I keep my promises I will do just that: be safe.
But what will "safe" cost me? More disappointment... even more pain... devastated hope... an ever deepening loathe of my brokenness? Or the worst; revealing just how weak I really am? I hate this and how unjust it feels. If someone lives through abuse isn't that enough? That is the cruelest joke.
I'm so scared that this is as good as it gets. I can tell myself to keep going. To keep fighting. To hope. But I also have this nagging feeling that the joke is ultimately on me and I suddenly find myself very, very tired. Sometimes all the self pep talks in the world aren't enough to make this spinning descent stop.
Just a huge joke that stupid, miserable people hold on to in an attempt to feel better. What if that's all hope is?
What then?
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Sleep
I am tired. I live in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation.
get more sleep... that's the recommendation.
Sure. No problem. As if I enjoy defying sleep patterns. I don't stay up all night having a party by myself. I stay awake because it's terrifying to sleep.
I close my eyes. I feel my head on the pillow; my hands touch the sheets. It's dark and my heart starts to pound. The bed begins to spin. My head screams and my chest aches as I wait. Wait for nothing. I am waiting for a dead man who lives on so vividly in my mind. Wait for the night where he does not appear.
I know that a few hours a night isn't good. It's also not good to sleep in the corner on the floor. I do both with freakish mastery.
I go through periods of time where I can tolerate sleeping in a bed. But I can't stomach it right now. So while my anxiety is racing, I wait for my husband to fall asleep. And then I move. Corners are safe. And the floor isn't a bed.
Bad things happen on beds.
After a few hours of hard fought sleep my corner is awake as he approaches in the dark. I stand and slip out of the room where my husband never wakes. I turn on the lights as the dead man begins to fade. He wishes me good night and with a wink he tells me he will see me soon.
I clean. I read. I write. I draw. I make my husband coffee and pretend that I haven't been up all night. The early light melts the terror as dreadful relief lets me know another night has passed with a new day on the brink.
My eyes are clouding with that familiar ache. A dark periphery is depression's single warning. I fight to keep my eyes open; to keep my vision clear. But heavy eyelids pull the sadness in as I contemplate the Sleep.
get more sleep... that's the recommendation.
Sure. No problem. As if I enjoy defying sleep patterns. I don't stay up all night having a party by myself. I stay awake because it's terrifying to sleep.
I close my eyes. I feel my head on the pillow; my hands touch the sheets. It's dark and my heart starts to pound. The bed begins to spin. My head screams and my chest aches as I wait. Wait for nothing. I am waiting for a dead man who lives on so vividly in my mind. Wait for the night where he does not appear.
I know that a few hours a night isn't good. It's also not good to sleep in the corner on the floor. I do both with freakish mastery.
I go through periods of time where I can tolerate sleeping in a bed. But I can't stomach it right now. So while my anxiety is racing, I wait for my husband to fall asleep. And then I move. Corners are safe. And the floor isn't a bed.
Bad things happen on beds.
After a few hours of hard fought sleep my corner is awake as he approaches in the dark. I stand and slip out of the room where my husband never wakes. I turn on the lights as the dead man begins to fade. He wishes me good night and with a wink he tells me he will see me soon.
I clean. I read. I write. I draw. I make my husband coffee and pretend that I haven't been up all night. The early light melts the terror as dreadful relief lets me know another night has passed with a new day on the brink.
My eyes are clouding with that familiar ache. A dark periphery is depression's single warning. I fight to keep my eyes open; to keep my vision clear. But heavy eyelids pull the sadness in as I contemplate the Sleep.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Webs
Trying to appear normal while walking straight into a spiderweb of depression is tricky.
The web, invisible to the average bystander, is sticky as it swirls and wraps around my mind.
I wave my hands furiously around my head trying to clear away the residue.
Perhaps some around me watch and wonder what hidden foe I'm fighting as they clearly cannot see any physical source of my feverish panic.
If those closest to me would stop and look; they would see what I'm fighting. But instead they are holding their own hands in front of their faces. Trying not to see what is really going on.
The stringy web is there as no amount of fighting can remove the remaining shreds. They surround me. I struggle my best to remove them. But even I cannot see the full scope of damage as darkness begins to fall.
