My meds stopped working. I stopped functioning. I was having such a miserably rough go at life that I absolutely could not cope. I called my p-doc and gave him the run down, and he handed me some samples for a new anti-p that is really seeming to help.
I feel like I've failed. I'm back on medications designed for people with schizophrenia, that's the real stuff for real issues. It's shameful for me to sit down and take this tablet every night. The side effects are awful, I can't think straight, and I rarely remember things, even when I've set reminders on my phone or written them down.
I was doing so well there for a while and for some reason I just...fell back into that hole and couldn't dig my way out. I'm stable again, but my mood is different, I'm different. I feel somewhat numb and like I'm becoming a shell of myself. I'm in a fog most of the time and I get so frustrated because even speaking coherently has become a chore.
I often find myself remaining silent during conversations because my words come out garbled or just plain wrong. That makes people laugh at me and I laugh too, but inwardly I'm so ashamed that I can't even think clearly or convey my thoughts into words.
I guess that I'll just have to take it as it comes and try not to dwell too obsessively on the negatives. I need to focus on the good and remember that this is helping and with time, I will adjust. I'm not experiencing some of the side effects I've experienced in the past with anti-p drugs, but that doesn't mean it won't come. I have noticed I'm prone to drops in my blood sugar which causes me to feel faint and get that rushing heartbeat, but I try to keep up with intake of food and water throughout the day which in turn terrifies me because I gained so much weight last time I was on anti-p drugs.
So far Saphris is working for me but I'm ashamed I have to take it.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Insomnia
"With insomnia, nothing's real. Everything's far away. Everything's a copy of a copy of a copy" - Fight Club
I drink a cup of chamomile tea laced with skullcap and lavender herbs in a muslin bag, I make sure the back and garage doors are locked and shut, I make sure the front door is shut, I turn off the lights, I turn down the a/c, I turn my bedroom fan on high, I use the bathroom, I wash my hands, I brush my teeth, I take my medication, and I get in bed. Sometimes I read, sometimes I watch Star Trek, and sometimes I just lay there willing sleep to come.
On a good night I get five hours of sleep. On a bad night, maybe two or three. It seems the later I fall asleep, the earlier I wake up in the morning. I rarely have the luxury of sleeping in since children need attending to and work needs to be done.
I have my little rituals that help sometimes, but there are nights, like tonight, when I know I won't sleep. I'm exhausted. I know that if I could only close my eyes I'd drift off quickly, but I can't shut my eyes. I don't know why it is, all I have to do is close them, but I can't because I know when I close my eyes my mind will wake up to its full alertness and then all hope is lost.
It comes and it goes but insomnia dances with me nearly every night, especially when I'm dealing with a bout of depression. It compounds my apathy, my unhappiness, and my inability to cope. I am angry and filled with hate because I just want to sleep and everything overwhelms me.
I'm two ambien in and still nothing. I save ambien for the really bad nights and I'm even more ritualistic in my bedtime routine, but apparently it's not going to work tonight and I'll be so unhappy tomorrow. I will drift through my day and drag myself along until bedtime when I'll be too tired to fall asleep and thus the cycle is renewed and I become desperate.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Anorexia
I've been anorexic for a very long time, since childhood. I denied it for years and years until finally, when I was pregnant with my first living child, I honestly answered a health questionnaire that I had been and was still struggling with anorexia. I was driven to honesty by my concern for the health of myself and my baby and it pushed me to admit something I'd hidden from everyone, even my own husband, for years.
At my worst I had stopped weighing myself when I got into the 80s, I know I went lower than that though. I was a walking skeleton and hideous and yet I would look in the mirror and see my bloated belly after eating or drinking something and I'd feel such loathing and disgust. I'd pull at the skin that had gone slack because it was no longer filled with healthy flesh and see it as fat. My ribs and sternum were highly visible, you could count every single little knob on my sternum, and I was just awful looking. My eyes and cheeks were sunken in and yet I still felt fat.
After the kids were born I was rather fit and healthy. I'd started running and was very careful with my diet. I also finally got help for my mental health issues and for a time I felt amazing. Then my husband returned home from a 15 month deployment, we moved away from an amazing support network and home, and I was suddenly alone and isolated once again. I ended up moving away from the meds I was taking and was prescribed xyprexa. I'd taken it previously and it was a wonder drug for me, and when I started it I have to admit that it was a wonder drug once again.
The major side effect I suffered from xyprexa was weight gain. I went from 125 lbs to 160 lbs in less than six months. I couldn't control my eating, I was always starving and never felt satisfied. I ate and ate and ate and then I ate some more.
Then I began to purge. At my worst I would binge and purge upwards of 10 times a day. I couldn't control what I was putting into my body and now I was truly fat so I took matters into my own hands and took control over what came out of my body.
Vomiting was my method and a toothbrush was my weapon of choice.
I hid it well, but I really think my husband was just turning a blind eye when I purged when he was at home. I always did it in the back bathroom when he was in the living room and far away so I know he probably didn't hear anything, but the endless throat clearing, sniffling, and hiding a bloody nose and bloodshot eyes were glaringly obvious. He never said anything though.
Fast forward to the divorce and I finally got my portions under control and my eating under control except instead of eating properly I just stopped eating all together. I dropped 15 lbs in just under a month and people raved about how great I looked and how wonderful the "divorce diet" could be. Since then I've battled daily with eating and trying to take in calories, but I just can't eat. I've lost 37 lbs as of today and I can't stop losing.
It doesn't help that when I'm naked I'm told how beautiful or athletic/lean/sexy/etc...I am. I'm ashamed. I'm embarrassed that my dirty secret has yielded such desirable effects and that I'm rewarded with praise and admiration. My boyfriend does admit concern from time to time when I admit I haven't eaten much during the day, but at the same time he pats himself on the back for "fucking me into a size four," something we always joked about. I never thought it would happen, but it did.
