Sometimes It Really Is Just Depression And Not A BPD Moment


0

And if you do, please just don’t use it against me.  I need to rant and this is the only ear I have.  I no longer have a best friend.  This is all I have.  So just turn away, or read but keep it to yourself.  Because I’m tired, and I’m stressed, and I just need to rant.

It is Friday night at 12:35.  I just told you you were better off going to the bedroom because I was getting angrier by the minute, and in a huff you asked what you’d done now.

Let’s go back in time a few hours where you’d given me the last of your kick-starts so I’d have the fuel to get through the next few days, saying you wish there was more you could do.

Why is it you wish there was more you could do, because after trying to get an incomplete in this current class due to circumstances, I found out that wasn’t the option I thought it was and decided my best bet was to buckle down and get two weeks worth of work done in one weekend.  Why two weeks worth?  Because the second half of next week I will be in Iowa.  Not on some much needed vacation but instead to put my very favorite uncle in the ground, not even a year after putting my aunt in the ground.

All this after months of on again, off again, of my sister and her failing liver in the hospital.  I’m very glad we’re fairly certain I’m not going to lose my sister, I just wish we were more certain she wasn’t going to lose her liver.

And then tonight, I come home after spending 12 hours away, mush of which you had the house to yourself while I did 7 loads of laundry at my mom’s house trying to prepare for a trip I thought was going to be sooner in the week, wanting to be very certain you and the kids would have everything you could possibly need while I was away so I could pretend I wasn’t worried about you guys, and I come home to what I’m guessing to be about 4 loads of dishes.  Which wouldn’t be so bad in itself if I didn’t open the dishwasher to find it still loaded with what I put in it over 48 hours ago.  Real nice.

So before I leave town in less than a week I need to:

  • Do all the laundry about 45 minutes away
  • Make sure all the dishes are washed
  • And try not to fail this damn class.

 

Yep I sure wish there was more you could do.

 

I just really hope my sister doesn’t lose her life, or even just her liver, while mom and I are gone.

 

Because September has been that big of an asshole.

0

I’m sorry I don’t write anymore.  I’m just waiting for the day where my days aren’t measured by the spoonful.  I’m waiting to find the words to explain what the hell is happening to me.  I’m not doing ok, but I’ll live through it.

0

Actually, I am.  Just not here.  And it’s mostly poetry.

I’m not exactly doing well at the moment.  I mean, I don’t feel depressed and I’m not suicidal or any of that crap.  I just can’t get out of bed most days.

Logic tells me that’s depression.  It’s weird being depressed, showing so many signs of depression, without feeling overly sad.  I think, honestly, I’m too tired and lethargic to feel much of anything but tired and lethargic.

I really need to talk to my meds doctor about it but I missed my last appointment due to hitting a pot hole (read: sink hole) with the car and shredding two tires and rims.  It was glorious.  And by glorious I mean a pain in the ass.  Luckily we were already planning new tires and rims with the tax return that showed up a couple of days later, but… I missed an important appointment.

I’m not even sure what to really say to her.  ”Hi, I’m not sad but I’m not exactly living.”

But then, in many ways I am living.  When I have the energy to partake in life I really enjoy it.  Pat and I went to the ballet a week or so ago.  We saw their interpretation of Alice in Wonderland.  The day before that we went to a friend’s art show at a gallery.  When I can find the energy I make the most of it.  The catch is a slept for 48 hours leading up to and following those 48 hours of energy burst.  96 hours in bed to be able to have 48 hours of normal life is fucked up math.

And I’m getting 105% in math, so I know my math.

Anyway, I’m writing over on my new tumblr blog.  It’s mostly poetry but then, not really.  It’s whatever the hell I want it to be.  There are no rules, no restrictions, no structure.  So it currently fits what I need for my writing.  You’ll notice a theme, should you read.

I loss someone recently.  Not someone I’ve discussed on here.  I don’t want to talk about it.  Not the details, anyways.  They are private to the two of us.  I’ll leave it that.

So, the tumblr: Shakespeare She Is Not

 

2

You got the best of me
Rest of me
Tried and true test of me
I lied for you
Cried for you
A piece of me died for you
I wasn’t good enough
Understood enough
I knew I’d withstood enough
You took your leave that day
Slipped away
No words of goodbye to say
You left a shattered heart
Torn apart
Tears won’t stop when they choose to start

0

Bbt-fT5CIAAPQ7F

1

So on the morning of September the 19th I reported to work at the hour of 7:45 as scheduled.  I helped open the vault, opened drive thru, processed night deposit bags, all as planned.  And I waited patiently until my boss had time to give me at 9.

