Lie to Me, I Promise I'll Believe

To anyone who thinks I've been ignoring you lately,  I haven't. I've been ignoring myself so maybe by extension you, too, but I swear it's not been intentional. I've been depressed.  Not crippingly so, thankfully, but enough to feel like retreating from the world. 

This depression is different from my normal depression because it's primarily situational, not just because my brain chemicals are all out of balance. Either way, depression lies. It tells you terrible things about yourself and the world around you until it feels like the only option is to hide. This sort of depression is a little easier to deal with though because you can hold onto hope that things may be better once you get through the worst of the shitty situation. This is the sort of depression that platitudes and self help tips and hokey motivational memes are made for. This is type of depression where basic therapy works beautifully. This is not the chemical depression that is soul crushing and hope stealing. This is not the chemical depression that tells you that things will always be like this and you'll never get better.

I'm trying to get better. I've been going to therapy. I've been doing the work. I almost never miss my medicine. I have to hope that all this will be enough. Until then, know I'm not trying to be absent. I'm not trying to ignore anyone. I'm just trying to get through the worst part.

It's Been Awhile

It's been a long while since I've posted. A lot can happen in two months and that's certainly the case here. My life is pretty much completely different since I started writing this blog a few short months ago and I'm still undecided if it for better or for worse.

Let's just sort of recap the last few months:

*I had full on nervous breakdown complete with mania that kept me from eating or sleeping for days and my first ever hallucination.

*This breakdown got me a week's stay in a psychiatric hospital in Lexington known as the Ridge.

*During my stay there, actually just before it when I realized the hospital was the only choice left for me at the time,  I decided to leave my husband.

*My children and I moved back to my childhood home with my parents.

*I had another shorter trip to Ridge because the meds I was one weren't working well enough and my depression was still kicking my ass.

*I've been trying to be proactive even if on the surface it doesn't look like I'm doing much.  I've applied for disability since getting bipolar fully under control can be very difficult and take a while.  I've also applied for school at the local Ohio University branch and I'm still trying to gather all the right paperwork to make that happen.

I'll go into more detail about some of these things in later posts.  For now I just want to say I didn't take the decision to leave lightly.  It wasn't an impulse decision because of my illness. It was a long time in the making. I guess I'll just say what a lot of people getting divorced state, irreconcilable differences. I didn't think it was unreasonable to expect my boundaries to be respected or to be treated with some kindness and love when I was struggling.  Evidently those things were too much to ask of him. I'm sure he tells a different story but the results are the same. I'm trying to start over with my children with me and trying to show them a better way and trying to let them know it's okay to dream and to want to better.  It's going to take a while.

My meds seem to be right for the moment. My depression is mostly under control,  now I just get normal sad because of the situation but I'm not completely hopeless all the time anymore. My anxiety doesn't make me sick or keep me awake anymore and I take a medication that has helped with my PTSD nightmares so no more dreams about car wrecks and blood clots every night.

Overall, although I have days where that hopelessness tries to creep in, I'm looking forward to the future for the most part. Starting over is terrifying. But there's so much potential to make things great this time around.

One Week

It's been a strange week for me. The kids and I spent Sunday through Thursday at my parents house in the country because I've been feeling really unwell and home has been pure stress lately.  I needed a break. I needed some help. I needed some rest and few days to do nothing but read and create without feeling guilty for being "idle".

I've been having serious pain in my right side again but a trip to the emergency room provided no answers and only minor pain relief. After that was when I needed a few days away from as much stress as I could get away from. A lot of people think that mental illness is all about your thoughts and feelings but that's not true. High levels of anxiety for extended periods of time will absolutely wreck you physically as well. It will change your appetite and sleep patterns which will result in fatigue, stomach and intestinal distress, headaches, dizziness, chest pain, all manner of discomfort. When you feel like this for a while it becomes really hard to practice self care. Rest seems impossible even though you feel exhausted. You forget to eat or just don't eat because you know it will just make you sick. Currently, if never eating again was an option I would absolutely take it. I've not eaten anything that hasn't made me feel ill on weeks. I'm dropping weight and sure that's not the worst thing considering my size but I'd much rather be fat and happy than lose weight like this. The bigger problem is that sleep and regular meals are vital to my mental well being. If I mess up either of them I spend the time until I'm back on track fluctuating between high anxiety and crippling depression. It's an incredibly shitty cycle to get stuck in.

Wednesday was three months since Bryn's suicide. I wanted to blog about her. I wanted to talk about her as I knew her but I just couldn't. Somehow there were too many things to say and not enough words to say any of it the right way. I loved her so much, I can't stand the thought of not honoring her the right way. One day I will.  One day I'll have the words. But I don't yet.

When we came back to Lexington on Thursday I had an appointment with a specialist my therapist referred me to. She's a psychiatric nurse practitioner who specializes in women's mood disorders specifically related to hormones, and I love her. I went to see her about my PMDD in hopes of finding some sort of treatment so that I don't want to kill myself two to three days a month, every month,  until I go through menopause. Within five to ten minutes of talking with her she could tell I was bipolar.  She was amazed that I had never received that diagnosis before because evidently it's pretty obvious. I had a doctor in the past mention that it was a good possibility but I was never started on treatment for it. The specialist started me on mood stabilizers immediately and seems pretty confident that I can get better with monitoring and the right medication. For the first time in a while I have reason to be hopeful that I may not always be an emotional train wreck.

Yesterday was the four year anniversay of my pulmonary embolism. I usually refer to it as my clotiversary. That blood clot turned my whole life upside down and fucked up all of my plans. If it wasn't for that clot I'd probably being playing with radiation in a hospital by now,  probably hating my job but making a good amount of money. Things would be a lot easier for my family so I would grin and bear it. I guess that wasn't to be though. That freak health occurence made me see myself and life in a different way. Some people would come away from it thankful to be alive and hopeful and with a renewed appreciation for life. I'm not wired like that. Sure, I have days like that sometimes but mostly I came away scared.  I came away doubting myself, not trusting my body, seeing myself as weak and damaged, and completely lacking the ability to cope. I'm still working on overcoming all of those things. And some days it's amazingly hard.

Today I'm exhausted. I didn't sleep much and when I did my dreams were violent and dark. I woke up, I don't know,  distressed may be the right word. Nights like that just make me ruminate all the next day. I think about me, my life,  the state of the world, the world my kids are going to grow up in, how it all seems to be going to hell in a handbasket. It's hard to not spiral into depression when I haven't slept.  So today I'm just working on self-care and trying to not think we're all doomed.

Take a Look, It's in a Book

I've loved reading since I was a child. If I had the choice to go play outside or find myself a hiding spot and read a book you would find me with a book every time. I remember reading my first chapter book in first grade and after I had kids I went out of my way to find that same book for my kids who have shown zero interest in it (of course it was a kid's horror book, I like what I like). There is a joy in reading that I don't find anywhere else. The ability to step into someone else's shoes for a while is an escape that's hard to find any other way.

As an adult I've continued to love to read and books have helped me through some of the roughest parts of my life. I'm pretty sure I survived pregnancy on fiction alone. All the other women in the waiting room were reading What to Expect When You're Expecting or magazines and there I sat with a Chuck Palahniuk  or the newest Harry Potter book. I know nurses totally judge you and your pain level by your ability to focus but through my worst pain and stays in the hospital the only thing that kept me from crying the whole time was distracting myself by reading. It's also one of the only thing that quiets my mind enough when my anxiety is raging so that I can sleep.