That said, the general pace and activity in my life has increased exponentially. I work a very physical job where I basically don't stop moving for four hours straight, sometimes longer. I frequently forget to eat lunch while working and rarely eat breakfast since the thought of food in the morning usually makes me nauseous. So I typically eat dinner only or a snack and then a very small or late dinner/snack each day. I'd estimate that I maybe consume 600 calories on a good day and usually less than that.
I'm starting to feel the affects in my level of activity at home, my mental health, and my overall mood. I'm depressed and cycling downward rapidly, I'm overwhelmed by even the most simple tasks or chores, and I'm having suicidal ideations once again.
But I don't know how to break the cycle. I can't eat. I just can't. I know I'm hungry, I can feel my body begging for food, but just putting food in my mouth makes me feel so sick. I'm starving as I type this, but my dinner is sitting on the table, cold and untouched.
-- an update from 2015: posting this helped me immensely. After I wrote this all out, I showed it to my partner who began to hold me accountable for my eating habits. Together we worked to get me back to eating healthy. I'm not perfect about my habits and never will be, but I've learned to eat everything in moderation and to stay active so I remain fit.
Once I started watching my food intake to ensure I was not under eating I actually started to lose MORE weight. All told, I lost about sixty pounds over the course of three years. I know I started out cheating by starving myself, but the fact that I turned around and began eating in a healthy manner and then continued losing weight makes me proud of myself. The fact that I've kept the weight off just thrills me to the core.
At my worst I had stopped weighing myself when I got into the 80s, I know I went lower than that though. I was a walking skeleton and hideous and yet I would look in the mirror and see my bloated belly after eating or drinking something and I'd feel such loathing and disgust. I'd pull at the skin that had gone slack because it was no longer filled with healthy flesh and see it as fat. My ribs and sternum were highly visible, you could count every single little knob on my sternum, and I was just awful looking. My eyes and cheeks were sunken in and yet I still felt fat.
After the kids were born I was rather fit and healthy. I'd started running and was very careful with my diet. I also finally got help for my mental health issues and for a time I felt amazing. Then my husband returned home from a 15 month deployment, we moved away from an amazing support network and home, and I was suddenly alone and isolated once again. I ended up moving away from the meds I was taking and was prescribed xyprexa. I'd taken it previously and it was a wonder drug for me, and when I started it I have to admit that it was a wonder drug once again.
The major side effect I suffered from xyprexa was weight gain. I went from 125 lbs to 160 lbs in less than six months. I couldn't control my eating, I was always starving and never felt satisfied. I ate and ate and ate and then I ate some more.
Then I began to purge. At my worst I would binge and purge upwards of 10 times a day. I couldn't control what I was putting into my body and now I was truly fat so I took matters into my own hands and took control over what came out of my body.
Vomiting was my method and a toothbrush was my weapon of choice.
I hid it well, but I really think my husband was just turning a blind eye when I purged when he was at home. I always did it in the back bathroom when he was in the living room and far away so I know he probably didn't hear anything, but the endless throat clearing, sniffling, and hiding a bloody nose and bloodshot eyes were glaringly obvious. He never said anything though.
Fast forward to the divorce and I finally got my portions under control and my eating under control except instead of eating properly I just stopped eating all together. I dropped 15 lbs in just under a month and people raved about how great I looked and how wonderful the "divorce diet" could be. Since then I've battled daily with eating and trying to take in calories, but I just can't eat. I've lost 37 lbs as of today and I can't stop losing.
It doesn't help that when I'm naked I'm told how beautiful or athletic/lean/sexy/etc...I am. I'm ashamed. I'm embarrassed that my dirty secret has yielded such desirable effects and that I'm rewarded with praise and admiration. My boyfriend does admit concern from time to time when I admit I haven't eaten much during the day, but at the same time he pats himself on the back for "fucking me into a size four," something we always joked about. I never thought it would happen, but it did.
That said, the general pace and activity in my life has increased exponentially. I work a very physical job where I basically don't stop moving for four hours straight, sometimes longer. I frequently forget to eat lunch while working and rarely eat breakfast since the thought of food in the morning usually makes me nauseous. So I typically eat dinner only or a snack and then a very small or late dinner/snack each day. I'd estimate that I maybe consume 600 calories on a good day and usually less than that.
I'm starting to feel the affects in my level of activity at home, my mental health, and my overall mood. I'm depressed and cycling downward rapidly, I'm overwhelmed by even the most simple tasks or chores, and I'm having suicidal ideations once again.
But I don't know how to break the cycle. I can't eat. I just can't. I know I'm hungry, I can feel my body begging for food, but just putting food in my mouth makes me feel so sick. I'm starving as I type this, but my dinner is sitting on the table, cold and untouched.
-- an update from 2015: posting this helped me immensely. After I wrote this all out, I showed it to my partner who began to hold me accountable for my eating habits. Together we worked to get me back to eating healthy. I'm not perfect about my habits and never will be, but I've learned to eat everything in moderation and to stay active so I remain fit.
Once I started watching my food intake to ensure I was not under eating I actually started to lose MORE weight. All told, I lost about sixty pounds over the course of three years. I know I started out cheating by starving myself, but the fact that I turned around and began eating in a healthy manner and then continued losing weight makes me proud of myself. The fact that I've kept the weight off just thrills me to the core.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Periods of Stability
Oddly enough, I do experience periods of what I'd term "stability." Most people would probably think I'm crazy if I detailed exactly what I define stable as, but overall I'd say my symptoms are all there but minimized and not affecting me in any horrible way.
I guess it's what I would consider functioning without dying on the inside or running for my anxiety meds or alcohol to cope. It seems that I'm having a pretty good stable streak as of late with just a few setbacks here and there. It's good. So good.
I've gone through periods in the past, some lasting well over a year and others only lasting a week or two if that. I often see a correlation between my sleep and mental health so when the sleep goes south my grasp follows suit. So those four years when I didn't sleep because of babies were probably four of the worth mental health years of my life. It's probably factor #2 in why I'm divorced now.
I guess it's what I would consider functioning without dying on the inside or running for my anxiety meds or alcohol to cope. It seems that I'm having a pretty good stable streak as of late with just a few setbacks here and there. It's good. So good.
