RealMental

Therapy started last week and it wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be.  Right off the bat, I wanted to clear any notion of bipolar because I truly don’t believe my regular doctor is equipped to call a diagnosis like that based on a stupid questionnaire written by a drug company and the therapist agreed immediately.  I was expecting a fight on that one but she reviewed my paperwork and told me that PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) often presents as bipolar when memories surface over time.  Then she had me start at the beginning.  My earliest memories.

As I sat and recalled my childhood, I realized (with her probing) that I had definitely (and conveniently) forgotten much of the bad parts of being my mother’s daughter.  Some of the stuff I was recalling was only because there were things my mother or other family members had told me as a kid and some of the stuff I recalled was a result of piecing together scenarios that I only knew because I’d seen a picture and someone had told me.   There were things she asked me about that my mind is so fuzzy on, I had to tell her I didn’t know if some of my memories were real or a fabrication of my mother’s imagination — she tends to lie and embellish and there are things she told me that I later found out to be untrue OR other family members won’t admit/don’t know themselves.  I may never know.

For what felt like 15 minutes (it was an hour), we talked, her asking a few questions about the minefield I was walking in, me tiptoeing around the Things I Wasn’t Ready To Say.  I was surprised at how much I did tell her but she was incredibly easy to talk to and I liked her right away.  I’m grateful for that.

My next appointment isn’t for another couple of weeks but I did decide to start a private journal, if only to tell my story to myself and try and remember more.  Even though I want to get it out on paper, I’m terrified to unlock some of the parts I’ve held down for so long.

Since calling back the therapist and booking my first appointment for this coming Friday I have felt lighter, happier, more bright, and motivated to get up and go every morning. As the appointment gets closer I wonder if I’m already pushing myself to heal before I get there — like when someone hires a maid but cleans the house before she arrives.

The want I have to become ‘normal’ is so overwhelming some days. In the last week and a half the husband and I have re-connected so well that I don’t want to let anyone else into the spectrum of my thoughts. It cheapens the experience, to share, even here. I cannot describe the love we have without sounding cheesy or overdone but I will say this man is my best friend and I love him with everything I’ve got.

Jesus, even that sounds silly. Go ahead, laugh. I am.  But sometimes I want to be more ‘normal’ for him.

I’m so appreciative of this rock in my life that I can break down to, that I can trust completely, and that when I am up, as I have been as of late, he continues to inspire me on a daily basis to be myself, which is a happy person for the most part.

The less time I spend thinking about petty things and history, the happier I become. I find if I get my freelance work done in the morning (I work from home) and head off to the gym or go for a walk or even just shower and throw laundry in, I feel as though I’ve accomplished something. It beats sitting on this couch while surfing the net and feeling incredibly guilty about such a waste of time. If I stay on the computer too long, I mope and get so down. But I haven’t sat around on the computer for over a week. Now, by mid-day I’m ready to tackle any project and I’ve even found made time to read a novel again, or knit (I know), or just snuggle with the kids and talk. I used to brush all that stuff off to surf the internet.

It’s gray here – the snow hasn’t come and the sun is scarce, so I’m missing the brightness. I’m really busy with life though, and the kids. I haven’t yelled at them since God knows when, except to call them for dinner. By the end of the day I’ve done so much that 9 p.m. seems late and I crash. I’m making lists of house stuff and errands and getting them done, which is big for me. Hello, meet the Former Mrs. Procrastinator. I’m eating 3-5 small meals/snacks a day, cooking more for winter and sleeping a regular pattern, as opposed to the starving myself of sleep and food.

Like I said, the maid has been hired, and I’m cleaning the mental house.

Well it’s Tuesday morning and I’m supposed to post here but I don’t much feel like it.  Been up all night and I want to sleep but if I go now, getting up in two hours will be hell.

I called the therapist back.  She answered her own phone and I told her right off that I wasn’t sure if our health insurance would cover her.  “Oh!” she exclaimed, “You’re completely covered by the government!”

“Well then,” I replied, “I need fixing.”

We scheduled the appointment for the 23rd.

I have no clue where to begin with this.  So I go in there, full guns of verbal diarrhea and let ’em fire?

Right now I can’t think that far ahead.  Everything is coming at me again as far as life goes, so I am busy dealing with the brushfires of kids, home and work, like everyone else.  There’s not much room for thinking, which really?  Is probably good.

Thank you to everyone that encouraged me to call her back.  I think I’m glad I did.  She sounds nice and comes highly recommended, so we shall see.

In food news, which I know I need to talk about here, I’ve been sort of okay.  The husband, when he is home, notices the not eating sometimes so he makes extra effort to make things I will eat, like fish, salad and cut up fruit.  Part of me wonders if I do this to see if he will notice.  I think there’s a few layers that need to be peeled back there so I can see clearly regarding this.   Especially since I do avoid food even more so when he isn’t around, like I’m testing myself too, seeing how long I can go, which is like 14 hours now.   See?  Even here it’s a sick pride, quickly followed by a shadow of shame.  I know it’s wrong, and I feel stupid for doing it, but at the same time I’m all like 14 hours!  That’s such an accomplishment!  And then right back to shame.

I am really a huge mess of a person, and when I have all these overwhelming, noisy thoughts swirling in my head like leaves in the park, I just want to run like hell.  But where the hell would I go?

By Blue

The therapist called today.

I’ve never met her. I was referred to her in March. March! It’s now November. Thanks Mental Health Safety Net – good thing I tried to figure this shit out on my own, sorta.

I’m not sure if I want to call her back and begin this process. I’m afraid. Really afraid.

