RealMental

I fear that no one wants to read my blog anymore.  I am not scared of losing traffic, well, I guess I am afraid of losing readers because I need them.  Right now, I need them.  I decided to cross post a version of a post I had on my “regular” blog post because I don’t think people know what to comment or say to me anymore.  I feel like a car accident, where people crane there heads to see, but don’t stop to help.  I hope this is ok

——-> snip

I am kind of anti-social.  I know, those who have met me are calling bullshit, but really I am.  It certainly became more so when I left my office job where there were lots of people.  Worse after baby (when I left said office), worse as time wore on during the horrible winter when I had a newborn, more and more, retreating into the interwebs, which hasn’t been a bad thing.  Bipolar diagnosis, depression, hypomania, sleeping more, hiding from peoples.  Or at least hiding from people I know.

I manage to come out to BlogHer, and visit people, sometimes not all that successfully as I believe I have fucked up a couple of relationships there too.  Perhaps better I stay in this house, choosing a new bed (we have no bed), deciding to put up curtains (to make the bedroom darker), finally putting some fucking pictures on the wall.  I also really need to transplant those hostas before the snow.

I dunno, this is all to tell you that going off of Effexor and on to Cymbalta prompted a little hypomania episode to be followed by a most excellent depressive one, which I am enjoying right now.  Hypomania sounds all fun to some people, and in some literature.  It isn’t.  There are brief moments of chatty cathy and HAPPY but then irritability, impatience, anxiety, then, finally dull depression.  Hopefully for not too long.  I don’t know if the new drug will quell some of the anxiety and sit on the depression a bit, but fuck this gets old.  You know?  Since I have been 18, 20 years of medication changes, disorder changes, diagnosis changes, constantly altering.  Occasionally feeling really optimistic about new drug(s), then let down and hopeless I will ever feel anything other than THIS.  Ever be anyone other than THIS.  Ever be anyone who doesn’t talk about THIS or THAT.  Tedious, for me and you and friends and family.  Where my spouse is afraid to take a small trip and leave me alone, it breaks my heart.  Sure this is crap for me, but I want to hold my tongue more, especially amongst family and friends I encounter frequently.  I feel like you all like me no matter what.  Perhaps YOU ALL are nuts too.  :-)

Credit card bills are coming in from the hypomania, even though I insisted to my shrink I shop ALL the time, not just when I AM! SO! UP! -ish.  Right now all I can think of it going to bed.  Nursing my head and my recently buggered knee (again), something else wrong.  Icing my knee and drinking diet pepsi for my brain?  Trying to avoid graze-binge, trying to avoid being such a problem child, now adult.  But avoiding.  Phone calls, emails, you know.  The cat judges me in more silence than I judge myself.  Even when he puked on the rug an hour ago, it wasn’t because he thinks I am crazy.

Finding the stopping point in some situations has always eluded me. Either I go on too far, or I stop early and miss the opportunity.

How does anyone know they are officially at the end? When they are screaming and shouting to whomever is within closest range? I know it doesn’t have to come to that, but isn’t that a stopping point for many of us?

It would be nice if I could just pull out my favorite purple crayon and draw a line across my day, my life and announce to all involved, “this is the end”.

Am I really any better off from all the worrying, the second guessing, and years of digging around in the graveyard of my life? If I look back into the written archives here, I can see that I’ve had times in which I would shout from the rooftop of the mental health building telling all who would listen, therapy will save your life!

Therapy is worth all the tears, all the self actualization, all of the broken that brought you to the door in the first place. And then, some days it’s icky. Like the honey jar that no one ever wipes clean, leaving a trail of sticky wherever the honey pot goes.

It’s dark, and sad, and you question everything in your life and despise yourself for always asking why, or what can I do to make this better?

Sometimes, when I am looking for a reason for all of this hashing laid out for all to see, I will kid myself. I will say that the reason that I do this is because I am a thinker. A reacher, a digger, an archaeologist of the mind and I am this way for no other reason than this is who I am.