And then I'm ensnared.
The web, invisible to the average bystander, is sticky as it swirls and wraps around my mind.
I wave my hands furiously around my head trying to clear away the residue.
Perhaps some around me watch and wonder what hidden foe I'm fighting as they clearly cannot see any physical source of my feverish panic.
If those closest to me would stop and look; they would see what I'm fighting. But instead they are holding their own hands in front of their faces. Trying not to see what is really going on.
The stringy web is there as no amount of fighting can remove the remaining shreds. They surround me. I struggle my best to remove them. But even I cannot see the full scope of damage as darkness begins to fall.
And then I'm ensnared.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Prolonging
I need a break. A respite from my feelings. I know that must sound strange assuming that most like to feel; it's how they know that they are alive. Me, my feelings taunt me and remind me that I'm not dead. Flashback after flashback invade my frazzled mind and body until my pounding heart is breaking in the wake of no relief.
How long have you felt depressed?
I don't remember not feeling depressed...
When was the last time you felt happy?
I have fleeting moments of happiness...
When did the abuse begin?
I don't remember not being abused...
I started seeing a new shrink and those were some of her questions and then some of my answers. There was a rhythm to my replies which involved prolonged misery.
I want to feel better so I go to a shrink. I take medication. I see my therapist. I feel and it hurts like hell but I think that I am working hard and at some point it will pay off. But then there is a lingering suspicion he knew that even after he was gone his evil would still haunt and hurt me.
What kind of person brings a child into this world and shapes her childish life to know nothing but confusion, pain and sadness? Terror that she longs to stop even after you are gone. I bet he's laughing now knowing that I'm still pleading with the hurt to end.
How long have you felt depressed?
I don't remember not feeling depressed...
When was the last time you felt happy?
I have fleeting moments of happiness...
When did the abuse begin?
I don't remember not being abused...
I started seeing a new shrink and those were some of her questions and then some of my answers. There was a rhythm to my replies which involved prolonged misery.
I want to feel better so I go to a shrink. I take medication. I see my therapist. I feel and it hurts like hell but I think that I am working hard and at some point it will pay off. But then there is a lingering suspicion he knew that even after he was gone his evil would still haunt and hurt me.
What kind of person brings a child into this world and shapes her childish life to know nothing but confusion, pain and sadness? Terror that she longs to stop even after you are gone. I bet he's laughing now knowing that I'm still pleading with the hurt to end.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Ummm...
So, I'll just start out by saying that I'm not a very good blogger. I get busy. I get tired. I get overwhelmed. Or in this case I just do my best to ignore it hoping that it will just go away.
But it doesn't go away.
What started as ignoring turned into not giving a fuck. And then not giving a fuck turned into the worst depression I have wandered into in more than 7 years. And then that turned into some tears followed by a near trip to the hospital.
In all my mess I've had one absolute no and that is a no to ever going inpatient. I don't like hospitals; especially the kind that my mother spent time in. But last week I was one car ride away from crossing that last no off my list. It's like a genetic bucket list for me. Crazy... check Medication... check Self harm... check... Breakdown... check Hospital...check.
Why am I here now? Honestly I'm not really sure. I still feel awful but I feel better than I did. Because I finally got some help. You see, I skipped out on therapy for nearly a month. All my fault.
I'm the master of shutting people out. I turn inward and if given enough time I can easily get lost in my weird little world. But in shutting caring people out I also keep secrets. To me that is no big deal considering how I grew up. But now the secrets are hurting me.
Probably my biggest secret; I went off my meds. All of them. We have had some financial struggles as of late and I determined I was not worth the cost of the Dr. appointments or the medications themselves. The money could be spent for better things that did not include myself. I told no one of my decision and I told everyone inside of me to shut up.
Are you amazed at my stupidity? I certainly am.
But amazed isn't really the correct word. I'm ashamed. I'm embarrassed. I'm angry at myself. I'm frustrated because I can't just be better. I'm scared to ask for the help I need when I need it. And then I'm back to being ashamed because I had to ask for help.
I have taken some steps in the right direction. I went to therapy and I'll go again this week. I said no to something that wanted to conflict with this week's appointment... I feel guilty about that. I called to make an appointment to see a shrink. I've stopped keeping recent secrets.