Oh I know I should go and talk to a professional, but I do not need drugs. I will refuse them and look even crazier for doing so, I’m sure. I’m still not sleeping much – maybe 4 hours a night, but usually less. I function with coffee in abundance and eat as little as possible unless something I’m really in love with comes into the house. Like now it’s the Halloween candy and holy shit this stuff needs to go already – it’s only been 2 days (I bought the stuff for trick or treaters as late as possible so I wouldn’t touch it) and already I feel completely yucked out by the taste of sugar on my tongue constantly. Binge eating is always punished later – though I’m not puking anymore, which is good. I just won’t eat tomorrow until I feel faint – then maybe an apple. Whatever. At least I’m not refusing to talk to friends like I did back in March, but I will say I’m doing a lot more ‘faking it.’ Nobody has noticed about the eating this time around. The headaches are killing me though.

Getting back to the therapist. Here’s the breakdown for me:

1) I KNOW what I need to do to get better. I need to sleep, to eat properly, to cut way back on coffee. I know that things that were done to me were wrong and I know they weren’t my fault but the adult in me is saying “Grow up and get over it.” I worry I will sit and tell Dr. Therapy my problems and she will think I’m a huge whiny baby who needs to get over it, which hello? I KNOW.

And the thing is, I did think, at some point that by burying shit, that by throwing it into the recesses of my mind, that I HAVE dealt with things — haven’t I?

2) If I do decide to dredge up all this messy, intricate webs of slimy seaweed and place it on my lap to unravel and untangle it all…can I handle that? Can I handle the sticky, wet mess in my lap, in the forefront of my mind as I sort it out? What will it do to my personality? Will it be a strain on my marriage? I can’t hurt him. I just can’t — but I look at us, at him, at me, and wonder how long it will be before he gives up. Sometimes I think never but he is so normal that I just wonder if he has it in him to love me through this? Will those feelings of inadequacy surface so strong that I will drive him away for fear of him hurting me first? Will I be the driving force in our destruction? I wonder that a lot.

3) How will regurgitating the past affect me as a mother? I so do not want to be a mess. Right now I’m a controlled mess. If I go to Dr. Therapy, I’m not sure I’ll make it through this journey.

I am terrified.

“Blue”

I wrote this part 6 weeks ago:

tonight i am not drunk. i started to drink and ran out of booze. that is probably best since it’s a school day and i want to be sure i’m up for that. every day i make promises to myself to not give up life, not leave my family behind in a mess of blood and tears. i have been close many times to planning it out, and as of late, i do believe that drugs should be had. the ones that will make me happy. every day i promise myself i will call the doctor and have that sit down with her – but last time went so badly and i do not agree with her choices. how do i trust a doctor who sleeps with her prescription pad under her pillow? i’d be better off re-joining the gym and getting stronger. i hope to do that soon. my body craves the movement and god knows i need to take that time for me.

i have been on those happy pills before, but they make me gain considerable weight and being fat, especially for me, given my history of abuse, is devastating and comes with bone crushing sadness. i can’t be fat. i have nothing against fat people – in fact, i tend to gravitate to them. they are safe to me – people i can relate to and be raw with. i can’t explain it, but fat people are considered safe and more loved by me. i distrust skinny people, completely.

the only father figure i have recently asked me when i was getting divorced. i was really surprised at the question since we are happy, but then he followed up with, “guys don’t dig fat chicks.” i repeat it every goddamn time i look in the mirror. i shouldn’t let it get to me but he was one of few ‘safe’ family members. it’s killing me to think about it all the time but i’m obsessed with being thin.

the last time i went to the doctor, i refused drugs. i was going through a horrible relapse with anorexia and never slept. i was public about it and was quickly shut down by hateful emails. since that time i have kept things more under control, especially since my husband had me under a microscope and made me ‘express my feelings’ and ‘open up.’

what he heard unnerved him i think, but he loves me. he knows most of what i deal with privately is a mental hell. still, i haven’t ever said everything i wanted to say. no one knows me inside and out. no one.

i doubt i will ever trust anyone fully. even after years and years of a great marriage, i find i am staring at the sky, waiting for it to fall. it happens all the time – couples fight, lose interest, cheat, lie, whatever. we haven’t gone there. it’s been good, really good. i should be happy.

that feeling of ‘should be happy’ makes it worse. my life ‘should’ make me happy – i have everything i want in terms of material things and of loving arms around me all the time, well, when he is here. i’m alone a lot and miss him so much i ache. so then i feel guilty for not being happy – i feel shitty about starving myself and needing the happy pills but am afraid to get fat, dependent, or deemed weak, by anyone. these 2 cycles have their hands around my neck and the grip has only gotten tighter.

i can’t swallow anymore. i feel very much alone and afraid. writing here might make everything worse. i confided in another writer here about how opening up some of these old wounds might make it worse. i bury things. it works for me.

so i pen this post as ‘blue’ and hope that one day i work through some of this shit . sounds cliche, i’m glad to be here, writing with people who know more, and understand me. it’s a really good start, and i’m hopeful for a whole lot more “every days.”.

****
I wrote this part last night:

these days, things are a little better. i joined a gym and got rid of some of the things that i felt had a serious hold on me. i feel freer, healthier, most of the time. as long as i get moving, my head doesn’t want to bend and swoop, diving down into the darkness. some days are alright.

i quit drinking too. not completely, but i forbid myself to drink during the week. i haven’t drank in nearly 3 weeks. i’m proud of that, and most nights, i don’t think about it. i don’t think i was addicted to alcohol so much as the wallowing in self-pity or the high points – though i never knew which way things would go.

i’m still abusing coffee and my body. i’d like to talk about that more but i think food deserves it’s own post.) if you made it this far, thank you.

~ blue