I've gone through periods in the past, some lasting well over a year and others only lasting a week or two if that. I often see a correlation between my sleep and mental health so when the sleep goes south my grasp follows suit. So those four years when I didn't sleep because of babies were probably four of the worth mental health years of my life. It's probably factor #2 in why I'm divorced now.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Suicide
This will be raw. This is from my private journal that I've simply copied and pasted. I have done a bit of editing (names and such) but this is me, my mind, and my battle with suicide in my life.
My mother hung herself in the garage with our dog's leash when I was six. I found her body hanging there. To this day, even though I understand it's irrational, I blame myself for insisting my parents take me to Pizza Hut to redeem my first ever Book It! coupon. She declined to join us and when we returned she was dead.
I remember with my initial attempt, I didn't do anything beyond telling my ex that I was thinking about killing myself. His reply was to promise I wouldn't shoot myself with any of his guns. He also told me to keep taking my medication that at that point I was insisting was making it worse. I told my therapist I was suicidal and that my meds were making me worse. I told my doctor the same. They ALL told me to keep taking my pills, that sometimes it takes time for things to kick in fully, and I'd be okay. Never mind the fact that I had been on the meds well over a month and that the biggest warning sign was that if there was a worsening of symptoms to seek immediate help.
So why was everyone mad, disappointed, upset, etc...when I downed my just-filled prescription?
I was calmly screaming for help, and no one helped me.
The second time I hit a crisis I didn't tell anyone. I just told the ex I'd be back and went to the doctor. About six hours later the ex got a call to let him know that I was being transferred to a mental health facility. When he got in contact with me he was PISSED because I'd left him with the kids and just vanished. He made some nasty comments about enjoying my vacation and such because yeah, sitting in a hospital and freaking out the whole time because everything that held you secure in life had just been shattered while you are completely sedated beyond being able to do more than sleep or move about in a fog is great. I think every nurse and worker on that floor wanted to murder him when he walked in that door to visit.
The third time I sat him down and told him very calmly that I was NOT doing very well and that he needed to remove temptation from the house. I knew that all the drugs I had in the house would put me in a coma and make me really really sick. If I could drink a bottle of booze with the meds I had a pretty good chance of finishing it, but I don't do so well with straight liquor and will sometimes just throw up after doing a shot because of the taste. Even thinking about it makes my mouth water with that sick spit. I knew that wasn't possible because I'd just throw up what I got down before it did me any good.
I researched this shit well. I wanted to go quietly and peacefully...in my sleep. Who doesn't? But the more I read and the more I researched the more I realized that it just wasn't going to happen even with everything I had. I had about a four month supply of 30 200 mg trazadone tablets, a full bottle of 60 80 mg geodon pills, two bottles of 45 1 mg of klonopin - minus a few, about a month's supply of 200 mg lamictal, an assortment of pain killers (some narcotics, others not) and all combined I may possibly have been able to kill myself but it really wasn't looking too hot from what I read online.
The ex had a glock in the safe next to the bed...that really was the easiest and most effective route. I sat there for a good day looking online for the best way to shoot myself effectively and eventually did decide on the head.
I'd reached a crisis point...it just all overwhelmed me totally and completely. I couldn't take it anymore. I sat there tearing out my hair with my hands, screaming, banging my head onto the table so hard my sight dimmed and my ears started to buzz, and just freaking the fuck out. I was in so much pain mentally, and there was no escape...even inflicting physical pain didn't give the usual temporary relief, it just exacerbated it in so many ways. It made me realize that external pain didn't hold a candle to what was really going on in life.
I went to the safe in desperation. I was hoping and praying to whatever, or whoever was out there that the gun was in there. I punched in the code, and it popped open.
The gun was there.
There was no magazine in the gun.
I reached into the safe further and found the bullets. Then I tried the other shelf.....ah! The magazine!! I pushed a bullet into the magazine, but that was all I could get in there, I was shaking too hard to force anymore and gave up because really, one was all it took. I put the gun against my head and closed my eyes as I put my finger on the trigger, but I couldn't get it to shoot. Dumbass! I'd forgotten to chamber the round. I got the damn thing chambered, brought it back to my head, and sat there thinking for a bit.
My mother hung herself in the garage with our dog's leash when I was six. I found her body hanging there. To this day, even though I understand it's irrational, I blame myself for insisting my parents take me to Pizza Hut to redeem my first ever Book It! coupon. She declined to join us and when we returned she was dead.
I remember with my initial attempt, I didn't do anything beyond telling my ex that I was thinking about killing myself. His reply was to promise I wouldn't shoot myself with any of his guns. He also told me to keep taking my medication that at that point I was insisting was making it worse. I told my therapist I was suicidal and that my meds were making me worse. I told my doctor the same. They ALL told me to keep taking my pills, that sometimes it takes time for things to kick in fully, and I'd be okay. Never mind the fact that I had been on the meds well over a month and that the biggest warning sign was that if there was a worsening of symptoms to seek immediate help.
So why was everyone mad, disappointed, upset, etc...when I downed my just-filled prescription?
I was calmly screaming for help, and no one helped me.
The second time I hit a crisis I didn't tell anyone. I just told the ex I'd be back and went to the doctor. About six hours later the ex got a call to let him know that I was being transferred to a mental health facility. When he got in contact with me he was PISSED because I'd left him with the kids and just vanished. He made some nasty comments about enjoying my vacation and such because yeah, sitting in a hospital and freaking out the whole time because everything that held you secure in life had just been shattered while you are completely sedated beyond being able to do more than sleep or move about in a fog is great. I think every nurse and worker on that floor wanted to murder him when he walked in that door to visit.
The third time I sat him down and told him very calmly that I was NOT doing very well and that he needed to remove temptation from the house. I knew that all the drugs I had in the house would put me in a coma and make me really really sick. If I could drink a bottle of booze with the meds I had a pretty good chance of finishing it, but I don't do so well with straight liquor and will sometimes just throw up after doing a shot because of the taste. Even thinking about it makes my mouth water with that sick spit. I knew that wasn't possible because I'd just throw up what I got down before it did me any good.