Often, I wonder if other people have the right idea. Just keep your head down, nose to the grindstone and block it all out. How many people do I actually know that do this and they are free from their demons?

None. Not a one person, despite their claims of being happy or peaceful and FINE with the way things are.

They are big fat liars, those people are.

I know it, you know it, and most of all THEY know it.

But what can you do?

Nothing.

If I am having a problem dealing with a person, or struggling with their actions, my therapist drills home the “accept them for who they are” concept. My job, if I am to be a content person, is to accept them for who they are. The biggest piece of this, is accepting myself for who I am. The better equipped I am for that, the better equipped I am with accepting you for who you are.

I must tell you, I have found that this actually works. Me, accepting people for who they are and not who I want them to be. It really works.

Most days, my simplest choice to pick up the tools that lay at my feet and use them as I embark into the world. Some days, I refuse to pick them up.

Arguing with myself about the tools. “They are too heavy today”, or “I’m SICK to death of picking them up”, “Why do I have to do it when no one else is doing it”.

Look at those other lazy fuckers just walking around with their noses to the grindstone, not looking, not telling, and pretending not to know. They seem fine to me!

And then the voice, that comes from deep inside, the one that speaks logic.

It says to me, in a loving voice that I can trust, “but you are not them”.

I have to be honest with you: times are tough.

I have not known what to write over the last while, because I have been in alternating cycles of depression and anxiety that have pretty much crippled my creativity and ability to perform even simple tasks. I have been here before but not to this extent in a few years, and, to be honest, I am both shocked and not in the least surprised to be here again.

I am shocked, because I have been able to push through some truly trying times over the past few years with little more than my strong will to survive and the occasional use of pharmaceuticals from different doctors at as many different walk-in clinics when I found myself falling into old patterns of paranoia and circular thinking. I am not the kind of person who finds it at all easy to ask for help, and I have done my best to avoid it and won.

Won what, though? I’ve won more of the same with ever increasing regularity, which is also why I am not in the least surprised. I look back at the last ten years of my life, and I see a person who has never been able to stop struggling. I have never found truly stable ground. I have been able to hang on, push through, manage a regular working life to some extent, be more or less functional, but I have never had an entire week in which I did not have to talk myself out of bed or force myself into social situations just to get out of the house.

I have become used to a barely functional existence. It has become my norm. I have actually convinced myself that I am doing well despite the amount of time I spend curled up in a chair paralyzed against constructive action. It is so wrong that my barometer for measuring my psychological wellness is based on whether or not I have joined the shuffling herd of people from the local psych ward who yell I am the Easter Bunny! at me when I go to buy toothpaste.

I have spent the last week-and-a-half basically immobile but for when I get up to refill my coffee mug or go to the bathroom. Bathing happens only when absolutely necessary and eating only when my hands start shaking. Part of this is due to the fact that my medication was upped last week, and so I have not only had to deal with my original depression and anxiety but also a powerful round of nervous jitters, an electrified feeling that numbs my fingertips, insomnia, nausea, headaches, and excessive sweating.

If anything, I am learning the great reaches of the Palinode‘s patience. He has been nothing but supportive, and it is because of him that I have been able to do as well as I have.

Tomorrow afternoon, I have an appointment with a family doctor who will refer me to a psychiatrist. I have not taken the steps toward psychiatric help since fifteen years ago when three different psychiatrists diagnosed me with three different psychological conditions and fed me as many drugs that did more to complicate than ease my problems.

Making this appointment was fucking hard to do. When I walked into the clinic three days ago to make the appointment, I could barely force my voice above a whisper.

What doctor would you like to see? the receptionist asked.

Dr. P, I choked out.

What? she asked.

Dr. P. I want to see Dr. P, I repeated, my voice barely carrying over the counter.

I am crossing my fingers that my experience with psychiatry all those years ago was just a bad run, because I have to stop spending so much of my day in bed, and soon. When you spend twelve to sixteen hours a day in bed, you end up having to launder your bedding a lot more frequently, and I really hate doing laundry.