At 9 I sat my boss down and informed her I was in over my head and needed to seek help, hospitalization, before the end of the day.  The sooner the better, so I wouldn’t change my mind.  I spelled out why, I told her I was so sorry I was abandoning the branch, that I would be back, then made the decision that I was better off not finishing the day.  I was not in the place I needed to be to function as an effective employee.  I sold down my cashbox to zero.  I gave instructions for Sheldon, the ATM I control.  I clocked out at 10AM.

On the way out of the parking lot I called Pat, told him I’d be there within 2 hours, I needed him to drive me to the emergency room and just drop me off.  I drove to mom’s house, packed a bag of clothes and books (let us be honest, mostly books) and then I drove myself to Pat’s house.  Pat and the two youngest kids was ready for me, we piled into the car and he drove me to the ER and as per my instructions and deepest appreciation, he left me there.

I got to the ER at noon and spent 6 hours in the hallway with a minder.  They didn’t have a bed for me and there were a few of us, different reasons, she needed to mind.  Babysit.  I, however, was the good cooperative patient and was allowed both my book and my phone which was against hospital policy but even the shrink who did my intake didn’t see the harm since I was there of my own will and being cooperative.  She even let me fish out the charger and hand it immediately over so when my battery died it could get a fresh charge across the hall, out of my reach.  Which, I mean so much policy was broken there, so I understood the caution around the ease of caution.

6PM I was found a room in the hospital of my choice.  By 8 I was fully admitted, shown my bed, and settled in.  Uh, as much as one can get settled into a psych ward.

I was discharged the following Wednesday the 25th at 1:30.  7 days there including the day at the ER.  It was… Productive.

In those 7 days I read 4.75 books, didn’t attend a single group, and did all I could to self-sooth while meds kicked in.  Naps and books.  Books and naps.  It was effective.

Why did I go?  I was suicidal.  Plan, research, where, when, just needed the tool.  I was working on that.

Step back a bit.

So you may remember I stopped seeing my shrink awhile back, earlier this year.  I was stable, all was good, it was a mutual decision.  Then things spiraled out of control and in the  midst of that I lost my insurance.

So here I was with this mess piled on me.  I have all these amazing coping tools that I was using but it just got to be so heavy and I couldn’t find my way out and I couldn’t find the help I needed.  Not the professional help.  I needed my meds doctor back and I needed my meds back but without insurance and money I didn’t know how to do that.

I knew the office I see her at has government funding but I know the wait-list and the bureaucracy and my head was spinning in circles and I couldn’t see straight and all I could see was that I just wanted it to stop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stop.  I just wanted it done.  It being me.  My existence.  My pain.  My life.

I knew I needed help but I didn’t know where to turn so I finally decided my best bet was an emergency, short term fix, aka the psych ward, and that they were never going to release me without help on the outside world.  They might even be able to get me back to my established team.

They did.  Oh they beautifully and amazingly did.  Not the in-house shrink, no he’s a pill pushing idiot, but my caseworker got me my team back.  No matter I don’t have insurance, I have history, I was in emergency, I needed my team and I have my team

That alone…  I can breath.  And life can start.

Why?

Pain.  I feel like such a weakling admitting the day-in and day-out pain is getting to me.  I know people, specific person, who has it so very much worse than I.  But we all have our breaking point.  For some it’s how much pain, for others it’s how long.  I was reaching the deadly combo of both.

My hands.  I’m losing my fine motor skills.  All of them.  Some days are better than others but I can’t grasp, I can’t manipulate fine tools, like you know, pens.  Rock bottom there hit around the time I dropped my camera.  I destroyed my portrait lens and I may have damaged the camera itself.  I don’t know.  I’ve tested it, but I don’t yet have the heart to look at the test results.

I walked out on my marriage and my family.  And while I do not regret ending my marriage, the pain I suffer over the kids staying with him, however right that decision may have been, is suffocating.  I’m also struggling with the fact I broke his heart.  I can’t rule my life by his heart but he is still… Patrick.