I researched this shit well. I wanted to go quietly and peacefully...in my sleep. Who doesn't? But the more I read and the more I researched the more I realized that it just wasn't going to happen even with everything I had. I had about a four month supply of 30 200 mg trazadone tablets, a full bottle of 60 80 mg geodon pills, two bottles of 45 1 mg of klonopin - minus a few, about a month's supply of 200 mg lamictal, an assortment of pain killers (some narcotics, others not) and all combined I may possibly have been able to kill myself but it really wasn't looking too hot from what I read online.
The ex had a glock in the safe next to the bed...that really was the easiest and most effective route. I sat there for a good day looking online for the best way to shoot myself effectively and eventually did decide on the head.
I'd reached a crisis point...it just all overwhelmed me totally and completely. I couldn't take it anymore. I sat there tearing out my hair with my hands, screaming, banging my head onto the table so hard my sight dimmed and my ears started to buzz, and just freaking the fuck out. I was in so much pain mentally, and there was no escape...even inflicting physical pain didn't give the usual temporary relief, it just exacerbated it in so many ways. It made me realize that external pain didn't hold a candle to what was really going on in life.
I went to the safe in desperation. I was hoping and praying to whatever, or whoever was out there that the gun was in there. I punched in the code, and it popped open.
The gun was there.
There was no magazine in the gun.
I reached into the safe further and found the bullets. Then I tried the other shelf.....ah! The magazine!! I pushed a bullet into the magazine, but that was all I could get in there, I was shaking too hard to force anymore and gave up because really, one was all it took. I put the gun against my head and closed my eyes as I put my finger on the trigger, but I couldn't get it to shoot. Dumbass! I'd forgotten to chamber the round. I got the damn thing chambered, brought it back to my head, and sat there thinking for a bit.
At that moment I completely calmed down and felt a sense of peace enter my heart and soul. I didn't hurt that much because I knew it was about to end. It was like a soothing blanket had been draped around my shoulders and someone was hugging me from behind.
They say your life passes before your eyes before you die, and while it didn't necessarily do that, I did dwell on things, all of them bad. I silently railed at whatever had caused me to have such a hard and unfair life. I cried out mentally because it was no fair that despite my best efforts my life had come full circle, and I now found myself in the position my mother had when I was a child.
It's almost amusing the things that run through your head in those moments. I worried about messing up the furniture and leaving a mess behind so I decided to move to the bathroom with a memory foam pillow in the hopes that it would stop the bullet from damaging the tiles in the tub. As I settled into the tub and raised the gun to my head, once again I was struck with the memory of reading my mom's suicide note for the first time and feeling my heart thaw towards her. The anger, blame, and hatred I felt towards her for abandoning me melted away and I began to understand even if I couldn't completely relate. So I climbed out of the tub, threw the pillow on the bed, and went into the dining room where I laid the gun on the table, grabbed my notebook and pen, and sat down to write the kids their own personal notes.
I don't think I got even halfway through the first one to my son. I was telling how much I loved him, how I was sick and didn't want him to live around mental illness and the poor example I was setting for him in my inability to cope with the difficulties in life, and to get help if he needed it. I put everything down, got online, and put out a call for help on facebook. My phone blew up, and the next thing I knew I was sitting in my therapist's office crying as he cussed out my ex and got pissed at HIM, not me, because he didn't take me seriously...he didn't care if I killed myself and in some ways did all he could to facilitate the act.
I wonder, if there had been someone understanding, loving, and caring enough to push me into the help I needed when I needed it most and was there to support me as I worked through all the shit in my life...I wonder...would I be where I am today? Would I have so many wasted years where I was miserably unhappy and unsatisfied? Would I be sitting here right this moment typing about all the times I actually came so close to killing myself? I wonder if the constant litany in my mind of how "worthless, ugly, stupid, etc...I am and that I should just kill myself" would have gone on for so long...or even started at all. I mean, yes I was extremely suicidal as a teenager but I didn't have that constant mental tear down that I give myself every second of every day. I think that's the worst habit I established. I still haven't completely broken it yet, but I'm a lot better. I don't hate myself anymore...I still think I'm stupid and have issues...but I do know I'm a pretty cool person, and I know that I have an enormous capacity to care and love people. I just wish that some of that care and love was reflected back onto me when I need it too.
They say your life passes before your eyes before you die, and while it didn't necessarily do that, I did dwell on things, all of them bad. I silently railed at whatever had caused me to have such a hard and unfair life. I cried out mentally because it was no fair that despite my best efforts my life had come full circle, and I now found myself in the position my mother had when I was a child.
It's almost amusing the things that run through your head in those moments. I worried about messing up the furniture and leaving a mess behind so I decided to move to the bathroom with a memory foam pillow in the hopes that it would stop the bullet from damaging the tiles in the tub. As I settled into the tub and raised the gun to my head, once again I was struck with the memory of reading my mom's suicide note for the first time and feeling my heart thaw towards her. The anger, blame, and hatred I felt towards her for abandoning me melted away and I began to understand even if I couldn't completely relate. So I climbed out of the tub, threw the pillow on the bed, and went into the dining room where I laid the gun on the table, grabbed my notebook and pen, and sat down to write the kids their own personal notes.
I don't think I got even halfway through the first one to my son. I was telling how much I loved him, how I was sick and didn't want him to live around mental illness and the poor example I was setting for him in my inability to cope with the difficulties in life, and to get help if he needed it. I put everything down, got online, and put out a call for help on facebook. My phone blew up, and the next thing I knew I was sitting in my therapist's office crying as he cussed out my ex and got pissed at HIM, not me, because he didn't take me seriously...he didn't care if I killed myself and in some ways did all he could to facilitate the act.
