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.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
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.
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