Small steps but steps nonetheless. So read while you can; it's not often that you get a glimpse of me un-medicated.
But it doesn't go away.
What started as ignoring turned into not giving a fuck. And then not giving a fuck turned into the worst depression I have wandered into in more than 7 years. And then that turned into some tears followed by a near trip to the hospital.
In all my mess I've had one absolute no and that is a no to ever going inpatient. I don't like hospitals; especially the kind that my mother spent time in. But last week I was one car ride away from crossing that last no off my list. It's like a genetic bucket list for me. Crazy... check Medication... check Self harm... check... Breakdown... check Hospital...
Why am I here now? Honestly I'm not really sure. I still feel awful but I feel better than I did. Because I finally got some help. You see, I skipped out on therapy for nearly a month. All my fault.
I'm the master of shutting people out. I turn inward and if given enough time I can easily get lost in my weird little world. But in shutting caring people out I also keep secrets. To me that is no big deal considering how I grew up. But now the secrets are hurting me.
Probably my biggest secret; I went off my meds. All of them. We have had some financial struggles as of late and I determined I was not worth the cost of the Dr. appointments or the medications themselves. The money could be spent for better things that did not include myself. I told no one of my decision and I told everyone inside of me to shut up.
Are you amazed at my stupidity? I certainly am.
But amazed isn't really the correct word. I'm ashamed. I'm embarrassed. I'm angry at myself. I'm frustrated because I can't just be better. I'm scared to ask for the help I need when I need it. And then I'm back to being ashamed because I had to ask for help.
I have taken some steps in the right direction. I went to therapy and I'll go again this week. I said no to something that wanted to conflict with this week's appointment... I feel guilty about that. I called to make an appointment to see a shrink. I've stopped keeping recent secrets.
Small steps but steps nonetheless. So read while you can; it's not often that you get a glimpse of me un-medicated.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Brown
As far as colors go, brown ranks pretty low in terms of beauty. It is drab. It blends in. It is a non-color. It is certainly not in the rainbow.
Dead plants are brown. Rotten bananas turn brown. Brown is what comes of all the colors when they collide together. Paper bags are brown. And these bags are meant to disguise a secret. An embarrassment. The guy on the corner who drinks all day... he hides his bottle in a obviously discreet paper bag.
I carried a brown paper bag today. It didn't contain my lunch. And no, it didn't carry beer, wine, or liquor either. It's the see-you-in-six-weeks kind of day. The day where I go sit in my shrink's waiting room and pray that I don't look as crazy as I feel. Today is the day that I rate my mental state by the bag I carry. Am I carrying my favorite handbag or am I carrying a loud and awkward paper bag stuffed with meds?
My psychiatrist is a nice man. He is fairly intelligent as well. He is the first of his profession to treat me with kindness and respect. It's refreshing. I don't say a lot. I smile at least once so I do not present flat. I answer his questions with single words if at all possible. I am not having a good time of it and that must show. When he starts his shrink talk with "I'd like to talk to you today about..." I know that my meds are being tweaked or changed. Yippee.
Thirty minutes later I've paid my bill and I walk the twenty five feet across the waiting room full of people and I'm holding that damn brown bag. Any chance of appearing normal is wiped away when people see that crinkly bag full of she's-not-quite-right samples.
I skip the elevator to avoid riding in a closed space with someone who would clearly know they were confined, for a one floor descent, with a crazy girl. I make it to my car and I dump the bag out and cram the samples into my black leather handbag. Much more presentable because crazy people don't carry professional messenger bags, right?
The snarky humor is here but beneath that is my anger. I'm angry that I have to do this charade every six weeks. I'm angry that I'm a walking stigma. I'm angry that I pay good money for appointments and medication to help me function and unfuck what they did to me. I'm angry that I have side effects from the cocktail of meds that I take. I'm angry that the medicated me is better than the can't-get-out-of-bed me.
I'm still struggling over the events with my mother in law for reasons that some may not understand. I will try to put that into words shortly because I need to find a way to express in words what is churning in my mind. My husband's advice has been, "just be yourself", which I always inwardly smirk at because the thought of an un-medicated "me" attending a family dinner is something I'm almost certain he never wants to encounter.