I wonder, if there had been someone understanding, loving, and caring enough to push me into the help I needed when I needed it most and was there to support me as I worked through all the shit in my life...I wonder...would I be where I am today? Would I have so many wasted years where I was miserably unhappy and unsatisfied? Would I be sitting here right this moment typing about all the times I actually came so close to killing myself? I wonder if the constant litany in my mind of how "worthless, ugly, stupid, etc...I am and that I should just kill myself" would have gone on for so long...or even started at all. I mean, yes I was extremely suicidal as a teenager but I didn't have that constant mental tear down that I give myself every second of every day. I think that's the worst habit I established. I still haven't completely broken it yet, but I'm a lot better. I don't hate myself anymore...I still think I'm stupid and have issues...but I do know I'm a pretty cool person, and I know that I have an enormous capacity to care and love people. I just wish that some of that care and love was reflected back onto me when I need it too.
I guess the fact that I don't go through my day with a constant chant in my mind about how worthless I am and how I should just kill myself is a major step, I'm grateful for that.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Self Harming
I used to be a cutter way back in the day. Today you can barely see the network of trace marks left behind. I was never one to cut too deeply because it was hard to hide. Growing up as a teenager in a rural area I could always blame the vines in the woods and such if they were thin and fine. My tool of choice was a razor blade, just the ones my dad used at work in scrapers, a single edge. All I needed was a single edge.
I didn't cut too often and I always felt overwhelmed with shame and disappointment after I'd carved my arm up a bit. I usually managed to keep it down to two or three lines, but there were a few instances where I did go to town and then I'd be wearing long sleeves in the hot FL weather. But I remember that feeling, I still feel it from time to time, but it was such a burning sensation of disappointment, regret, and loathing because I couldn't control myself and I'd done it again.
But it was such a release. I didn't know how to process my emotions. I had no tools to cope with the pain I felt in my head. There were times when I felt like my head would explode because of all the raging thoughts and emotions coursing through, it was agonizing and that sharp shallow pain would focus the inner pain into that little line and as the blood welled up and over I felt the relief as they thoughts exited with my blood.
After I escaped my family the behavior became extinct and for quite some time I felt slightly stable. At least I felt so happy to be free that I allowed myself to relax and enjoy life for a bit. It did come back to haunt me rather quickly, but the cutting seemed to be a thing of the past and for the most part has. I can't remember the last time I cut myself it's been so long.
But then I picked up the nasty habit of self abusing. I would hit myself on the head with a hair brush or slam my head against the wall. It was only when I couldn't bear the inner turmoil anymore, when the rejection from my ex husband, the stress of motherhood, and the thoughts raging through my mind got the best of me I'd run into my room and beat the hell out of my head. For over a year I don't think I spent more than a few days without some lump of some sort on my head. I was just constantly hitting my head with a brush or onto the wall. I couldn't stop. It released so much tension that would otherwise boil over onto my kids.
Finally I realized I had to get help. It was just the shit icing on a turd sandwich and I forced myself to get help.
In over five years I've self harmed twice: once bashing my head into the wall and once by biting my arm. I think that's not bad though considering my past history so I pat myself (gently) on the head and keep plugging along. I'm glad to say that I'm past it, even if it is just for the time being. I hate self harming and the shame I feel for doing it. It feels good to channel the awful thoughts into something more constructive or to be able to give them a voice and speak them out before I let them harm me. I don't really know why I stopped so cold turkey both times or why I went such a long time between bouts, but I do know that I hope it's for good because it really is such a concerning behavior.
I didn't cut too often and I always felt overwhelmed with shame and disappointment after I'd carved my arm up a bit. I usually managed to keep it down to two or three lines, but there were a few instances where I did go to town and then I'd be wearing long sleeves in the hot FL weather. But I remember that feeling, I still feel it from time to time, but it was such a burning sensation of disappointment, regret, and loathing because I couldn't control myself and I'd done it again.
But it was such a release. I didn't know how to process my emotions. I had no tools to cope with the pain I felt in my head. There were times when I felt like my head would explode because of all the raging thoughts and emotions coursing through, it was agonizing and that sharp shallow pain would focus the inner pain into that little line and as the blood welled up and over I felt the relief as they thoughts exited with my blood.
After I escaped my family the behavior became extinct and for quite some time I felt slightly stable. At least I felt so happy to be free that I allowed myself to relax and enjoy life for a bit. It did come back to haunt me rather quickly, but the cutting seemed to be a thing of the past and for the most part has. I can't remember the last time I cut myself it's been so long.
But then I picked up the nasty habit of self abusing. I would hit myself on the head with a hair brush or slam my head against the wall. It was only when I couldn't bear the inner turmoil anymore, when the rejection from my ex husband, the stress of motherhood, and the thoughts raging through my mind got the best of me I'd run into my room and beat the hell out of my head. For over a year I don't think I spent more than a few days without some lump of some sort on my head. I was just constantly hitting my head with a brush or onto the wall. I couldn't stop. It released so much tension that would otherwise boil over onto my kids.
Finally I realized I had to get help. It was just the shit icing on a turd sandwich and I forced myself to get help.
In over five years I've self harmed twice: once bashing my head into the wall and once by biting my arm. I think that's not bad though considering my past history so I pat myself (gently) on the head and keep plugging along. I'm glad to say that I'm past it, even if it is just for the time being. I hate self harming and the shame I feel for doing it. It feels good to channel the awful thoughts into something more constructive or to be able to give them a voice and speak them out before I let them harm me. I don't really know why I stopped so cold turkey both times or why I went such a long time between bouts, but I do know that I hope it's for good because it really is such a concerning behavior.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Are You Paranoid?
Back in my wild youth I used to have such fun playing around with friends experiencing paranoia as a side effect from mind altering substances. I would ask in this innocent, yet sultry voice "are you paranoid?" and it was instant fun. Friends going through a rough moment would smile at me, give me a hug, and then cheer up. For some reason, recognizing that paranoia seemed to be key to releasing it once it was acknowledged and viewed through someone else's eyes.
These days I don't really have anyone to say the magic words to yank me out of my paranoia so I have to do it to myself. I can't say that it's quite as effective, but of course it isn't just a sensation temporarily invoked by drug consumption. For me, paranoia is a rather new animal I've had to deal with. I've always had social paranoia, but nothing like what I have been coping with as of late. This is rough and this is tough. I actually have some delusional thoughts, but I've so far been able to control my reactions and talk myself down.