For the past several years I've basically used my Kindle as a security blanket. It goes where I go and I'm on my third one because I'm a klutz who breaks things. I have way more books on there than I can ever read but I'm certainly going to try. I wanted to list some books today that have made a difference in my life. Things that have calmed or comforted me when I needed it. Things that have helped me learn to cope or at least made me not feel alone.

Funny things from crazy people:

Hyperbole and Half by Allie Brosh If you've ever been to her super popular blog of the same name you'll know a lot of this material. There are however some new and hilarious stories included in the book and I'm super excited that there is another book coming out later this year. Allie Brosh has a way of telling a story like no one else.

Let's Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson The Bloggess (Jenny Lawson) is one of the funniest women alive in my opinion. She's just so unabashedly her and she is just so weird. In this book we get more insights into what created this beautifully warped woman. You really should read it. But not in public because people will think you're crazy when you start laughing out loud uncontrollably.

Self-Help and the like that I've actually found useful:

Absolutely anything by Brene Brown. I'm currently reading Rising Strong  after watching Brene Brown's first TedTalk on vulnerability. Basically everything she says is life changing. It makes you look at yourself, really look at yourself, and see what's hold you back instead of building you up. You will see yourself somewhere in her writing, there's no way around it, and you will want to change. You will want to be better and feel better and let people in and you will start trying to find ways to do all of those things. And you will be grateful.

Exercise for Mood and Anxiety by Michael Otto I know I don't talk about exercise much because it's not one of my favorite things but I do go through spells where it's useful and I enjoy it. I do find that my moods and outlook do improve when I exercise consistently but trying to exercise when you are at the bottom of a depression cycle is nearly impossible. You're exhausted and everything hurts and you don't see the point. However, I find exercise to be extremely helpful when anxious. It helps get out some of that extra energy that can lead to panic attacks (that's right, not every panic attack starts in your brain with active worrying, some are very much a physical response).

The Goddess Path by Patricia Monaghan Although nowadays I identify more as an atheist than anything, I was a pentacle wearing, nature worshipping, Tarot reading pagan for a very long time. I still love nature and reading Tarot and I still love this book. It tells the stories of ancient goddess from different pantheons and then asks introspective questions at the end of each section. There are rites and rituals included that I never really got into but I love that workbook aspect of this book. Reflection is often the key to self improvement and the questions raised ask you to reflect on yourself and experiences in uncommon ways.

Fiction that changed my life:

*It should be said that I read a LOT of horror so I don't stumble onto this sort of stuff very often or easily. I don't read a lot of literary fiction or romances or coming of age stories because those things don't usually hold my interest terribly long. If it's fiction and I like it there is probably something weird going on or an element of fantasy or science fiction interwoven into the narrative.*

The Frugality Trilogy by Stuart Ayris I can't really articulate what these books and this writer means to me. Seriously. It was like I picked up each book in this trilogy at exactly the right time in my life. I'm not really sure that anyone else has had that connection to it but each book does have extremely good reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. It is a bit of a hidden gem though. And Mr. Ayris, being an independent writer and self-published, is fantastic about reader interaction. After I reviewed the last book in the trilogy on Goodreads he contacted me and offered to answer any of my questions that were still present at the end and he really did mean it. I asked some extremely personal and difficult questions and he was very forthcoming and kind. I have several other books by him on my Kindle that I cannot wait to get to because he just gets it. He writes depressed and anxious characters, flawed characters, and just real people like no one I have seen.

The Sterile Cuckoo by John Nichols I read this book while I was in high school, I think. I don't remember what drew me to it but I remember that I loved it and it was unlike anything else I would usually read. It still holds a special place in my heart.

I'm sure there are more and I hope to do more posts like this in the future as I remember other books or read new ones. I'm currently reading Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs which I am thoroughly enjoying so far. If you have Goodreads, add me there, I love to see what other people are reading, too.

Not Good Poetry 1

As I've watched myself grow older and larger
I've felt myself get smaller inside
I've been shrinking
Shrinking away from confrontations
Shrinking away from having opinions
Shrinking away from anything that could someone to judge me
Please don't judge me
I judge myself more harshly than you ever could
So know that it's been taken care of
I've been taken care of
I've been dealt with
My spirit has been appropriately broken
No reason someone like me should think kindly of themselves anyway
No reason I should complain
I am the complaint
Complaints don't have the rights to feelings and needs
Only people do
I'm not people
I'm just this skin sac that causes all the problems
I am the problem
I know
I've been listening even though you haven't
Not that you could hear me
I lost my voice years ago

What's a Girl to Do

I'm in a creative rut. I've felt for the last few weeks that I'm right on the verge of a great idea that just won't come out. It's extremely frustrating. I've started many projects recently but don't feel capable of finishing them. Depression and anxiety often suck out my ability to create, concentrate, and focus and that's one of the hardest parts of the illnesses for me. I thrive on making beautiful or interesting things. I don't create, I don't thrive. 

Sometimes I just need a push. In some cases a gentle one, in some cases it's more like out of an airplane, hopefully, with a parachute on. I'm not sure which one will do it in this case. I can waste whole days sometimes just looking for inspiration. I'll spend hours on Pinterest, Etsy, Craftsy, Facebook groups dedicated to my art of choice, looking up articles, the list goes on, just to get a good idea. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it just makes me want to go to Michaels and spend a lot of money I shouldn't. 

Currently I have several paid cross stitch projects I need to work on and I've recently gotten involved in a writing project I'm pretty excited about. I also have the supplies to make some seriously cute owl candles. I also started trying to make a stuffed animal net for my daughter's room but I put it down a few days ago and I'm pretty sure it's just one giant yarn knot now. I got some amazing adult coloring books and gel pens for Christmas and Valentine's Day (Harry Potter beasts coloring book is amazing, by the way) but I sometimes feel like I could be doing more productive stuff when I color. 

Today my focus seems to be writing. I was doing research for a story earlier and got some good notes taken. I'm going to read through some of the dozens of Kindle books I've downloaded about writing and the writing process. I'm blogging which I need to do more often. I've got all the stories stored up in my head and it's like they're having a fist fight to see who can get to the front of the line. I've always struggled with fiction though, even if I have a good idea. I can write a good beginning, middle, or end but struggle with doing all three. I'll either know how the story starts or know where the plot is going to lead but working out the details between can be difficult for me. That's why I'm going to study more about writing. It's something I've always been good at when I am determined to do it but it doesn't take a whole lot for me to lose my determination. I've been having thoughts like poetry again lately and maybe one day I'll share those. I may dig out some of the stuff I've written previously for a first poetry post. 

I've also wished often lately that I had stayed involved in music. I miss playing an instrument. I miss being onstage. I miss singing with other people. I miss singing for other people, even though it often scared the shit out of me. There is something about that fear that is familiar and comfortable. And when the experience is over and you have good feedback it's rewarding and affirming and you wonder why you got worked up in the first place. That sort of thing makes it so when I'm freaking out about something else I can look at that situation and think I freaked out for no reason maybe this will go well, too. It's been a long time since I've had that sort of situation to reflect on and grow from. 

I feel like there is music that would help me unlock my creativity currently but damned if I know what it is. I've been listening to a variety of stuff to see if anything moves me but, so far, no luck. I feel like there is a particularly emotion that is blocking me that I need to tap into but sometimes sorting your emotions can be extremely difficult. Especially when you have depression and anxiety, you go through lows that feel like numbness and highs that feel like you are feeling everything all at once and don't know why. Sometimes it's hard to sort what is truly your emotions from what is your mental illness reacting to a situation. Neither situation invalidates your emotions but finding that thing that you really need to work on can be next to impossible when you aren't sure why you feel that way. 