Dead plants are brown. Rotten bananas turn brown. Brown is what comes of all the colors when they collide together. Paper bags are brown. And these bags are meant to disguise a secret. An embarrassment. The guy on the corner who drinks all day... he hides his bottle in a obviously discreet paper bag.
I carried a brown paper bag today. It didn't contain my lunch. And no, it didn't carry beer, wine, or liquor either. It's the see-you-in-six-weeks kind of day. The day where I go sit in my shrink's waiting room and pray that I don't look as crazy as I feel. Today is the day that I rate my mental state by the bag I carry. Am I carrying my favorite handbag or am I carrying a loud and awkward paper bag stuffed with meds?
My psychiatrist is a nice man. He is fairly intelligent as well. He is the first of his profession to treat me with kindness and respect. It's refreshing. I don't say a lot. I smile at least once so I do not present flat. I answer his questions with single words if at all possible. I am not having a good time of it and that must show. When he starts his shrink talk with "I'd like to talk to you today about..." I know that my meds are being tweaked or changed. Yippee.
Thirty minutes later I've paid my bill and I walk the twenty five feet across the waiting room full of people and I'm holding that damn brown bag. Any chance of appearing normal is wiped away when people see that crinkly bag full of she's-not-quite-right samples.
I skip the elevator to avoid riding in a closed space with someone who would clearly know they were confined, for a one floor descent, with a crazy girl. I make it to my car and I dump the bag out and cram the samples into my black leather handbag. Much more presentable because crazy people don't carry professional messenger bags, right?
The snarky humor is here but beneath that is my anger. I'm angry that I have to do this charade every six weeks. I'm angry that I'm a walking stigma. I'm angry that I pay good money for appointments and medication to help me function and unfuck what they did to me. I'm angry that I have side effects from the cocktail of meds that I take. I'm angry that the medicated me is better than the can't-get-out-of-bed me.
I'm still struggling over the events with my mother in law for reasons that some may not understand. I will try to put that into words shortly because I need to find a way to express in words what is churning in my mind. My husband's advice has been, "just be yourself", which I always inwardly smirk at because the thought of an un-medicated "me" attending a family dinner is something I'm almost certain he never wants to encounter.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Flat
So today is a new day and I'm trying again. I must sound like a wreck because when readers start asking me if I have a therapist, it's then that I realize how bad I sound. And for my newer readers, yes, I do have a therapist who I have been seeing for quite some time. At least once a week.
Reading over my post from yesterday, I did sound depressed and I was. I still am. And once again I am at the point of retreating to the hills of my head or sticking with the present. I am learning that this is a choice. It is a hard choice too.
But in making that choice I am learning a lot about myself. I don't do stress. I don't do pain. "Flat" was the word that kept coming up in therapy yesterday evening. I've given it a lot of thought between then and now because I argued last night that flat was easier than feeling.
I was wrong.
Flat really is hard. Exhausting. And I think I create a lot more stress and pain, the very things I try to avoid, for myself in trying to be flat. I really thought that this was how people wanted me to be. However, as I look at my emotional responses to others, I can see that my flat response was the last thing they needed or even wanted.
I do not know how to change this overnight. Flat used to my safe. If I showed no emotion, the chances of being hit a lot or worse went down. Flat let me mirror the emotions around me and let me remain invisible. I focused on other's feelings instead of my own. I thought this was safe. But in doing so I added layer upon layer on my own pain which seems to fester into depression.
I have one assignment for the next week. Cry. And cry some more. When I am in the car I am supposed to cry. That is a long way from flat and I am scared. What if people don't like my emotions? My trademarks are levelheaded, calm, logical, a rock... all a nice version of flat.
My next step: call my shrink and tell her that I don't have any of my meds nor have I been taking them because "someone" threw them away. I've been too embarrassed to make that call but I need to. I also need to do some housekeeping in here and figure out "who" threw them out. And after that...
Cry some more.
Reading over my post from yesterday, I did sound depressed and I was. I still am. And once again I am at the point of retreating to the hills of my head or sticking with the present. I am learning that this is a choice. It is a hard choice too.
