RealMental

There comes a time when we all have to stop offering excuses, and pick up where we rather messily left off.  I’m at that point, and feeling rather proud of myself for doing something really incremental– taking the call of a creditor on some health insurance payment snafus.  It’s a drop in the bucket of all the stuff I’ve got left to wade through, swim through, not drown in, but until the last week or two, I just haven’t felt up to the task of being functional.  I still don’t really feel up to it, but I do feel more up to it than I have.  And I’ve got to start sometime.  But I still want to excuse myself from my behavior– I’m not normally like this, I’m usually more of your 45 day billing cycle procrastinator, every three week housecleaner and laundry doer, who still gets stuff done.

“My mother went rather spectacularly mad,” I could say.

“I have bipolar and have been having a difficult time adjusting to my new medication,” I might put it, mildly.

“The endless winter this year has made me even SAD-der than usual.”  That’s true.

If I was feeling really TMI?  “My thyroid is also falling apart and I am a rashy mess of brittle nails and hair, swollen hands and feet, and lumpy throat.  And I’m even colder all the time than I was before.  And I could lie down on the subway and sleep, I’m that tired.”

“I’m depressed and scared and elated and paralyzed and whirring with activity all at once at potentially leaving litigation forever, and starting a whole different career,” I could also say, at least as if I was in my therapist’s office.

All of these are true.  And they’re what come to mind when I wonder why my house is a mess, my bills are a mess, my life is a mess.  But at the same time?  I’m tired of making excuses.  I think I’m almost recovered enough that I just need to start plowing through, as painful as it is, and start taking those creditor calls, opening those bills, slaying those dust hippos, climbing those mountains of laundry.  In short, sucking it up.  No more excuses– even though I’m still tired, even though I can’t wear a turtleneck or scarf because my thyroid’s so tender, even though I don’t fit in my normal-sized clothes, even though I’m still not at a fully effective dose on my meds, and therefore prone to weepy-whiny-crankiness.

But life is what happens when you’re making other plans, or even just lying down in the middle of it, letting it wash over you.  I’m going to get more than a bit winded, trying to keep up, but I’m restless and productive enough now, I think, to pick myself up slowly, painfully, start catching up.

As I sit here, on a balcony staring out into the ocean, listening to the waves breaking, feeling the cool mist on my face, my mind wanders towards unlocking the secrets of the ocean and all the stories it holds.

I think of the people and their the secrets it’s met, the items it’s stolen from the shores as it moves in and out all day long, the vessels carrying treasures that have been pulled deep down into its deathly grip.

Those that have offered themselves up to its escape, hoping to swim their way into a new and free life, trying to escape the perils of a communist government.

Or, how many have relied upon the ocean for their final exit, hoping to release themselves from the pain of life. This thought, is the one I have wondered the most.

Each time I am in the presence of Mother Nature and all her greatness, I become Alice in wonderland, falling into the rabbit hole. As I fall, becoming smaller and smaller submitting to her will as I give up my own.

It brings me peace to know that humans will never really unlock the secrets, nor will we ever be able to control Mother Nature.

There are places that need to be left untouched and unfettered in order to remind all of us that there are much bigger things beyond our control, that work just fine without our involvement.

I believe humans try to control entirely too much myself included, we build bridges and walls to try and block out the tides of the ocean, or the falling rocks. Yet, we all know when Mother Nature decides to dance; we have no protection.

Something in this brings me a sort of peace, similar to the feeling of unrequited love. We must let go, turn ourselves over to her mysteries and in doing so, we become free.

In reality, unlocking the secrets is not my real goal; I prefer the feelings of melancholy, hope, and inspiration that Mother Nature brings to me.

I fear I would lose my passion, and join the others that believed their answers lie in trading their life for her eternal protection.