I was supposed to go to therapy yesterday. Maybe that would have helped. But issues with a lifelong chronic illness kept me at home. I was diagnosed with irritable bowel syndrome (IBS) as a child and it's never gotten better, if anything it gets a little worse each year and it's difficult to treat without causing other problems. Yesterday I woke up sick, feeling like I was going to throw up for hours but never did. My stomach hurt because all of my intestines were spasming for hours. The only medication that has ever helped with is Levsin and I don't have a current prescription for it. I was sick for many years before a doctor ever even told me that there was medicine available to help. When I had to have a colonoscopy in 2012 they actually witness and IBS attack during the scope and so they finally gave me medicine for it. The problem with the medicine though is that it makes me extremely thirsty and extremely tired. Also, since moving last September finding a doctor that listens and believes me has been extremely trying and I don't want to have another camera shoved up my ass just deal with an issue that's already been diagnosed. It seems like overkill. I've gotten it mostly under control by eliminating a lot of food that makes me sick but I still have bad days, like yesterday. Anxiety tends to makes IBS worse so sometimes it's not just my brain out to ruin my day. 

Now my next therapy appointment isn't until April 19 but I do have an appointment with a nurse practitioner that specializes in women's behavioral health, specifically mental illness related to hormonal problems, on April 14 so I feel like I am at least getting on the right track. I've also been putting in school and job applications. I'm not entirely sure that I'm ready to handle either right now but I can't hide forever. Ideally, I'd love to be able to work for myself, making money off of arts and crafts and writing. I'm hard on myself but I'd probably be the most understanding boss I could find. I have been working towards those goals but it is such slow going, especially when you're stuck in a rut. So I'm off to look for inspiration again. Wish me luck. 

I'm Just Being Honest

Since I've started this blog I've gotten a few comments about people wishing they could be as open as I am about, well, I guess everything. Let me let you in on a secret. Being open and honest with yourself is a lot harder than being open and honest with other people. At least that's been my experience. Once I tell myself the truth and accept it, it's a lot easier to let others in.

Another thing I should tell you, is that being as candid as I have been about some things is not easy. It's actually really fucking hard. It leaves you raw. It makes you uncomfortable. It makes you confront things that make you feel shame. It makes you think about things you try not to on a regular basis. But it's also wonderful. You find others relate to your stories and that helps with feeling isolated. You find people love you for who you are, flaws and all. You confront those painful, uncomfortable things and you can see how they've made you who you are today, for better or for worse. And you confront your shame and when people know your secrets and still love you and accept you, what do you have to feel ashamed of?

I went a very long keeping everything inside. I put on my face for the world and kept almost all but the most insignificant parts of me buried. Every few years everything that I had been pushing down would come bursting out of me all at once. These are the times I said all the things that I thought I shouldn't. I stopped caring who I hurt because keeping it all bottled up was hurting me. For a brief time I would just lay it all out and I would cry and I would yell and I would cut people out of my life, sometimes for good. These times were/are stressful and the only way I know to stop being like that is to let it out, on my own terms, in more of a trickle or light stream instead of in the flash floods and tsunamis that used to overwhelm me.

With that being said, there are some things that even I won't share publicly. Things that are full of too much pain for me to process them on my own. Things that only a handful of my closest people know because they cause me intense, unjustified shame. Things that I am not willing to confront because there is no resolution. There is no way that I can think about it and see it as a learning experience, that just will never happen. These are the things that cause me to break down. These are the things I can't let go. Maybe one day I will, and then I can talk about it, but I'm not there yet.

(Can't Get No) Satisfaction

I find a lot of times when I'm at my worst I forget or ignore doing the things that I love. I've barely cross stitched in weeks and it's usually my favorite thing in the world. When I have tried I've had difficulties concentrating because my mind either can't focus or is hyper focused on something else. Last time I had to pull out twenty minutes worth of work and do it again over a very minuscule counting error. It was frustrating. It wasn't coming together fast enough to see results that pushed me to do more. Cross stitch is awesome because it can be really relaxing and almost like a form of meditation, but if you fuck up even a little bit it's a pain in the ass to recover. So I have to be in the right mindset and here lately that feels rare. Maybe I should just look through the pictures of my finished projects for motivation and see if I can remember how awesome it feels to finish something cool or beautiful, because it does feel awesome.

I usually love food but I often forget to eat or just don't care to cook for only me when I'm alone all day. I also don't cook the sort of stuff I love and am good at when I'm down which sucks because it would probably make me feel better. It also sucks because I'm sure the family gets tired of pasta and the easiest stir-fry I can come up with. I should bake more again. I love to bake. I love baked goods. I love the way the house smells when something good is in the oven. But I hate cleaning up the mess from baking and cooking big crazy meals so I don't do it when I know for a fact I won't clean it up. It's too stressful. I try to find ways to break my worst habits but the tendency to leave destruction in my wake is one of those things I've been fighting forever and it always wins.

I haven't even been playing video games. Not on the PS3, my phone, the computer, nothing, which is pretty rare. I usually have at least one game that I'm totally addicted to at all times and that can range from Angry Birds to Kingdom Hearts to Zombie Pandemic. Again, frustration and lack of focus gets me irritated and frustrated and it stops being relaxing. I hit a hard part and just give up, like I feel I often to do in real life.

The only thing that I love that I seem to be able to make myself do even when I feel like shit is sing. Now that's not saying it's good, just that it makes me feel better. Finding the right song, for the right mood and just belting it at the top of my lungs when I'm by myself is so therapeutic. I've started recording myself, I've started posting them online (my Soundcloud is here, sorry if makes your ears hurt) because I like being able to revisit those moods and the things that helped me through them sometimes. It's making me wish I had been able to learn how to play guitar when I tried when I was younger. Maybe I could learn it now, I still have the guitar, it just needs new strings. Maybe that can be the next hobby that I can love that I can still do even when I'm down.

Try

It's another rough day. Anxiety spikes all day long and now I'm afraid of my anxiety medicine. I've been trying to clean but keep getting distracted. I tried to get the kids to clean their rooms and that of course resulted in tears and screaming, because that's what you should do when someone asks for your help.

I am trying to look ahead. I filled out the FAFSA today to see what financial aid I can get to go back to school. On a whim at the last minute I sent it to two cosmetology schools here, too. I figure I'm usually pretty good at talking people through stuff and I'm also good at making beautiful things. So right now I'm thinking social work or cosmetology, either way I should be able to be in a position I like and can thrive in and also find employment. I'm considering the cosmetology route because I'm honestly not sure if I can handle social work. I think I would have to be in very specific sort of role to do well in that field. I would want to do patient advocacy and also work with the LGBTQ community, especially with transgender issues and patient care. I would never want to work with kids. I like kids but kids with heartbreaking stories would crush my soul and I'll leave that job to the stronger souls.

I'm looking into what it will take to get me driving again. I lost my license after that 30 car pile up, for reasons I still don't understand. I need to get it reinstated, thankfully because of how long ago it was it appears that the fees are much lower now. I start therapy on Tuesday and hopefully we can find methods to ease my fears about driving. It's going to take some work to convince me I won't kill anyone while driving.

Some cleaning has been done around the house the last few days so I guess that may also be signs of improvement. Or nervous energy and a need for distraction. Hand-washing dishes just always seems to make me cry for some reason. It's too quiet and doesn't take enough focus and on mindless tasks my mind always wonders to the darker corners of my mind. I wish I could have got more done but I had to keep taking time out for panic attacks. It's hard to get anything done when you feel like you can't breathe. Maybe tomorrow there will be fewer of them but I don't anticipate that until after I start therapy as I'm dreading going. I know it's necessary but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

Still

I'm feeling a little better today. Not great, but definitely better. I no longer feel like my head is on upside down and backwards. It's not on straight again yet, but maybe just kind of crooked now. I think a huge part of my problem yesterday was that I haven't been sleeping and when I do get a little sleep it's been really, really poor. So I took some of the anxiety medicine that was prescribed to me so I could sleep and judging by my blog posts and interaction with people the last few days it seems to do me a lot more harm than good. It's a antihistamine anxiety medicine and it just doesn't work for me. It makes me super depressed, super fast and takes a long time to shake. I haven't had any antihistamines in more than 24 hours now and I am definitely feeling better.