But in making that choice I am learning a lot about myself. I don't do stress. I don't do pain. "Flat" was the word that kept coming up in therapy yesterday evening. I've given it a lot of thought between then and now because I argued last night that flat was easier than feeling.
I was wrong.
Flat really is hard. Exhausting. And I think I create a lot more stress and pain, the very things I try to avoid, for myself in trying to be flat. I really thought that this was how people wanted me to be. However, as I look at my emotional responses to others, I can see that my flat response was the last thing they needed or even wanted.
I do not know how to change this overnight. Flat used to my safe. If I showed no emotion, the chances of being hit a lot or worse went down. Flat let me mirror the emotions around me and let me remain invisible. I focused on other's feelings instead of my own. I thought this was safe. But in doing so I added layer upon layer on my own pain which seems to fester into depression.
I have one assignment for the next week. Cry. And cry some more. When I am in the car I am supposed to cry. That is a long way from flat and I am scared. What if people don't like my emotions? My trademarks are levelheaded, calm, logical, a rock... all a nice version of flat.
My next step: call my shrink and tell her that I don't have any of my meds nor have I been taking them because "someone" threw them away. I've been too embarrassed to make that call but I need to. I also need to do some housekeeping in here and figure out "who" threw them out. And after that...
Cry some more.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Friend
What's that line... hello, darkness, my old friend...?
My friend is making a raging comeback. Yippee.
I do not know exactly what has brought this on but I am knocked down, sideways and can't get up depressed. Those irritating Cymbalta commercials showing depressed people sucking at living? That's me minus roaming around aimlessly in sweatpants because I don't wear sweatpants.
I just stay in my pajamas.
I don't have the luxury of sleeping the day away or even lying in bed with my eyes open praying that a spontaneous lobotomy will occur. I have a kid, I have a job, I have judo, gymnastics, and swim team to attend, and I have a rather important (to me) husband who occasionally would like to see me out of pajamas and showered with a smile on my face. It's a rough life these days.
The thing is, I do shower, smile and dress nicely. It's my mind that is still wearing pajamas and perhaps that is where the conflict begins. I am fucking exhausted and I honestly believe that there is not a soul on earth that understands where I am coming from. Try as he may, my husband doesn't get it and he substitutes his confusion with anger. I don't do anger so I just shut up and stay quiet. I certainly am not talking to my daughter about this and I don't have any girlfriends to call up and bitch about my fucked up life.
So here I am.
I told my husband this morning that I am a really fucked up person and it is really hard to live. His response was to yell at me that I'm not fucked up. Right. Everyone he meets hears voices, sees people who aren't there, and wishes they could carve the feeling part of their brain right out of their skull. Right. I'm definitely not fucked up.
Love him.
But seriously, I'm tired. I walk a mental high wire, balancing with hate in one hand and sorrow in the other. And then I crash with only my pretend friends to catch me. The reality of my horrors catches up with me on occasion and now is one of those times. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can barely think. The Shelter is screaming and I can't help those babies enough. I am getting that familiar feeling that I am not the one made for this job.
What this boils down to is that I hate my parents. I hate what they did and I hate what they allowed. That hate is consuming me and I feel myself getting angry so I turn the hatred on myself. It is easier to hate me. It is safer.
Until I run out of room for cutting.
And I'm there; I have no more hidden skin available. This is usually where I retreat deep inside but I'm not OK accepting that this time. Problem is, I don't know where to go.
My friend is making a raging comeback. Yippee.
I do not know exactly what has brought this on but I am knocked down, sideways and can't get up depressed. Those irritating Cymbalta commercials showing depressed people sucking at living? That's me minus roaming around aimlessly in sweatpants because I don't wear sweatpants.
I just stay in my pajamas.
I don't have the luxury of sleeping the day away or even lying in bed with my eyes open praying that a spontaneous lobotomy will occur. I have a kid, I have a job, I have judo, gymnastics, and swim team to attend, and I have a rather important (to me) husband who occasionally would like to see me out of pajamas and showered with a smile on my face. It's a rough life these days.