People are watching me.
They are! When I'm working in someone's home I know they're video or audio recording me. For the most part I don't care because all they'd see is a dumb idiot dashing about in a rush while she bebops and dances around to the music. I do sing out loud, badly, so I'm sure any audio would be hilarious, but really it's no big deal. Perhaps that's why I'm able to kind of blow it off. It adds an element of stress to my life that isn't fun, but I am able to tell myself that no one cares to record me and go on.
I guess this is just a a minor thing in reality, but my pdoc was horrified to hear I was having these delusions when I confessed. They were really bothering me and a rather new sensation so I talked to him about them. Cue another anti psychotic prescription. I even took the damn pills for three weeks, but didn't really notice a difference so I discontinued their use. I hate anti-ps and have prided myself on getting off of them, especially since I have an irritating habit of getting the rarer side effects like, oh...lactation. That was rather interesting, to say the least.
People are laughing at me.
The social paranoia is still hard for me. I always have the sensation of being watched when I'm in public. Of course, it doesn't help that I don't look "normal" in that I wear ironic shirts, vintage glasses, and loud colors at times (like my colorful socks). It's a very unnerving sensation, especially when I do that panicked room check and notice that people ARE looking at me. It's hard to explain how it feels when I know someone's looking at me, but I can just feel it. It's very similar to having someone just ever so barely touching me. Sometimes I feel it physically, which is extremely disconcerting, but most of the times it's a mental touch. It's as if I can feel a persons' eyes turn onto myself and look. At times I see myself in my mind, turn, and there's a person staring at me.
It's just that "someone's watching me" sensation that drains me so totally. That and wondering if people are laughing at me. I love to laugh, laughter is such an amazing thing, especially when it's unfettered and free. I try not to let myself laugh freely in front of others because if I truly release and laugh I snort, which makes people stop laughing at something and start laughing at ME. Of course, it is hilarious, which makes me laugh harder, but it does take its toll over time.
If I hear people nearby laughing I'll usually look over. I'm not sure if it's my movement that triggers their own reaction of looking at me, but it seems that whenever I look, I notice someone look at me and then look away. The reality is most likely that they saw me startle and look, reacted themselves, and then saw nothing out of the ordinary and returned to their conversation. To me it feels much more sinister and often cements in my mind that they're indeed laughing at me and can't look at me because they don't want me to know that I know they're laughing at me. It's a bit convoluted and...well stupid to be honest, but I work with what I have and sometimes it's not much.
To cope with my social paranoia, I simply cannot function in a social setting unaided. I tried for quite a while and ended up just self medicating with alcohol and since I only drink to get drunk, I spent a lot of time forming friends heavily under the influence and don't remember half of what happened or was said. That's never good. Now I take .5 mg of clonazepam shortly before attending a social function and it's just enough to take off the edge without altering my state of mind or making me sleepy. It does help immensely and I find myself able to enjoy outings in large groups or gatherings.
That still doesn't keep me from placing myself in a strategic location. I hate having my back exposed. If no one can sneak up on me, then no one can be sitting behind me and listening. I can't be approached from behind and surprised. I often startle when approached from behind, no particular reason why this is, but it happens and it tends to upset some people. Even when someone comes up behind me while I'm being domestic in the kitchen and lovingly caresses or strokes me I flinch or jump a mile, depending on how absorbed I am. I don't like being surprised like that. It's just something I've learned that I have little control over. I've tried to do it on my own and it doesn't work well. I either blend into the background or get drunk.
I don't think there is much I can beyond what I'm doing now. I do use a cognitive approach and expose myself as often as I can without devastating my mental state, but I sincerely doubt that I will ever be able to function unfettered in a social society. My dream home is a secluded house in a very rural setting with access to a lake or river so I can swim.
These days I don't really have anyone to say the magic words to yank me out of my paranoia so I have to do it to myself. I can't say that it's quite as effective, but of course it isn't just a sensation temporarily invoked by drug consumption. For me, paranoia is a rather new animal I've had to deal with. I've always had social paranoia, but nothing like what I have been coping with as of late. This is rough and this is tough. I actually have some delusional thoughts, but I've so far been able to control my reactions and talk myself down.
People are watching me.
They are! When I'm working in someone's home I know they're video or audio recording me. For the most part I don't care because all they'd see is a dumb idiot dashing about in a rush while she bebops and dances around to the music. I do sing out loud, badly, so I'm sure any audio would be hilarious, but really it's no big deal. Perhaps that's why I'm able to kind of blow it off. It adds an element of stress to my life that isn't fun, but I am able to tell myself that no one cares to record me and go on.
I guess this is just a a minor thing in reality, but my pdoc was horrified to hear I was having these delusions when I confessed. They were really bothering me and a rather new sensation so I talked to him about them. Cue another anti psychotic prescription. I even took the damn pills for three weeks, but didn't really notice a difference so I discontinued their use. I hate anti-ps and have prided myself on getting off of them, especially since I have an irritating habit of getting the rarer side effects like, oh...lactation. That was rather interesting, to say the least.
People are laughing at me.
The social paranoia is still hard for me. I always have the sensation of being watched when I'm in public. Of course, it doesn't help that I don't look "normal" in that I wear ironic shirts, vintage glasses, and loud colors at times (like my colorful socks). It's a very unnerving sensation, especially when I do that panicked room check and notice that people ARE looking at me. It's hard to explain how it feels when I know someone's looking at me, but I can just feel it. It's very similar to having someone just ever so barely touching me. Sometimes I feel it physically, which is extremely disconcerting, but most of the times it's a mental touch. It's as if I can feel a persons' eyes turn onto myself and look. At times I see myself in my mind, turn, and there's a person staring at me.
It's just that "someone's watching me" sensation that drains me so totally. That and wondering if people are laughing at me. I love to laugh, laughter is such an amazing thing, especially when it's unfettered and free. I try not to let myself laugh freely in front of others because if I truly release and laugh I snort, which makes people stop laughing at something and start laughing at ME. Of course, it is hilarious, which makes me laugh harder, but it does take its toll over time.