I've decided, for now, that I think I may be okay for a while longer without an inpatient stay unless something else happens. I have enough of my normal medicine to get through the weekend. I have a therapy appointment on Tuesday so I'll have another perspective, maybe they can offer some sort of alternative. I'm hoping they'll understand when I tell them I can't take that anti-anxiety medicine but I need something else. I need Xanax. I have a good history with benzos, unlike a lot of people. I've never abused them, they work for me without making me worse, I do not become dependent on them, and they don't make me suicidal. If I can keep my anxiety under control I'm much, much better off. My super depressed self loathing spirals always start when my anxiety basically hits it's peak. It's like I hit a spot where even my brain can't keep up with all the shit going on it and it basically just crashes as hard and fast as possible. That's where I was yesterday.

Today I feel more hopeful. My head is not completely full of self-loathing. I've been able to leave the bed for more than a couple minutes at time. I've been able to eat a little (only a very little though). I'm the only person in my house that hasn't been diagnosed with strep throat yet but there's a good chance I have a mild case of it and that's adding to the misery. These are all things that let me believe that waiting to get help is the right answer, right now.

I want to say thank you to everyone that has reached out to be the last few days after reading my blog. You've all be so kind and so supportive and that's exactly what I've needed. Those sort of gestures go a long way in helping shine a light to those of us in dark places. I think sometimes people forget that I'm not a different person when the crazy takes hold, I'm just a sick person, a person in pain. Pain makes people angry and confused sometimes. My character is still mine, the things that make up me are still there even if they are harder to find. Sometimes I don't want to just talk about how I feel or why I feel that way. Focusing in on it so sharply for an extended period of time sometimes just makes me feel worse. Talking to me about things I love and telling me funny stories and treating me life a friend reminds me that I don't always feel that bad, that I've had that pain before and made it through, and I can make it through again. So thank you again to everyone who knows I'm still in here.

Zombie

Today's post is going to be extremely difficult for me, for a few reasons.

First, I feel like a zombie today. My everyday crazy pills, duloxetine, have gone missing. I think I just picked up that prescription maybe a week ago. Fuck. This particular medication has a very short half life, which means that it doesn't take very many skipped doses to know that you've missed it. Sometimes you can just be a few hours late with it and start to have some pretty shitty symptoms. I'm having the spins and nausea pretty bad, I also feel like my skin is occasionally being lit on fire and then it goes out. Adding to the zombie feelings is that I took too many anxiety pills so I could sleep last night and today I am so, so groggy. I'm afraid my typing by the end of this is going to look a lot like the last couple pages of the Stephen King story The End of the Whole Mess (if you haven't read it, do it. It's in Nightmares and Dreamscapes and it's great.)

Second, my crazy is off the charts today. I'm more miserable then I've been in a long time. Every shitty thing I think about myself sometimes is playing on loop in my head very loudly today. I just keep thinking about things that could kill me today where I wouldn't have to do it myself and the list is pretty short. I still haven't ruled out another fluke blood clot or something falling from the sky and crushing me while I rest like Donnie Darko. I'd take either as long as it did the job.

And third, because of the other two reasons I'm having to seriously consider inpatient care, which is something I have been actively trying to avoid for years. Unfortunately I know me well enough to know that there's a good chance I'm not going to get better on my own. In fact I'll probably get worse until the choice is taken away from me and I'm forced to go.

I've been going through a progressively more debilitating major depression since about November 2014. In January 2015, I started thinking daily about stepping into traffic, particularly in front of large truck, on my way home from work. I couldn't do it though because that truck driver never did anything to me and I wouldn't want him to have to remember that for the rest of his/her life. I may have a lot of crazy but I guess I'm still considerate. By March that year (so exactly a year ago) I had a fully formed plan that I've never told anyone about to leave all my identifiable information at home and go sit on the train tracks and let one hit me while my family was away at work and school. Instead of doing that, I started making phone calls to my insurance company and some doctors' offices. I have Bryn to thank for that, but she's a post for another day.

Finding a doctor was impossible. I have a rough history with behavioral medication so I knew a psychiatrist was going to be necessary. This was my fourth major depressive cycle as an adult and it came on harder and faster than they ever had before. I went from feeling like myself to wanting to die in just a couple months. I was pretty sure I was going to need more than a therapist or counselor, I was going to need drugs. Since I couldn't get in with anyone on my own I called my primary care doctor who got me in immediately and started me on venlaflaxine because I had had moderate success with it in the past. She was also able to get me in with a psychiatrist in her office but it would take another three months before she could see me. Three months is a scary long time for someone in my predicament.

I had several medication changes over the summer trying to find one that worked for me but didn't have more side effects than benefits (the venlaflaxine didn't work out because it caused me to have headaches and bruise everywhere). The duloxetine was a game changer for a while and I only had anything negative from it when I didn't take it, which on it's own is frightening because you worry about whether or not you'll ever be able to go off of it. Because of job changes, insurance changes, and city changes I've not been able to get consistent care. I've been trying to find a mental healthcare provider I could see since October, it's now March. I've seen one psychiatric nurse practitioner once for 15 minutes in that time. And I've had a hell of a six months so this is not working well for me at all. I start therapy next Tuesday but today I'm not sure I can even make it that long without some help.

The most frustrating part of all of this is that I recognized when I needed help. I've been trying for a year to get it. It's so disheartening to be in this position when I feel like it could have been prevented. I tried to prevent it. But there's no help. There's no one seeing new patients. How is that even possible? I've called large hospital systems, Ohio State Medical Center, OhioHealth, University of Kentucky, and said I would meet with anyone if they could just get me in. Everyone had a six month wait. Everyone. Dozens, maybe hundreds of professionals, and not one could see me. Do they have any concept of the amount of damage that can be done in six months, in six weeks, hell, in six minutes if you can't find the help you need?

Do You Really Want to Hurt Me

Originally my plan for today was to try to make some sort of positive post, maybe something about ways to cope and take care of yourself when you feel like shit. That's going to have to wait for another day because I just don't have positivity in me today.

Today my anxiety feels like a lead apron laying on my chest and stomach. It's hard to breathe, no food sounds good, and I've been having anxiety palpitations since the middle of the night last night. My heart was pounding so loud in my ears I couldn't sleep. I was awake until sometime after 4 a.m. and then had fitful dreams of death and destruction. I woke up just a few hours later full of venom and fire and ready to burn the whole world down. I want to smash and destroy and make everyone else feel as shitty as I do.

I hate these feelings the most because I like to believe most of the time I'm a decent person, some days even good. But on days like today I don't believe that, I don't feel that because I want to make someone else hurt. I won't. I'll bite my tongue. I'll cry by myself. I'll probably remind myself off all of my shitty qualities and make myself feel worse instead of hurting someone else.

I feel like a storm cloud ready to burst if the pressure gets much higher. But I don't think they're calling for rain today.

All I Really Want is to be Wonderful

Me, this morning.
Nervous so I have good makeup on. 