The thing is, I do shower, smile and dress nicely. It's my mind that is still wearing pajamas and perhaps that is where the conflict begins. I am fucking exhausted and I honestly believe that there is not a soul on earth that understands where I am coming from. Try as he may, my husband doesn't get it and he substitutes his confusion with anger. I don't do anger so I just shut up and stay quiet. I certainly am not talking to my daughter about this and I don't have any girlfriends to call up and bitch about my fucked up life.
So here I am.
I told my husband this morning that I am a really fucked up person and it is really hard to live. His response was to yell at me that I'm not fucked up. Right. Everyone he meets hears voices, sees people who aren't there, and wishes they could carve the feeling part of their brain right out of their skull. Right. I'm definitely not fucked up.
Love him.
But seriously, I'm tired. I walk a mental high wire, balancing with hate in one hand and sorrow in the other. And then I crash with only my pretend friends to catch me. The reality of my horrors catches up with me on occasion and now is one of those times. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can barely think. The Shelter is screaming and I can't help those babies enough. I am getting that familiar feeling that I am not the one made for this job.
What this boils down to is that I hate my parents. I hate what they did and I hate what they allowed. That hate is consuming me and I feel myself getting angry so I turn the hatred on myself. It is easier to hate me. It is safer.
Until I run out of room for cutting.
And I'm there; I have no more hidden skin available. This is usually where I retreat deep inside but I'm not OK accepting that this time. Problem is, I don't know where to go.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Lost
I get lost. In my own head.
According to my husband, I have been alarmingly quiet lately. I don't mean to. Really. It just happens.
After a screaming match culminating with said husband telling me to get the fuck out of my head; I told him that I am lost in the darkness of my voices.
I have my friends. Best friends that I have had for years. Our friendships have endured the well-worn time and lately I have been spending an increasing amount of time with them. While I read, sew, crochet, quilt, and even sleep, they are there and we talk. They are my comrades in a perpetual war; one that never stops, one that has wounds that never heal just right. They know me and they understand me.
But they are not real. And that makes me weird and quiet.
I have nothing audible to say. My voice is locked inside my thoughts, my hurts, my scars. I hurt but how does one verbalize horror? Horror in the movies is simply expressed in screams both silent and audible, twisted faces, running, backing into a corner, all until one is consumed completely by the evil.
To say that I am scared is an insult. I am terrified. I am haunted. I live in horror. I have joked before about what kind of writer I could be and I always conclude that I would be one hell of a horror author. I love Stephen King yet I can read very few of his books because ironically, they scare me. However, when I can, I have to wonder what happened to him? Horror does not come naturally to most human minds.
I am struggling at this moment. What I wrote in my previous post has sent me reeling. It is horror in black and white. Black and white that is vivid color in my memory because it is my life. These silent times are when depression grows taller and wraps its dense, dark grip around my mind, my body, my eyes. The darkness is in the corner of my eyes, just out of sight, no matter where I look.
I paint a smile on and talk to people all day long. But in those same dark corners on my eyes I have to wonder what if they only knew. And if they did know would they be as lost as me?
According to my husband, I have been alarmingly quiet lately. I don't mean to. Really. It just happens.
After a screaming match culminating with said husband telling me to get the fuck out of my head; I told him that I am lost in the darkness of my voices.
I have my friends. Best friends that I have had for years. Our friendships have endured the well-worn time and lately I have been spending an increasing amount of time with them. While I read, sew, crochet, quilt, and even sleep, they are there and we talk. They are my comrades in a perpetual war; one that never stops, one that has wounds that never heal just right. They know me and they understand me.
But they are not real. And that makes me weird and quiet.
I have nothing audible to say. My voice is locked inside my thoughts, my hurts, my scars. I hurt but how does one verbalize horror? Horror in the movies is simply expressed in screams both silent and audible, twisted faces, running, backing into a corner, all until one is consumed completely by the evil.
To say that I am scared is an insult. I am terrified. I am haunted. I live in horror. I have joked before about what kind of writer I could be and I always conclude that I would be one hell of a horror author. I love Stephen King yet I can read very few of his books because ironically, they scare me. However, when I can, I have to wonder what happened to him? Horror does not come naturally to most human minds.