If I hear people nearby laughing I'll usually look over. I'm not sure if it's my movement that triggers their own reaction of looking at me, but it seems that whenever I look, I notice someone look at me and then look away. The reality is most likely that they saw me startle and look, reacted themselves, and then saw nothing out of the ordinary and returned to their conversation. To me it feels much more sinister and often cements in my mind that they're indeed laughing at me and can't look at me because they don't want me to know that I know they're laughing at me. It's a bit convoluted and...well stupid to be honest, but I work with what I have and sometimes it's not much.
To cope with my social paranoia, I simply cannot function in a social setting unaided. I tried for quite a while and ended up just self medicating with alcohol and since I only drink to get drunk, I spent a lot of time forming friends heavily under the influence and don't remember half of what happened or was said. That's never good. Now I take .5 mg of clonazepam shortly before attending a social function and it's just enough to take off the edge without altering my state of mind or making me sleepy. It does help immensely and I find myself able to enjoy outings in large groups or gatherings.
That still doesn't keep me from placing myself in a strategic location. I hate having my back exposed. If no one can sneak up on me, then no one can be sitting behind me and listening. I can't be approached from behind and surprised. I often startle when approached from behind, no particular reason why this is, but it happens and it tends to upset some people. Even when someone comes up behind me while I'm being domestic in the kitchen and lovingly caresses or strokes me I flinch or jump a mile, depending on how absorbed I am. I don't like being surprised like that. It's just something I've learned that I have little control over. I've tried to do it on my own and it doesn't work well. I either blend into the background or get drunk.
I don't think there is much I can beyond what I'm doing now. I do use a cognitive approach and expose myself as often as I can without devastating my mental state, but I sincerely doubt that I will ever be able to function unfettered in a social society. My dream home is a secluded house in a very rural setting with access to a lake or river so I can swim.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
The Black Hole
Depression has long been a friend of mine. Even when I'm in a good place she's usually standing behind me, looking over my shoulder, and whispering her sweet nothings into my ear. When I feel down, her arms are always open and waiting patiently for my return. She never shames me or says "I told you so," she just holds me close and softly hums while I feel the tears dry up in my heart as it withers inside my chest.
With Depression in my life, things really don't matter. I don't feel sadness and I don't feel joy. If those enter my life they're admired and even mildly experienced, but it's so fleeting it's as if it didn't happen at all. Good, bad, and all the things in between are viewed through this haze of apathy. I know I should care but I just don't.
We love to spend long days in bed with nothing but the covers and pillows to close out the infringements of the outside world. I can sleep hour after hour in her arms followed by endless hours staring at the ceilings. with Depression, nothing is what it should be, it's all mixed up and I want to change it, but the effort it takes is just more than I can possibly handle. I'm so tired. When I'm tired I can't function normally or with any resolve.
Life goes on around me and things pile up: laundry, food, dishes, a dirty house, and all the lists with one out of ten things checked off, lists made to guide and motivate and nothing more than a blaring sign of my failure and lack of ability. All those important things that must be done in a timely manner in order for the world to continue, for children to thrive, and for me to improve, they all simply cease to have importance.
I walk through life in a bubble of goo. Everything is slow and the bubble is tinted darkly so there is a hint of light that will sometimes show through, but when it does it's faded and tired, just the way I feel.
It's so easy to let myself slide backwards into a pit, a deep hole, where nothing truly matters and everything is peaceful and silent. There I allow myself to stretch out fully and relax totally. I begin to feel again, but the sensations are all wrong. Instead of feeling relief I begin to feel a suffocating sensation of failure and loathing. I've reached my bottom and in spite of reaching out for help, I find myself in the bottom pits of despair and cannot bring myself out. Everything is gray and dreary, there is nothing I can do besides wallowing in misery and unhappiness. There is no way out. The walls of the hole are smooth and slippery with taunts of my uselessness and mistakes to make sure I can't get a good hold and make my way back out.
I long for the release of tears, a steady stream of pain rolling down my face while my body is wracked with sobs and wails of remorse, fear, and sorrow, but it's denied to me. I cannot cry.I feel trapped and hopeless because the world is so remote and yet so looming and threatening all at once.
If I can get out of the hole long enough to participate in a normal activity, Depression follows at my heels reminding me of how worthless this all is and how each thing I do is nothing more than a drain on me and on my spirit. I feel used and abused doing the things I'd normally done with such joy and verve. As soon as the task is finished I rapidly crawl back into my hole and hide my head under the covers. None of it matters anymore because even if I did do my best there would always be more to do and I'd have to do it over and over and over again forever with no thanks or appreciation. I become a hollow shell dragging through life, just waiting for an opportunity to slip back into the comfort of my misery where I can truly be myself.
That's how it feels to be depressed in my life, and yet this doesn't describe the true depths of that pit I've termed my black hole. It is a black hole, it sucks everything out of my life and leaves me feeling nothing but the negative and the bad. Those simple things that once brought me joy are nothing more than a burden to trouble me and annoy me. The only thing I can think of to end the pain is to wait for the inevitable end.
With Depression in my life, things really don't matter. I don't feel sadness and I don't feel joy. If those enter my life they're admired and even mildly experienced, but it's so fleeting it's as if it didn't happen at all. Good, bad, and all the things in between are viewed through this haze of apathy. I know I should care but I just don't.
We love to spend long days in bed with nothing but the covers and pillows to close out the infringements of the outside world. I can sleep hour after hour in her arms followed by endless hours staring at the ceilings. with Depression, nothing is what it should be, it's all mixed up and I want to change it, but the effort it takes is just more than I can possibly handle. I'm so tired. When I'm tired I can't function normally or with any resolve.
Life goes on around me and things pile up: laundry, food, dishes, a dirty house, and all the lists with one out of ten things checked off, lists made to guide and motivate and nothing more than a blaring sign of my failure and lack of ability. All those important things that must be done in a timely manner in order for the world to continue, for children to thrive, and for me to improve, they all simply cease to have importance.