When I'm anxious I tend to over-analyze the way I look. I never really considered this a big deal, maybe just a weird personality trait. When things are really bad I have this tendency to feel like my body isn't mine. I know that sounds strange and vague but there isn't really a better to describe it. I learned a few years ago that these things are actually symptoms of anxiety known as dysmorphia and depersonalization.

You may have heard the term dysmorphia before, body dismorphic disorder (BDD) is it's own diagnosis and is most often the cause of things like anorexic nervosa or bulimia. Thankfully, mine has never been that severe, it's definitely not it's own disorder in my case but more like a symptom. Some examples of things I have fixated on because of it; body hair, acne and other skin issues, my teeth, my nails and hands. Now, keeping yourself clean and healthy and well groomed is fine it's when you cross that border into obsession and fixation that it becomes a problem.

When I was younger and started shaving there would be times where I would shave just about everything I could reach from the neck down. This was in like eight grade. I felt that any trace of body hair on me was ugly and therefore made me ugly. I didn't judge other people's body hair, so why I did I feel like I would be judged because of it? Who knows, but I did, I was sure of it. For a time in my early twenties I waxed my arms. Who does that? I had a tendency to over pluck my eyebrows because they never looked the right shape to me. I would just pluck and pluck until I eventually I gave up trying because they were never going to be perfect. I would spend literally hours a coupe times a week plucking my eyebrows and the hair above my lip that only I saw. If I didn't, I was sure people were looking at me strange. Once I got older and had kids (oh god I hate writing this next part) I started getting these terrible black hairs on my chin and neck. They basically look like straight pubic hairs. They are the bane of my existence. If I'm depressed and neglecting myself and they grow out a little I absolutely freak out once I'm well enough to stand looking in a mirror again. I have cried over these stupid hairs more times than I can count. I know a lot of other women have them because we've commiserated about it but, you know, I never, ever notice them on other people. They make me more self-conscious than being fat and having stretch marks combined. I have more pairs of tweezers than even I know of because if I leave the house and check my makeup and see one I've missed I will buy a new pair if I've forgotten to leave one in the car.

Just woke up.

Dog cuddles

I started having acne in probably third grade. I still do sometimes but thankfully not like it used to be. Over the years, I have tried almost everything to get rid of it. I was on oral antibiotics for years. I was on birth control pills in high school just to control the acne, I wasn't sexually active at all. I've used creams that have made my skin peel like a sunburn. I've used creams with more side effects than benefits. I have bought skincare regimes that were way too expensive and did nothing but dry my skin out like the surface of Mars. I've tried tanning. I've tried staying out of the sun for years at a time. None of it gave me the skin I wanted, probably because what I wanted was nearly unattainable. I have spent countless hours with mirrors 2 or 3 inches from my face trying to dig out the imperfections. Usually all it does make things worse but when I'm hyper-focused on the blackheads on my nose I forget that. As for other skin issues, I have picked skin tags off with my fingernails before because I got fixated on the fact they were there at all. I couldn't see them really because they were on my back. They weren't causing me discomfort, they weren't being rubbed by a bra strap or anything. I just knew they were there and I couldn't stop myself. (As a warning, don't do this ever because they bleed a lot.) I have cut into my own leg with an Exacto knife to remove a blemish before. Typing that out makes me realize more clearly how fucked up that is.

I don't really fixate on my teeth too much anymore but when I was younger I was constantly trying to whiten them. My favorite product was this thing that looked like a mouth guard that you filled with this whitening gel. I did it way too often and got to the point where it hurt to brush my teeth or eat cold foods. The stuff also made my gums raw sometimes. But I kept doing it. I was convinced that if I could just get my teeth a little whiter, I'd be prettier. I was the only person that thought there was anything wrong with my teeth. I'm going to attribute some of this one to the fact that when I was little my teeth were pretty fucked up. It's hard to find a picture of me actually smiling from ages 11 until about 14. They were all in the wrong places so I got braces in seventh grade. They moved really easily, which hurts really badly by the way, so I got the braces off at the end of eighth grade. I wore my retainers religiously for years and off and on until I was about 25 because I was so scared I would go back to looking like that again.

Maybe I still don't smile.

Good hair but resting bitch face

When I obsess over my nails I can easily spend 6-8 hours a week working on them. This will usually go on for weeks at time. I will meticulously clean, file, buff, and moisturize, over and over. I'll polish them and then once the first little bit chips off I will scrape the rest off, sometimes with my teeth, and then start the process all over again. I don't know what makes me do it, but if I don't do it, it's all I think about. I cannot do fake nails. I cannot handle the feeling of them and the clean up once I freak out and pull them all off. I stopped trying. It's far too stressful.

Reading on the porch

I often wish I could get back the hours of time I've wasted in my life obsessing about these things that don't matter. Not once has anyone complimented me on any of the things I've fixated, with the exception of my nails and that's usually just because I've painted them a good color. People have noticed in other ways, like when my eyebrows have been weird. Comments were definitely made and they were not complimentary. I've had to explain not going out in the sun because the antibiotics I'm taking or the cream I'm using will make me burn almost instantly. I've actually caused myself more embarrassing situations than beneficial ones doing most of these things. I could accomplished so many good things in my life in this time I've wasted.

Now, the depersonalization I don't have any control over and I have no idea that it's going to happen but when it does it's so confusing and overwhelming. The best way I can describe it is that it doesn't feel like your body belongs to you, or maybe that it doesn't fit right, or you're somehow outside of it. I guess it depends on the day which one of those situations happens. In another blog post I mentioned that I felt that day like my skin didn't fit. I often just say I don't feel comfortable in my own skin. And it varies as to why this is, some days I feel like I'm not filling up the whole space and sometimes it feels like this body is too small to contain me. I've had experiences before when I've been walking or riding in a car and it feels like my body is moving forward but part of me is only half in it and the other part is just slightly behind, like my spirit and my body aren't joined for a second. It's a very strange sensation and I'm sure it sounds crazy to anyone reading this.

Feeling like my body isn't mine sometimes causes some strange ramifications. There have been times where I haven't recognized myself in a reflection. I really have to look at it again and study it to know that it's me. The same goes for pictures. A few weeks ago, Tom and I planned to do a retro, pin-up style photo shoot. I was really excited for it. I touched up my hair color and even bought fake eyelashes. I had fun during the shoot and it felt like we got some cute pictures. When I looked at the pictures right after though, I lost it. I cried for an hour. I didn't see myself in those pictures at all. It didn't look like me. I didn't recognize that person. I was really upset about it in a completely irrational way. Because I knew it was me. I was there. It just happened. But I couldn't see me.

I'm including photos in the post to show there's nothing actually wrong with me. My perceived physical flaws are almost all in my head. I'm going to also include the official pin-ups that made me lose my shit. I can look at them now and I don't see anything wrong with them. I looked at them after about three days and I was actually able to find ones that I thought were good. Whatever came over me at the time of the shoot was limited to just that day, at that specific time. But I guess that's how anxiety works. Even when you think you know your triggers and you know how you're going to respond you can still be surprised by mean your own brain can be to you sometimes.

Mid-photo shoot
for costume change

When I freaked out after seeing the photos
I couldn't go on with the next set.

There's nothing actually wrong with any of these pictures. I don't look so different from my usual self that this should have bothered me. But everything about these photos were upsetting to me the first time I saw them and I still can't fully explain why.

Dirt and Glitter Cover the Floor

I'm a messy person by nature. I always have been. I really can't remember a time outside of work where cleaning up immediately after myself has been a priority. And even working I would sometimes get hyper-focused on the project and ignore the mess I was making until the last ten minutes of my shift. It's not because I'm careless or lazy, it's because I can be very scattered brain about things I don't find particularly engaging or interesting. I have a lot of ideas and when I try to make them reality I sometimes forget that there is a world going on around me and then when I'm done or lose interest I tend to jump to the next thing. The biggest problem with my messy and easily distracted nature is that it can really impair my creativity and productivity sometimes. Also, any person who comes into my home can immediately tell my mental state by the condition of the house.