Sometimes, it’s possible to overthink things. I had a mild toxicity episode after starting what was hoped would be my effective dose of lithium, characterized by nausea, dizziness, a head that felt like a heavy water balloon, bad GI effects, and tremendous sleepiness. The nausea was not the mouth-watering, bile-in-your-mouth type, but pretty close. And throughout that time, it felt like there was 2 pounds of puke pushing up on my epiglottis, just waiting to hurl. (Is there a medical term for that? Imminent pukerizing? Yak-readiness?) After four days on the new dose, and two days thereafter when the nausea and dizziness got more severe and more constant, the little dim bulb popped on over my head– toxicity! I called, I got the blood draw, the doctor said yes, I decreased the dose, and three days later, I was feeling better, physically. I was, however, cranky, because right after (no, really, right after, because never say the universe does not have a sense of humor) I called my doctor to say, “um, toxic, I think I am, and talking like Yoda, too?” (ok, not that last part), my mood snapped into place, like a dislocated joint. It was such a relief that it almost hurt. But the mood dissipated back into okay-not-too-bad- occasionally- laughing-but-usually-just- meh-ness. Fortunately, so did the physical symptoms. Mostly.

See, I continued to have this mild what-I’ll-call-epiglottal pressure. I figured it was some weird malingering effect of the nausea. Or an emotional lump in the throat– something psychosomatic having to do with my telling my mother never to call me again the day before Easter, after she told me that I had no idea what it meant to be depressed and unhappy.   (Insert confused Scooby-Doo noise here.)  But I didn’t really think it was the Mom thing– even though I have sometimes been “all choked up” physically about things I’ve been mad about in the past– because when I hung up on her, I felt five hundred pounds lighter, so I didn’t think I was suppressing anything.

Friday I saw my psychiatrist to check in and discuss alternate dosing options, to see what we could do between 1200 and 1500 mg. to make my baseline mood a bit better. And I mentioned this lingering lump in my throat, along with the relevant bits of the story above. She scooted over, had me lower my turtleneck, and palpated my neck. “Your thyroid is inflamed.” Oh. And hadn’t I complained about gaining weight recently? Double oh.

Why yes, I do have the prescription information on my fridge, along with the warnings about people with thyroid conditions in the side effects section! Why do you ask? Oh, because I’m feeling stupid that it was something that obvious, weird inventions about nausea notwithstanding? (That BLC, she always wants to be unique…) And, why, yes, I am a lawyer who is familiar with medical research, having defended medical professionals on more than one occasion. Why do you ask? Oh, because I could have consulted Dr. Google earlier on? (Hey, just because I’m “smart” doesn’t mean I’m sensible all the time.)

I’ve got my lab slip to get my TSH level done when I get the lithium drawn next Friday, since I’m starting a new preparation and intermediate dosing schedule this week. Probably means more pills. F*ing thyroid.

Sometimes I think that the side effects to treating the crazy are worse than the crazy itself. But then I remember that my thyroid never nearly lost me my job. So, yeah, my latest adventures in psychopharmacology suck, but it could be worse. I could still be speaking with BipolarNarcissistMom.  Bring on the synthroid!

feeling lost, and bottomless with no one to catch me.

want to run yet too old now, to think it would do any good.

empty, alone, sad, emotional.

wondering why things happen the way they do.

looking for the break that i believe i am entitled to, even though i know

i am not actually entitled to anything.

don’t want to repeat “sins of the father”,

of being everyone’s support.

old habits are hard to let go of,

holding things in because it is easier that way.

too hard to struggle.

not regretting my age, yet missing my youth to wonder if i would make

different choices.

knowing that all of the choices that led me to where i am

are all a part of a bigger plan.

a plan that i hope my higher self is in charge of.

loving lots of people, feeling emotions very deeply,

wanting to drop in and sprinkle magical fairy dust and then leave.

i question if i was built to be a “staying person” or rather someone

who can only flit here and there with no permanent residence.

i love too deeply, too much, i’m too sensitive, too complicated,

too me.

no one promises that we will be happy, that is a false illusion created by

the likes of walt disney.

i just want peace, serenity, and calm

but not every minute of every day.

perhaps i could store it in the closet on the top shelf and bring it out when

it is most needed.

if only i were not an addict, perhaps that could work.

a higher voice tells me that everything really is ok and not to worry

enjoy each as if it were my last.

that is how my dad tried to live his life, i miss him so much sometimes i

fear i will become invisible with sorrow.

he always knew the right thing to say, or perhaps he is the only one that i

actually “allowed” to say the right thing and be comforted by him.

the trust issues,

of them,

i have many.

my higher self is protecting me from harm

it is important that i experience the emotions

in order to break on through to the

other side.

perhaps i have channeled morrison.