I walk through life in a bubble of goo. Everything is slow and the bubble is tinted darkly so there is a hint of light that will sometimes show through, but when it does it's faded and tired, just the way I feel.
It's so easy to let myself slide backwards into a pit, a deep hole, where nothing truly matters and everything is peaceful and silent. There I allow myself to stretch out fully and relax totally. I begin to feel again, but the sensations are all wrong. Instead of feeling relief I begin to feel a suffocating sensation of failure and loathing. I've reached my bottom and in spite of reaching out for help, I find myself in the bottom pits of despair and cannot bring myself out. Everything is gray and dreary, there is nothing I can do besides wallowing in misery and unhappiness. There is no way out. The walls of the hole are smooth and slippery with taunts of my uselessness and mistakes to make sure I can't get a good hold and make my way back out.
I long for the release of tears, a steady stream of pain rolling down my face while my body is wracked with sobs and wails of remorse, fear, and sorrow, but it's denied to me. I cannot cry.I feel trapped and hopeless because the world is so remote and yet so looming and threatening all at once.
If I can get out of the hole long enough to participate in a normal activity, Depression follows at my heels reminding me of how worthless this all is and how each thing I do is nothing more than a drain on me and on my spirit. I feel used and abused doing the things I'd normally done with such joy and verve. As soon as the task is finished I rapidly crawl back into my hole and hide my head under the covers. None of it matters anymore because even if I did do my best there would always be more to do and I'd have to do it over and over and over again forever with no thanks or appreciation. I become a hollow shell dragging through life, just waiting for an opportunity to slip back into the comfort of my misery where I can truly be myself.
That's how it feels to be depressed in my life, and yet this doesn't describe the true depths of that pit I've termed my black hole. It is a black hole, it sucks everything out of my life and leaves me feeling nothing but the negative and the bad. Those simple things that once brought me joy are nothing more than a burden to trouble me and annoy me. The only thing I can think of to end the pain is to wait for the inevitable end.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Hello To My New Blog
I'm not sure how often this blog will be updated or the exact contents, but this blog will mostly deal with the inner workings of my brains and emotions as I struggle to deal with this life. I am mentally ill, but I do not allow that to give me an excuse to not do or achieve the things I want in life. I'm a single mother, a full time student, a small business owner, and an amazing person, but I have my moments and I struggle with every step that I take.
I often feel that I have to focus on taking baby steps. Much like Bob from What About Bob? it's focusing on taking the next step, be it moving from the bedroom to the living room or turning off the lights and going to sleep. All of those things and much much more are enormous struggles for me. I'm often told that I am "strong" and it irritates me, but the truth is that I am strong. I am stronger than any neurotypical person could ever even attempt to imagine. The act of me getting out of bed, dressing, and thinking about leaving my house is enough to send me whimpering for the safety of my womb-like bedroom. But I make myself do it.
That said, I am NOT a bootstrapper. I have my moments and I take medication to help get me through my days. I also resort to unhealthy behaviors to help me cope which I'll discuss at a later time. I understand that people have a hard time and I know just how hard it is to dig out of that pit, but I know it can be done and I know that people just need to have love and support in their lives. I'm so fortunate that I've been able to finally pull myself out on my own and continue on. I'm also fortunate to have people I can lean on from time to time, even if it kills me to admit to moments of weakness.
So! Who am I? What am I? What's my issue?
I'm me. I'm a geeky single mom of two who is hoping to go to nursing school. I work and play hard and I love my kids even harder. I'm dating a great guy who is helpful in the ways he can be and is mostly willing to learn how to accept and work with my peculiarities.
My official diagnosis is Borderline Personality Disorder coupled with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Severe Depressive Disorder. I scored high on the ADHD test and do exhibit some traits, but they are not at a level high enough to require any attention or medication and as long as I keep the caffeine intake at an acceptable level I can keep it under control unless I see something shiny. I am medicated, but I've whittled down from a boatload to a single pill with an occasional sleep aid. I'll post more on meds later too.
So that's it for now. I'm really hoping this blog will help me vent and voice what I face on a daily basis. I am also hoping it will help me therapeutically since I can't afford a therapist and journaling has always done so much for me int he past.
I often feel that I have to focus on taking baby steps. Much like Bob from What About Bob? it's focusing on taking the next step, be it moving from the bedroom to the living room or turning off the lights and going to sleep. All of those things and much much more are enormous struggles for me. I'm often told that I am "strong" and it irritates me, but the truth is that I am strong. I am stronger than any neurotypical person could ever even attempt to imagine. The act of me getting out of bed, dressing, and thinking about leaving my house is enough to send me whimpering for the safety of my womb-like bedroom. But I make myself do it.
That said, I am NOT a bootstrapper. I have my moments and I take medication to help get me through my days. I also resort to unhealthy behaviors to help me cope which I'll discuss at a later time. I understand that people have a hard time and I know just how hard it is to dig out of that pit, but I know it can be done and I know that people just need to have love and support in their lives. I'm so fortunate that I've been able to finally pull myself out on my own and continue on. I'm also fortunate to have people I can lean on from time to time, even if it kills me to admit to moments of weakness.
So! Who am I? What am I? What's my issue?
I'm me. I'm a geeky single mom of two who is hoping to go to nursing school. I work and play hard and I love my kids even harder. I'm dating a great guy who is helpful in the ways he can be and is mostly willing to learn how to accept and work with my peculiarities.
My official diagnosis is Borderline Personality Disorder coupled with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Severe Depressive Disorder. I scored high on the ADHD test and do exhibit some traits, but they are not at a level high enough to require any attention or medication and as long as I keep the caffeine intake at an acceptable level I can keep it under control unless I see something shiny. I am medicated, but I've whittled down from a boatload to a single pill with an occasional sleep aid. I'll post more on meds later too.
So that's it for now. I'm really hoping this blog will help me vent and voice what I face on a daily basis. I am also hoping it will help me therapeutically since I can't afford a therapist and journaling has always done so much for me int he past.
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