When I'm really anxious I'll get into cleaning projects but I usually abandon them halfway through, so there's things like bags of donations sitting around, or garbage that has been cleared from various areas of the house sitting by the front door and I haven't managed to walk the extra 10 steps to drop in the dumpsters, kitchen cabinets half organized, laundry in baskets everywhere that's full of folded but not put away clothing. The floors are swept but not scrubbed. Every glass, plate, and piece of silverware in the house is clean but all the pots are sitting in the sink or on the stove dirty. There's bins of junk and crafts projects I swear I'll purge this time. I have these great ideas that this time I'm going to do it right, but then I have all the ideas at one time and bounce from project to project and nothing ever gets completely done. It's really frustrating and I get on my own nerves doing it.

When I'm really depressed it starts to look at bit like an episode of Hoarders. I have no energy so even loading the dishwasher feels like an accomplishment. With the depression comes a lot more physical pain than you would expect so movement is limited and can only happen in short spurts. Trying to combat the feelings of hopelessness and malaise with a mop and a cleaning rag has never worked for me. I've washed dishes while bawling my eyes out as I contemplate my existence and the fact that everyone I know is going to die. I don't know about anyone else, but I'd rather cry in bed under a pile of blankets. I've always been the sort of person that has a hard time following through on something I think is pointless and when I'm depressed everything feels pointless so why clean. I know that's a shitty outlook but I can't always control how I feel. The inability to do even basic things around the house when I'm depressed is a source of shame for me which only perpetuates the depressed cycle. I'm working on it but it's a hard thing to tackle.

It doesn't help at all that I'm usually surrounded by perpetual mess-making machines. Between kids and pets it never ends. Sometimes that adds to the feeling that whatever I do is pointless because someone or something is going to come right behind within the hour and fuck it right back up. I've tried and tried over the years to convince the family to help, I have said many times I can't do it all by myself, especially since for everything that gets done three things come undone but it never sticks. It never really seems to get through unless I completely lose my shit and go into crying mega-bitch mode. And I hate doing that, I really do. I hate having to scream and cry to feel seen and heard. It makes me miserable.

I think some people don't think I realize my house is a mess, that I'm a mess. But that couldn't be further from the truth. I am fully aware, hyper-aware in fact. Over the years I have tried to be better. I've subscribed to websites like Flylady. I've watched every show I can find about hoarding and dirty houses and organizing spaces and applied the techniques where I could. I've bought storage containers. I've purged a lot of stuff. I've read countless books on minimalism, cleaning, organizing, finding a routine, natural cleaners, everything related to it I've been able to find. Nothing sticks, and I then I just get disappointed because I'm a failure again. So many other people don't struggle with this, why do I? What is my fundamental flaw that I can see a mess and just keep walking? I have no idea, but it's there and it is nearly impossible to shake.

Sometimes I can go weeks, even months occasionally, where most things are in order. But it's been a while since that has happened. It usually only happens when I don't feel too far to one side or the other of depression and anxiety but that seems to be really rare lately. Right now, honestly, I'm writing this blog post primarily to procrastinate. Thinking about all the things that need done overwhelms me and I have no idea where to start. I would love to have a clean house. I would love for people to be able to stop by at a moment's notice without abject terror running through me. I would love to spend the time before someone visits baking them something awesome instead of figuring out where to hide all the mail I've been piling up and trying to scrub the worst and stickiest messes from the kitchen floor because I know there is no way I can get the whole thing done before they get here. Above all of this, I'd love to feel like I deserved it and like I deserve the calm and peace of mind it would bring.

Where is My Mind

Today has been a very busy day inside my head. I woke up feeling okay, contemplative but pretty much okay. I wrote that blog about my anxiety and PTSD and felt better for a little while. I have felt sort of anxious all day, not actively upset but just like my skin didn't fit right. But somewhere around 4 o'clock the PMDD started to take hold. 

I've had PMDD long enough now to sort of know that's the problem. Maybe not at first, but after a few hours when certain terrible thoughts start creeping in and getting louder I know that's what's wrong. It doesn't necessarily make the feelings easier to handle because you know what they are but you're able to remember that they will end. They've ended before, you've made it through. It's going to be a fairly miserable couple days.

There's a good chance I'll think about killing myself a lot for the next few days. I will feel ugly, worthless, hopeless, desperate, unloved, stupid, and like a waste of breath and resources. On good days, I know none of that's true. But these are not good days. They are dark days. They are days where I will likely spend more time crying than not. They are days where I will question and push everyone who loves me. They are days where I will feel like I'm not enough. They are days where I will be absolutely convinced I'll never feel happy again.

And there's nothing I can do about it. At least nothing I haven't already tried or isn't major life altering surgery. Treatments include antidepressants, sometimes benzos, hormonal birth control, or a full hysterectomy. I'm already on an antidepressant and it's losing it's effectiveness for my everyday depression, it's like I've not even taken it when my hormones shift. My new doctor for some reason won't prescribe benzos (hopefully it's just because I'm new and once I'm established they'll be an option) but I've used them in the past with a least a tiny bit of relief. I don't know if they actually help or if they just remove my ability to feel so fucked up over it, either way it keeps me from wishing I were dead for at least a little while. I've tried hormonal birth control in the past but that's no longer an option for me because of my medical history. Also, it didn't help. In fact for some women it makes them much, much worse. I don't think I'm ready for a hysterectomy, yet. The women in my family all have gone through menopause fairly early, maybe I will, too. Even so I'll probably still deal with shit for the next 10 years minimum unless there is some sort of scientific breakthrough.

(*I just learned that taking a high androgen drug is also an option but I am far too vain most times to purposefully take something that would cause me to develop, even a little, some male characteristics. I like my breasts as they are, my voice is deep enough, and I already hate shaving the things I do shave. Also, more headaches. No fucking thank you.)

Scientific breakthrough is pretty unlikely considering only about 3%-8% of women experience true PMDD. (Why am not ever in the small percentage of lucky people, like lottery winners or terrible actors who still manage to get good roles or people who get rich off of glorified fan fic? I'm looking at you E.L. James.) The medical community doesn't have a clear picture of what causes PMDD, the working theory is that the neuro-transmitters in the brain have a bad reaction to our normal, fluctuating hormones. Is that like being allergic to my own reproductive system? That's pretty fucked up when I think about it like that. As with my other issues it's just more evidence that I'm wired wrong. Symptoms of PMDD are like the symptoms of PMS but turned up to 11. Plus the added bonus of severe depression and suicidal ideations.

So with all that said I think my best course of action is distraction. I may blog a lot the next few days so I have something else to focus on besides how miserable I am. I should probably bake something because I need all the sugar and chocolate right now. And the salt. Someone should bring me potato chips. I'm going to cuddle the dogs, watch some zombie movies, read some books, and try to remember that in a couple days I may feel like myself again.

It's Not a Big Deal Until You Make It a Big Deal

When you have general anxiety disorder you never exactly know what is going to set you off and possibly ruin your day. Sure, you'll know some of your triggers but some of them won't be avoidable, and some of them will be surprises when you're in a new situation.