(Originally published at Schmutzie’s Milkmoney Or Not, Here I Come)

I called her right after I got out of the meeting. I should have called her two weeks ago, but this is a game I play with myself over and over. Before I got to the meeting, I was a jangle of nerves spilling the coffee on my pants and just a few minutes later, the water tumbled over too.

Why do I always have to carry along liquids everywhere I go? Especially liquids that I know do not fit into the cup holders in the car.

Most likely, the same reason that I forget to take medications and make stupid mistakes that I regret two seconds after making them. I told him tonight as I was getting ready for the meeting that all of these “ailments” I am having are directly related to my center not being centered.

Basically, the things that “get to me” are things that are not going to change. It is up to me to accept these things for what they are.

Still, I manage to find ways to pay penance for my being a mere human that fucks up.

Speaking with her on the phone, she suggested that I try and keep the focus on myself. I shoot back pretty quickly, “but I think that is why I’m loony now”. I fear I’ve been focusing on myself entirely too much. She’s quiet and patient with me. She sees no reason to argue this point, knowing that I will come around when I am ready to come around.

Towards the end of the call she tells me that I sound much better than I did at the beginning of the call.

Her voice is always so calm, so loving, and her words have a way of pulling me back into reality. She asks me, “what have you done for yourself lately?”

I think to myself, “I don’t deserve to do anything nice for me”. I make mistakes, I say stupid things. She isn’t buying it. She’s not taking the “please beat me” bait. She never takes that bait.

I want so much for someone to just tell me how incredibly stupid and thoughtless I am. I tell her that if she won’t do it, I’ll call someone who can. This is meant as a joke, but reminds me of all the times I wanted to be punished for making a mistake and I had folks I could call that were more than happy to tear me down. And I did it all on auto-pilot.

That doesn’t work anymore. It hasn’t worked for a very long time, but old habits die hard. The knee-jerk reaction is to seek it out.

It finally dawns on me what I’ve been doing. Creating situations to disrupt my life in such a manner to make me “pay” for my bad behavior. I can know this all day long, and you can even remind me of it but it won’t guarantee my immunity from it.

There is a permanent path in my brain for a few things. When things get crazy, run. When feelings start to rise up, run. If anything uncomfortable, or not nice comes up I am supposed to run.

Now that the cat is out of the bag, so to speak I can’t run anymore. It’s like my running legs have been sawed off at the knees. My mind wants to, but my body cannot comply.

I was able to accept what she was giving me, even though it boils down to the truth of me not being able to run. I growled at her for doing such a thing to me. She didn’t do it at all, she was just the voice of reason during a mental breakdown. It is why I have asked her to help me along this journey.

I usually refer to this part of the process as “stop, drop, and roll”.

Reaching our for help pertains to the stop. Releasing what is no longer serving me is the drop. Lastly, the roll part is giving myself a break and moving on. Hopefully that moving on part won’t be as hard as I have a tendency to think it is.

Brain waves scrambling at lightening speeds, stomach feeling like there is an egg frying in it; bubbling, popping, greasy, and hot.

There is no way to prepare yourself for all of life’s gunshots. Situations that have your heart wrapped up like a Vietnamese summer roll, nice and tight.

My recourse, my comfort has been to write, and asking others for help. I’m not good with the asking for help part, never have been. So far, I haven’t asked anyone for help but I know I am supposed to.

There are some things that not one person can help with, putting me in the boat of “beyond human aid”. I know that boat, and I know where to take it when I’m floating in it.

I remember the old adage, “tie a knot and hang on” and wonder if it came about from a person attempting to hang themselves. Or, how about “this too shall pass”? That’s a given, days will pass whether we like it or not.

It doesn’t remove the need to actually process the emotions that come up during times of darkness. The way of the Buddha, to embrace the feelings we have, no matter their internal temperature. Trying to remember to accept my life for what it is, rather than how I think it should be. Sure, that’s easy enough right?

Right, it is really that simple.