I am struggling at this moment. What I wrote in my previous post has sent me reeling. It is horror in black and white. Black and white that is vivid color in my memory because it is my life. These silent times are when depression grows taller and wraps its dense, dark grip around my mind, my body, my eyes. The darkness is in the corner of my eyes, just out of sight, no matter where I look.
I paint a smile on and talk to people all day long. But in those same dark corners on my eyes I have to wonder what if they only knew. And if they did know would they be as lost as me?
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Anxiety
God, I hate anxiety. I sincerely believe that panic and anxiety can, at times, be more crippling than depression. I tend to swing back and forth between severe depression and severe anxiety. My depression is treated, my anxiety is not. Rarely do my anxiety and depression co-exist at the same time and so I've been told, that is why it it difficult to treat my anxiety symptoms.
I'm on the anxiety upswing right now. I wake up at night in a cold sweat with my heart racing. My brain quickly follows their lead and my thoughts start spooling up without me knowing how they will unwind. I can't stop it. I lay there awake until I am sure that my pounding heart is going to wake up my husband.
So I get up.
I clean, I read, I sew, I crochet, I play with the dog, I watch TV, I write... We have the cleanest house on the block. We have a maid and in my worked up state, I retrace her steps.
I'm not bipolar. I've been down that road with one too many shrinks and I am confident that the last one was correct.
I don't handle stress well. Actually... let me correct that. I don't handle stress at all; I stuff it. Eventually I run out of places to stuff my emotions and it explodes. At that point, I'm either depressed or anxious as hell. It is miserable. At times I feel paralyzed while sinking in quicksand when I am on anxiety overdrive. That is where I am now.
Like I said, my anxiety is not treated with medication. I self-medicate instead. Last night I washed my antidepressant pills down with vodka. It that isn't the picture of health, I don't know what is...
I'll be OK, I always am. Despite how this all sounds, I am attempting to deal with my anxiety in healthier ways. I will go to therapy this week and actually talk; I will also write more. The weather is nice and hubby suggested, as he watched the vodka/pill display last night, that we start taking a walk in the evenings. I can do that too.
I'm on the anxiety upswing right now. I wake up at night in a cold sweat with my heart racing. My brain quickly follows their lead and my thoughts start spooling up without me knowing how they will unwind. I can't stop it. I lay there awake until I am sure that my pounding heart is going to wake up my husband.
So I get up.
I clean, I read, I sew, I crochet, I play with the dog, I watch TV, I write... We have the cleanest house on the block. We have a maid and in my worked up state, I retrace her steps.
I'm not bipolar. I've been down that road with one too many shrinks and I am confident that the last one was correct.
I don't handle stress well. Actually... let me correct that. I don't handle stress at all; I stuff it. Eventually I run out of places to stuff my emotions and it explodes. At that point, I'm either depressed or anxious as hell. It is miserable. At times I feel paralyzed while sinking in quicksand when I am on anxiety overdrive. That is where I am now.
Like I said, my anxiety is not treated with medication. I self-medicate instead. Last night I washed my antidepressant pills down with vodka. It that isn't the picture of health, I don't know what is...
I'll be OK, I always am. Despite how this all sounds, I am attempting to deal with my anxiety in healthier ways. I will go to therapy this week and actually talk; I will also write more. The weather is nice and hubby suggested, as he watched the vodka/pill display last night, that we start taking a walk in the evenings. I can do that too.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Shattered
You could call me shattered. I'm a wife, mother, step-mother, misplaced daughter, confused religious person, and an abuse survivor. My life has been painful and hell, my life is still painful; probably more so now than ever before. I'm learning to feel and it is one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life, next to surviving.
I'm a funny person but it's a dark, wicked kind of funny. I find humor in odd things, in my misfortunes, in my struggles, and in how others relate to me. Despite the humor I find, I deal with, at times, crippling depression. I'm medicated now so I'm fine. "Fine" is my response to any question of how I'm feeling. It's a lie and I have to change that. I envy the person who can answer my question of "how are you?" with honesty. They are honest because they know how they feel and they know the corresponding words. I'm weird, I assign numbers to my feelings and seek to keep a total perfect number which equals "fine". That means that I have to discount, or subtract, certain feelings to maintain the number "fine". I've learned that this is a bad habit; detrimental to my physical and emotional health. It is soul killing.