A brief list of some of the things I know cause my anxiety to go into overdrive:
-Being in a car during bad weather
-Being in a car at night
-Really bad traffic
-Sudden acceleration and lane changing
-Knowing I'm going to be meeting new people (this may be closer to social anxiety)
-Seeing people I know for the first time in a really long time
-Really big crowds
-Disappointment, not getting something I have been excited about
-New medications
-Chest pain

As you can see, a lot of these things can't be avoided. I've just had to develop coping mechanisms and try to find the right medications to get me through the worst of the anxiety until I can deal.

One of the worst things to come from my anxiety is that I've not driven in three years. It sucks, but I've just not been capable. Before I finally stopped driving I was having panic attacks every time I drove somewhere and I would sometimes have to pull over because I would be crying too hard to see. I felt like a caged animal. I felt like I was a danger to the other people on the road. I was sure I was going to kill myself or someone else in a car.

The majority of the car anxiety is directly tied to PTSD. A month before my seventeenth birthday I totaled my parents car on the way to school. I wasn't driving fast, I wasn't being reckless. My windows got fogged up and I looked down long enough to see the nob to adjust the defrost and when I looked back up I was heading for a creek. I got scared and jerked the wheel but I overcompensated. I ended up on the two wheels on the driver's side of the car after hitting a hillside and I stayed like that for about 20-30 feet, but it felt like it took hours to travel that distance. Everything slowed down and I was super aware of everything that was going on. I let loose of the wheel at that point and the car slammed on it's side where I slid down the road like that until the front end hit a rock outcropping and flipped on it's top. I put my hands on the ceiling of the car because all I could think was that I didn't want to hit my head. I didn't want to be hanging upside in the car by my seatbelt knocked unconscious. The car spun on it's top a few times before it hit another outcropping and finally stopped. The whole thing happened in under a minute but that minute of my life has replayed over and over in my head since it happened.

I did stay conscious and after the car stopped moving it took me a second to get my bearings but I found my seatbelt button and held myself upside down by one hand so I didn't slam down too hard. I ended up in the upside down car on my hands and knees, shattered safety glass sticking to me everywhere. I had it in embedded in my palms and falling out of my hair scratching my face. It took some effort to force the door open and now I don't remember if I got it open enough to climb out or if I crawled out the shattered window. I feel like it was the window. I couldn't stand up I was shaking so bad from the fear and the adrenaline so I laid down in the road to catch my breath. Something in me realized what a bad idea that was so I crawled the length of the car and sat down by the trunk. Seconds later an enormous, loaded logging truck came barreling around the curve in the other lane. I've never been so grateful for such good instincts and listening to that little voice.

This happened in 1998. I didn't have a cell phone then, I think only a couple of my friends did. It just wasn't the norm yet. It was out on a country road that didn't have a lot of traffic except right before and right after school. Once my shaking got under control I realized I was going to have to walk to a stranger's house and make some phone calls. There happened to be a house close by so I went and knocked on the door. No one was home. I didn't know what else to do so I went back and sat with the car. It wasn't long after that a school bus driver was heading back after dropping her kids at school and she stopped with me. Thankfully, it was someone I had known and loved my whole life so she wrapped me in a big bear hug and helped me get a hold of the right people. I couldn't reach my parents at first so I called my mom's best friend because she lived close and could try to keep calling. She came to stay with me until my mom could get there. The cops came, the ambulance came, someone drove my mom to meet me. Her friend had told her I was in a wreck but not how bad it was, maybe I didn't tell her when I talked to her. My mom was just expecting to see the car in the ditch or something so when she rounded the curve and saw it on it's top she got out of the car while it was still moving to find me. The tow truck came to haul the car off, it took a little while to get them there because they had to bring a special truck because of the damage. When they flipped the car over the two back tires bent completely sideways like inner tubes floating in water, the back axel had snapped. the front right passenger ceiling was touching the headrest of the passenger seat. A friend of mine had almost called and asked for a ride that morning and I have been thankful every day since that he didn't because I would have killed him. I ended up at the emergency room, no one could believe I was only bruised and a little scratched after seeing the car but I was fine. I was achy for days and my headaches increased after but it really could have been a lot worse.

I didn't really drive after that for a long time. Only brief trips in the city after I moved to Columbus for probably about 5 years. Even if that had been the only wreck I had ever had it probably would have been enough to make me only drive out of necessity for the rest of my life. I've never felt the joy and freedom and power that a lot of people get from driving. But it wasn't my only wreck. On Martin Luther King Jr. Day in 2013 I was involved in a 29 car pile on I-270 near Easton. I was car number 11. I totaled my van, my family's only vehicle. There was a sudden white out and icy conditions and when the white out start some guy just stopped dead in the middle of the road. I heard the screeching tires but by the time I saw brake lights in front of me it was too late. My van wouldn't stop. I swerved to the left lane to try to avoid what I think was a bread truck in front of me because I was going probably 40-55 miles an hour. I still ended up slamming into something. I don't think it was another car because when it was all over and the snow died down so I could see there wasn't a car in front of me. I think I hit the concrete barrier. Whatever it was my airbags deployed and I slammed my face hard. I was on blood thinners at the time so I went to the emergency room because I was scared to death that something was damaged inside and I would be bleeding internally. I was fine. I was severally bruised but I was fine. It was definitely more emotionally traumatic than physically traumatic. We were able to get another vehicle quickly but I only drove a handful of times after that wreck.

The other thing that adds to me feeling like a danger on the road is that when I had a pulmonary embolism in 2012 I was driving to and from Lancaster from Westerville a couple time a weeks to intern at a hospital. I was basically putting everyone around me in danger because I didn't know something was wrong enough with me that could cause me to lose consciousness at any moment. The day I was diagnosed I had driven to class and made it through my first one or two classes when the pain my chest and the shortness of breath became too distracting to ignore. I called my doctor's office to see if I could come in and get checked out. I thought it was just stress, or GERD, or my blood pressure was up. Nothing as serious as it was. They told me to go to the emergency room because it sounded bad. I drove home to get my family first and then my husband drove me to the hospital. Again, I didn't know how bad off I was at the time.

When I think about it, I know that these are all things that just happen to people over the course of their lives. I know that I should be able to move past them and get on with my life. The problem is that when these sort of things happen to someone who has a natural predisposition to be anxious you have a much harder time letting go. Your brain latches onto the trauma and replays it on loop some days. It picks apart all the ways you were wrong that landed you in that situation. You develop a deep and lasting sense of guilt for things beyond your control. Even when you know it's irrational all you can do is talk yourself down, it doesn't make the feelings go away. You always feel wrong, you always feel like you should have been able to prevent it, you should have known better. Triggers are created. You're always sure when something that feels familiar from those situations happen that the exact event is going to happen again. When you have severe anxiety it can be crippling because you'll do almost anything to avoid those triggers.

I think a lot of people think that having anxiety is just having panic attacks sometimes. I wish that were true. I wish that being anxious just meant that I would freak out sometimes and I could do breathing exercises or take a pill and be back under control. But it's not. Anxiety can be seriously debilitating. You're hyper aware, everything could be something upsetting. You stop living because you just want to avoid everything that could cause you to have a panic attack. Even when you're excited about something your brain may latch onto all the things that could go wrong with it and you'll talk yourself out of something you may love. You stop being able to feel excited because you know what always happens and you just don't want to feel the disappointment when you give up on something again. You stop wanting things because you are sure something bad will happen if you get it. You stop trying because you can't handle the feeling of failing again, and you are sure that failing is the only option. You have a hard time being close to people because you're afraid they'll judge and reject you if they see you at your worst, and you're sure you're always at your worst.

It's a shitty way to live because it's not really living. It's surviving. You focus all of your energy on just surviving another day, on just staying under control. It's not your fault, it's not my fault. We weren't meant to live this way. Humans aren't meant to just survive. We're supposed to thrive. I'm trying to find a way to thrive because I'm sick of just surviving. How about you?