It’s been on me now for months now. It sits in the middle of my head, buzzing like some sort of damned demented tsetse fly.  I am defeated for no reason whatsoever. I can’t smile, at least not for myself, and my eyes are always heavy.
I know that part of the solution is to move around among the living but every time I try panic sets in and suddenly the lights are too bright, the rooms too small, my breathing too shallow and I can’t find my way back to safety. More often than not, I make the decision to avoid movement.

My loved ones want me to get better. They are sure that there is action I can take to get better. I know that they are right. It scares me that they can see it- I am a world class actress after all.  It must be really bad.

I’ve curled up into myself because I know how to take care of me, to keep from falling over that precipice that looms on all sides of my psyche, craving a misstep. It’s hard to explain how withdrawing helps- it just does.

I think that sometimes depression causes so much pain the sufferer’s only recourse is to anesthetise themselves. I used to do that by using drugs and alcohol. Now I do it by drawing myself up into a ball, so that my insides aren’t exposed.

I am starting therapy again and I know that it will help. There’s no magic pill for this, it is something I have to tread through. That may be the hardest part about living with depression and anxiety. When every fiber in your being is screaming at you to keep quiet, keep still, keep yourself safe- to take those steps towards recovery- I am jumping off of a god damned cliff.

I have written about this before, but I cannot emphasize it enough. February is a difficult month. It is already the 21st, but I am not feeling hopeful yet that I will dig myself out of my wallow for a little while yet, because January was not so hot, either, and March is not always so forthcoming with the relief.

You will have to excuse me if I sound like I am complaining. I am.

At this time of year, I do my best to move ahead with things. I go to work, I see friends, and I eat food, but my heart is not in it. My mind is usually wanders off to bed or a hot bath or anything else that accomplishes nothing but offers the possiblity of taking my mind away from its everything-is-futile default setting.

I worry that my medication is not working, even though I know that it is; it is just struggling against February’s oppression. I worry that no one loves me, or even likes me, because I am obviously irritating and selfish and boring. I worry that I am far uglier than I think, and that any physical confidence I have is baseless. I worry that I have an as-yet-to-be-diagnosed terminal disease. I worry that my pets will turn on me. I worry that the toaster will electrocute me. I worry that all my written words are worthless.

Just yesterday, I was setting the dye in a Guatemalan bedspread with vinegar and salt in the washing machine. I stuck my finger in the little hole that the lid triggers to start the machine so that I could watch the agitation. I was there for twenty minutes before I noticed that I had not moved or thought in all that time. My brain wants to run far afield of reality right now, even if all it does is watch the back-and-forth swish of water in the drum.

This will subside. The sun will shine more often, the cold will give way to warmth, and I will break out my spring clothing and regain my faith in moving forward through life. I know this. It will happen.

But (a word that hangs covertly behind every good thought) I must first work my way through to that day when spring and summer lift me out of winter. Until then, I will continue to use my full spectrum lamp, take comforting baths, and let knitting carry me into the limbo of nothought.

Before I go, let me ask you: how do you deal with seasonal depression? I have been figuring that one out for thirty-five winters, but it could not hurt to try what you’ve got.

(This entry is also posted at Schmutzie’s Milkmoney Or Not, Here I Come)

I’ve been battling this flu that has struck the Northeast like a tornado.  Knowing that half of my in-laws have it does nothing to alleviate my personal misery, however.  It’s bad.  After seven days of on-again, off-again fever, poor sleep and the inability to keep a thought in my head except what pestilent fever and congestion engender, all the negative thoughts I’ve been sifting through come crashing down all at once, making it harder to breathe than it already was, with that cough nesting in my chest.

I’m trying hard to heed the advice I would give a friend– to continue to take it easy.  To know that people who are even mildly depressed to begin with are more susceptible to illness.  To not try to rush my recovery, because I’m still depressed, and thus more prone to relapse.  To try to set aside the negative thoughts, the self-blame, the feelings of failure and the “sure knowledge” that I will never amount to anything– because I would tell my friend that the darkness of the sickroom is not the time or the place to meditate on such things.  Better to wait until I can examine them in the fresh air and sunshine, where I can get a better look at them, and not be overwhelmed by the stench of self-pity.

I’m going to try to take my own advice, since I know I’m someone to whom my friends turn.  Now if I can do the same…