I’m also not sleeping.  Still, even after the hospital.  At least not at night.  The Cymbalta knocked me out during the day while there.  I’m working on the sleep thing but it’s so very hard to function on no sleep.  It turns molehills into mountains, and my mountains into the Himalayas.

So I’m out now.  And while I’m not yet awesome, I’m within sight of the light at the end of the tunnel.  I have hope and a plan.  A life plan.  I hit rock bottom.  But after a week in the psych ward I’m ready, finally, to find myself and build who I want to be post rock bottom.  With so many life changes in the works, I’m at a blank slate of who I want to be as I approach 30 and look to the next decade.  I can decide who I am, who I want to be, what I want in life, and how I want to get there.

And I’m finally ready to start building.

4

1. Not having to choose between scalding and freezing water when showering.  Seriously, they want you showering daily as a sign of mental competence, but the water does not recognize that warm is an option.  I even love hot showers.  Really hot showers.  This was burning.

2. Bath towels larger than a hand towel.  I get it.  I really do.  But with no real privacy from the roommate and checks to make sure you aren’t hanging yourself with said bath towels ever 15 minutes, being able to wrap myself in a towel and have it cover more than a single boob would have been nice.  Luckily I was allowed to be brought my bathrobe.  Had to leave the belt at home.  Obviously.

3. Unlimited pop, not a single tea bag in sight.  We Americans have such fucked up priorities.  I got funny looks for requesting bottles of water.  They use those for giving out meds.  I informed them I use them to stay healthy, which was supposed to be a mutual and primary goal.  If you can’t be sassy in a psych ward, you can’t be sassy anywhere.  That might be why this stay was longer than any of my others, in retrospect.

4. Not waking up every morning to the sound of the gentleman in the next room over hollering at the top of his lungs about everything he could think to holler about, or threaten over.  My favorite was when he woke the entire ward screaming about how rude it was they banged his door open on the 8AM check, waking him up from restful sleep.  Can’t make this shit up.  Earplugs were provided to any and all.  We shared a common wall though and ear plugs can only do so much.,

5. 3AM snack raids to a kitchen with unlimited snacks.  It’s a bloody shame orange sherbet only tastes that good inside a psych ward.  I mean, yes it’s good on the outside but not this is the only thing I actually enjoy about this place, good.

6. Ladies, I don’t care how annoying shaving can be, but trying going a week without it no choice.  M’kay?

7. Q-Tips.  Shut up, I use at least a half-dozen of them a day.  I have issues, we know this.  What’s your excuse?  Not you, you have issues too, the other you.  But apparently despite the fact I had some in my purse, because the package outright says they are not to be used in ears, I was not allowed to have access. Liability and all.  I seriously considered asking someone to smuggle some in to me.  And then I realized how insane that would sound.  Then I realized where I was and what great company I was in.

8. My dad may be schizophrenic but he doesn’t think he’s the messiah.  That probably sounds really mean but well… perspective.  I got some.

9. How amazing my real world shrink is.  Oh yes, we all know I adore her.  She listens to me, works with me, and consistently values my input and feedback on my treatment.  See, I’m annoyingly informed and intelligent.  A shrink can see this as an advantage, a tool to be used which I gladly offer up.  Or a shrink can decide they know best because they are the doctor no matter how intelligent my assessment is.  What do I know, it’s only my history and mind.  Let me demonstrate.  This is not, and I repeat NOT an exaggeration.

Shrink: I want to put you on Lamictal

Me: Why?  I’m allergic to Lamictal and Cymbalta has always worked amazingly for me

Shrink: Yes but the allergy might not happen (It doesn’t always, it’s hit and miss but can be deadly when it hits) and Lamictal won’t kill your sex drive

Me: … I’m going through a divorce.  I don’t need a sex drive…

Shrink: Well it won’t make you gain weight either

Me: Yeah… I’m going through a divorce, I don’t give a fuck how I look.

Shrink: …

Me: Know what, consult (my real world shrink) and get back to me. I’m not going anywhere.

That night I started a 20mg dose of Cymbalta.

10. I’m nowhere near as crazy as I think.  And neither are you.  Oh, and depression lies.

 

Look, depression really does lie.  It always gets better.  It takes work work more work, support, sometimes meds, then a little (lot) more work, but it always gets better.  Please get help if you need it!

 

 

Next Page »