Woman, Interrupted

Three years ago today my husband realized I was planning to kill myself.

Not that I was thinking about it, not that I was having ideations, but that I had a plan. I was going to do it the next night. I had refilled all of my medications that weekend and had done my research to see if what I had on hand would be enough to do the job. From what I could gather it would. I was going to take a full months supply of my blood thinner (240mg of warfarin) as well, just to be sure. I figured if the various antidepressants, anti-anxiety medications, and muscle relaxers I was prescribed didn't stop my heart or my breathing like I hoped then I could maybe bleed out if no one found me in time. I was going to take everything right after my husband left for work (around 10pm at that time) and just go to sleep and not wake up. I figured my kids wouldn't wake up if I didn't get up with the alarm clock and my husband would find me when he got home. I thought it would be traumatic for everyone at first but they would all be better off once I was gone and they were done grieving.

I'm still not sure exactly what gave me away, I don't know how he knew that my mood that day was hiding something so much darker than it usually was. I still don't want to ask. I guess I'm just thankful he knows me well enough to see when I need help. We got a friend to watch the kids and he took me to the local emergency room. It was a small but efficient ER that would eventually transfer me to an official psychiatric hospital. While I was at the ER I had to remove all of my own clothes and wear a special blue gown that didn't have any snaps or cords and designated me as a suicide risk. There was an armed guard posted by my door. It was a very strange experience when I look back on it now but at the time I had too much going on in my head to do anything but comply and cry. I wanted help and didn't all at the same time. I didn't actually want the people close to me to hurt but I also didn't want to live with the pain anymore.

After several hours at the emergency room I was transferred to the Ohio Hospital for Psychiatry in   the middle of the night by ambulance. The EMT in the back with me was an extremely sweet country boy type and he talked to me for the whole ride. Some of it was about why I was there, some of it was about interests, he just kept me distracted and calm. By the time I made it to my home for the next three days, whether I liked it or not, I was calming down some, but also gut stricken by what I had almost done. I would cry for the better part of the next twelve hours.

Shortly after arriving and getting checked in I started my period. From what I've read it's normally hard to get a legitimate, documented diagnosis of PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder) but in my case it was one of the first things written down when I talked to the psychiatrist the next morning. I had been telling both my gynecologist and my primary care doctor for probably two years something was wrong and it was getting worse. They just threw new medicines at me and told me to exercise more, it would reduce the cramps. The cramps were not my concern, I had been having them for twenty years at that point, I knew how to handle them. My concerns were the irrational behavior, the violent thoughts about myself and others, the absolute hopelessness that occurred several days every single month. I was given sertraline for depression and anxiety and my gynecologist said that should be enough to help. It wasn't. I was switched to venlafaxine and agreed to getting a Mirena IUD after begging for an ablation so I could maybe not nearly bleed to death every month. Blood thinners and a naturally heavy period was wrecking my body and I couldn't replace the blood or iron fast enough before another one.

While I was in the hospital I was also diagnosed with major depressive disorder, general anxiety disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, dysmorphia, and I think that's all. I can't remember exactly. When I arrived at the hospital I was taking venlafaxine, amitryptyline, clonazepam,  a muscle relaxer, a headache medicine with a barbiturate in it, an IBS medication, and a few other things. I was over-medicated. Several of the things I was taking had the potential for very serious interactions. I feel like this largely contributed to me ending up in that hospital. They dropped and changed several of the medicines while I was there and the weekend after I left I went off all of them except the clonazepam, cold turkey. I only took the clonazepam when I started having a panic attack instead of on a schedule and within a few months I wasn't taking it at all.

I think back to my short stay at OHP and at first I was terrified but it turned out to be a turning point in my life. Under the circumstances it was the best thing that could have happened. I met some very kind people there, both the staff and fellow patients. I saw that mental illness has no preference and does not discriminate, it doesn't care the color of your skin or how much money you make. I was in the ward for people who weren't violent. We were all there for depression, anxiety, suicide attempts, and stress related breakdowns.

After I finally emerged from my room the first morning I was still crying or trying to hold it back. There was a sweet boy of about 18 or 19 that I just met who hugged me and told me I could cry on his shoulder. I later found out in group therapy he was there because he had a nervous breakdown after finding out his girlfriend was pregnant and it might not be his. He tried to commit suicide by threatening police with a gun in an effort to get them to shoot him so he wouldn't have to do it himself. It was so hard to look at that sweet boy and imagine him doing something like that, but I guess that's just another example of never knowing what's going on in someone else's head or heart. There was a woman who's son had been murdered a year or so prior who ran out into traffic trying to get hit by a car. She had no coping mechanisms for the all the tragedy that life had handed her. She had been at the hospital for while at this point and I'm sure she was probably there for a while after I left. One afternoon she lost it all over again and they had to confine her to her room. She tried to kick the door down and when that didn't work she threw her whole body at the door until she wore herself out or they gave her a sedative, I don't remember which I just remember she finally quieted down. There was a friendly schizophrenic man who was there because his medication wasn't working and the voices were telling him some pretty scary shit. They seemed to have got him pretty well adjusted at the hospital but he was staying for a while, just in case. There were many people there with bandaged wrists and every time they told their stories it absolutely broke my heart. My second room mate was a sweet, quiet college girl who basically stopped eating and had a nervous breakdown because she put too much pressure on herself at school. Anytime we weren't at meals or group she could be found on her bed surrounded by books still not taking the break she so obviously needed.

Knowing these people, although briefly, changed me. The experience changed me. Even in their dark times the people were a light for me. I wanted to help, but had no idea how. I'm still not sure how but I'm still trying to find a way. When I started seeing things about the Semicolon Project a little more than a year ago I really liked the idea. I finally got my semicolon tattoo a few weeks ago. It means a lot to me. It's a reminder to stop before I do something I can't take back. It's my message to other people who are struggling that I'm a safe person to talk to, I can relate, I can try to help. It's a reminder to document and share my experiences so that I hopefully I can let other people know they aren't alone, even if only one other person takes comfort from it it's worth it to try.

What's in a Name?

I've been wanting to a blog about my struggle with mental illness for a while. But because of said mental illness I lack motivation to put my ideas into action quite often. I just have to wait until it returns or try to force myself to push through. Today is a push through sort of day. 

So why the Firefly and the Bear, right? Seems like an odd name for a blog that's going to be mainly about depression and anxiety, doesn't it? Probably, but there is a reason. I took the idea from this phenomenal poem by Sabrina Benaim, Explaining My Depression to My Mother. 

This poem was sort of life changing for me. It was the first time that I heard someone speak aloud with intensity the things I so often feel. In the beginning she uses the metaphor that her "depression is a shape shifter" and "one day it's as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear, the next it's the bear", to me this was perfect. It became a sort of short hand around our house about how we felt, today it's a firefly or today it's a bear. It seemed right to use that same idea here.

Throughout the fall and early winter most of my days were bear days. I spent a lot of time in bed. I spent a lot of time crying. In the last few months, even through my grief (which will probably be the subject of the next post), I've been having more firefly days than bear days, but a few weeks ago my anxiety kicked back up so I know it's only so long without something changing before the bear is back everyday.

I'm trying to change, to initiate the changes. I'm trying to go back to work, even if just for a couple weekend shifts. I'm trying to meet new people in this new city that I'm still trying to get accustomed to. I've started seeing a doctor about my medication, which might be a source for my anxiety, and I start therapy/counseling in a just under two weeks. I'm moving in the right direction, I need to remind myself of that when the bear tries to creep in.