Fine is no longer an option. I can't teach my daughter to be fine. I want her to live and feel. She's five now but I often watched her toddler expressions of anger, disappointment, happiness, fear, etc with amazement. She knows how to feel; she was born that way. She cried as a baby when she needed something. She laughed at a new discovery. It's an innate part of our human psyche. Somewhere along the way, I dismantled that ability and secretly I know why. I cringe when I hear myself telling my daughter that she's "OK" when she falls and scrapes her knee. She's not "OK". She's crying. I don't tell her that to make her stop crying; it's my way of trying to soothe her. It's the wrong way and is the exact reason that I have to learn my feelings much like a preschooler learns their letters. Elementary? Yes. I'm a grown, intelligent adult but quite stunted in many emotional ways.
So there you have it. Much like a toddler's emotional outbursts, I'm raw and extreme. I may not outwardly express this but on the inside I'm stewing and boiling at a blistering pace. Makes keeping track of my feeling numbers very difficult these days. On the outside, I'm a perfectionist and everything has it's place. It's all or nothing; black and white with me. I'm literal and it drives my husband nuts at times. I'm scared to let what I have on the inside spill out. It's toxic and I love those around me too much to let them get burned. But the very things I'm scared of the most, those feelings both good and bad, are what keeps me from embracing those same people that I love.
At this point, you're probably saying "good grief, this girl needs a therapist". I have one. A good one. I've have had one for nearly 4 years. Thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours later, here's where I'm at. Not impressed? You should be. I was a blob of flesh when I randomly picked a therapist off my insurance list and wandered into his office for the first time. I was a single mother with an 18 month old daughter, newly divorced and a complete wreck. I really am better if you use that term loosely. I encourage you to do that because "better" is different for everyone.
I'm a funny person but it's a dark, wicked kind of funny. I find humor in odd things, in my misfortunes, in my struggles, and in how others relate to me. Despite the humor I find, I deal with, at times, crippling depression. I'm medicated now so I'm fine. "Fine" is my response to any question of how I'm feeling. It's a lie and I have to change that. I envy the person who can answer my question of "how are you?" with honesty. They are honest because they know how they feel and they know the corresponding words. I'm weird, I assign numbers to my feelings and seek to keep a total perfect number which equals "fine". That means that I have to discount, or subtract, certain feelings to maintain the number "fine". I've learned that this is a bad habit; detrimental to my physical and emotional health. It is soul killing.
Fine is no longer an option. I can't teach my daughter to be fine. I want her to live and feel. She's five now but I often watched her toddler expressions of anger, disappointment, happiness, fear, etc with amazement. She knows how to feel; she was born that way. She cried as a baby when she needed something. She laughed at a new discovery. It's an innate part of our human psyche. Somewhere along the way, I dismantled that ability and secretly I know why. I cringe when I hear myself telling my daughter that she's "OK" when she falls and scrapes her knee. She's not "OK". She's crying. I don't tell her that to make her stop crying; it's my way of trying to soothe her. It's the wrong way and is the exact reason that I have to learn my feelings much like a preschooler learns their letters. Elementary? Yes. I'm a grown, intelligent adult but quite stunted in many emotional ways.
So there you have it. Much like a toddler's emotional outbursts, I'm raw and extreme. I may not outwardly express this but on the inside I'm stewing and boiling at a blistering pace. Makes keeping track of my feeling numbers very difficult these days. On the outside, I'm a perfectionist and everything has it's place. It's all or nothing; black and white with me. I'm literal and it drives my husband nuts at times. I'm scared to let what I have on the inside spill out. It's toxic and I love those around me too much to let them get burned. But the very things I'm scared of the most, those feelings both good and bad, are what keeps me from embracing those same people that I love.
At this point, you're probably saying "good grief, this girl needs a therapist". I have one. A good one. I've have had one for nearly 4 years. Thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours later, here's where I'm at. Not impressed? You should be. I was a blob of flesh when I randomly picked a therapist off my insurance list and wandered into his office for the first time. I was a single mother with an 18 month old daughter, newly divorced and a complete wreck. I really am better if you use that term loosely. I encourage you to do that because "better" is different for everyone.
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