Find the gratitude, it’s always present right underneath the clouds.

Be here now.

Love.

Give.

Live.

Move forward, careful not to peek too much into the past.

Heal.

Love.

Write.

I’ve been musing on how the adult child thing can rear its head in good times as well as bad– particularly the feeling inadequate thing. I had the extreme blessing of being able to go to BlogHer08 this weekend. All around, I met women whose blogs I’d admired from afar, and others whose blogs I’d not yet encountered. I got to meet bloggy friends, and I met people who’d read my site. All around, everyone was being affirming, interested, curious about one anothers’ experiences, motivations, and writing.

Having some of that positive stuff directed at me ended up being really hard to handle, even as I was meeting people who I wanted to meet, to hug, to praise. I have no problem praising others. I want to, it feels important, it’s a part of what I’d like to see the world become– affirming, supportive, other-centered. But getting praise? Being the object of interest? That’s another story.

My adult-childness developed not in the scenario of overt abuse, neglect, etcetera– really, I know, it could have been so much worse. But even as the adult child of “merely” divorced parents who were preoccupied with their own (admittedly real) shit, the fact remains that I was forced to step forward to care for myself, to try to care for my brother. Whether or not I succeeded is beside the point– the fact is, I was made to try. I was never told, “this is something you shouldn’t have to take on.” Rather, it was a relief to them, that I was able to take care of myself.

Suffice it to say that having grown up not receiving praise for extraordinary efforts, having had success expected of me as a matter of course, and having no attention paid me should I fall short of whatever their mark happened to be, being on the receiving end of positive attention is . . . anxiety-inducing. It skews my perception of what’s ordinary, where the expectations lie. I keep thinking, “it’s not hard,” or “if they really knew,” or worse yet, “what’s the catch?” Except, of course, this is BlogHer. They do really know, it is hard sometimes, and there is no catch– these women bare their own wounds, and by their support and praise clean and bind those wounds I voluntarily bare for exploration. And yet, I still find it hard to believe– as much as I put my content out there for catharsis and on the off chance that it might be helpful to someone else, spare them the misery I’ve felt, I nonetheless doubt I have something important to say.

It got to the point where I had a little bit of a meltdown Saturday night, and had to get out, go have dinner with my husband while I didn’t really talk. (He’s very patient with my semi-catatonic states like that.) There was so much to take in, and overwhelming is still overwhelming, even if the stuff you’re being overwhelmed with is good. I missed most of the closing party because I just needed to be quiet and have no more input for a bit– which makes me sad, because there were lots of “old” and “new” friends I wanted to talk to. But I couldn’t do it, without a time out to put my game face on. I did get back in time to catch up with some of the folks I wanted to see– but now I’ve some regrets for others with whom I didn’t get to spend more time. Great– now I’ve got self-inflicted wounds, too.

In high school, I had a friend who was perpetually insecure, who was actually great, fabulous, wonderful. It came to be a joke between us when I would reassure her or praise her about something, that if she couldn’t believe herself, she should at least believe me, because as everyone knew, I was always right. The tag line was, “because I said so.” So that’s my resolution (among other things) coming out of BH: even as I am trying to put my “because I said so” out into the blogoverse, I am going to try to remember that my own stuff is interesting, “because they said so.” Thanks, they.

I find myself in the middle of an unknown patch of life, and I instinctively know I am not safe.

One of them asks aloud, “is this really happening”?

Another one answers, “no, it’s just another psychotic moment she’s having”.

I respond with, “I cannot be sure”.

The faces around me are familiar.

Their smiles are not.

Are those jagged teeth I see behind their veiled, semi-friendly smiles?

I begin to wonder how quickly my flesh will be ripped apart, once again and fed to the monsters.

“Not again”, one of the voices whispers.

“You may as well go ahead and prepare yourself, it’s really happening. Again.”

“Oh God, please not again”.

The walls slide up as if out of nowhere and enclose me. I hear them chanting as they dance around the outside of the wall.

“The time is now”, they chant over and over.

The time is now.