RealMental

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”

My mother’s coming to visit.  I’m very mixed in my feelings about it.  On the one hand, I’m hoping to confirm what our phone calls are telling me– that she’s worlds better than she’s been for decades, since this spring’s bipolar diagnosis.  On the other hand, I’ve got years of pent-up resentment and anger waiting to be triggered by the slightest irritation, and my struggle to keep it in check.  I usually do keep it in check– prior to the bipolar diagnosis, she had no insight on how she affects me, and it’s like kicking a puppy.  Sure, the damned thing just pissed on your brand new virgin cashmere kilim (or whatever), but it just couldn’t help itself.

Now?  I wonder about telling her how angry I am, how mixed up I am, how mixed up I may always be.  Because she allowed herself to stay depressed for thirty years.  Because unlike my dad, she didn’t use any of her rock bottom points as the impetus to change things.  Because she seemed to enjoy playing the victim of cold and critical parents, and the ex-wife of an (undiagnosed bipolar) alcoholic.  Because she didn’t want to work, and I grew up with the stigma of a fat, lazy mother, section 8 housing, food stamps and free lunch.  Because her refusal to do anything about her weight made me bulimic as a teen (even worse?  she never noticed, despite my losing 30 lbs.), and in possession of a fine set of food and weight phobias for the rest of my life.  Because, because, because.  I’ve a world of reasons for anger, for shame, for grudges.

Now I wonder if she has the insight now?  ever? to understand these things.  Or whether she’s been so long in her self-centered groove that she’ll never have the perspective.   Or maybe that she is, under all the new meds, still self-centered?

And I wonder if it’s worth it, in any event.  Would I feel satisfied?  Relieved?  Healed? to tell her all these things?  There’s nothing she can do about it at this point.  And is my anger even justified, if she’s been bipolar all these years?  Can I hold it against her?  I want to.  Or do I have to forgive her?  I don’t want to.  I had enough insight, and enough concern for the effect of my behavior on others, to seek help and get the diagnosis that has been such a blessing to me.  My dad had enough strength after his first drunk driving arrest to kick the alcohol.  Is it fair for me to believe that someone who’s smart enough to write a Ph.D. at Harvard and become an ordained minister should be smart enough to get some clearly-needed help?  Or does it come back to emotional maturity, a lack of self-centeredness, an inherent personality flaw, instead?  If that’s the case, then I’d just be banging my head on a brick wall, which gives me a headache, and leaves blood on the wall.

Plus, if she didn’t get it, then again, there’s the kicking a puppy thing.  She would be sad, noncomprehending, and hurt because I’d shattered her self-image as a caring person.  But here’s the deal– she’s “caring” because she wants to be thought of as caring.  At least that’s what my therapist and I think.  But at the same time, there’s no doubt that she did want to listen to the things I had to say as a teen, and that she did want us to succeed.  And in a way, I have.

I don’t want to forget, and I am not ready or able to let go yet.  Forgetting would mean that none of this stuff was important, negative as it is.  And it’s who I am, this stuff.  I can’t, I won’t forget it.

Right now, I’m leaning towards just keeping my mouth shut, except for the bare minimum inquiries to make sure she’s taking her meds, starting talk therapy, and working well with her new shrink.  I’ll have a horrible stress migraine after she’s gone, probably get a cold, and fall exhausted into bed every night that she’s here by, like, 7:00 pm, but the self-inflicted harm at this degree is still better than staving in that poor puppy’s ribcage, so hard is my urge to kick right now.

Here’s to hoping I can let go at some future point.

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

I won’t mince words initially.  The psychiatrist I have been seeing since late 1998 is part of my past.  She helped me I first started to see her, she understood things no one else seemed to.  She could peg me when I sometimes said only a few things or struggled with words.  The medication she gave me seemed to work.  Sure, she was always late.  LATE.  1, 2, 3 or more hours late.  At  first I didn’t care, I mean I was not at work and had more free time.  I would bring a book or magazines and settle in for a little “me” time.  As time went on it became more irritating, disrespectful.  She briefly referred me to another Psychiatrist to treat my eating disorder (binge eating disorder).  Now this Psychiatrist almost proved herself initially helpful.  We talked about me and some new things I discovered that helped me deal with things.  After a few months she started to break appropriate doctor/patient boundaries.  She asked me to volunteer with her eating disorder education program, which was initially ok and even enjoyable.  The lines became blurry.  She called me at home a lot.  She hosting candle selling parties and invited me (seriously).  I was becoming more and more involved in the volunteer work and when I has appointments we never talked about me and my issues. Eventually I quit her, and realized that is was a horrible relationship.

I went back to making-me-wait-doctor.  At least I trusted her.  Fast forward, same shit different pile.  I saw waiting-doctor about 2 weeks ago what I think will be our final meeting.  We were talking, and all of a sudden she started flipping through my file, from late 1998 until now.  Quickly flipping.  She started muttering about “history of migraines” (no longer), and a history of “brittle” hypertension (wrong, it was high, then treated and just before I saw here, I was taken off said medication), and said “you know, your short term memory has never been very good (me: barooo?), “I think I will send you for a MRI of your head”. AN MRI OF MY HEAD.  She suspected that all these things she described were indicative of me having TIAs (Transient Ischemic Attacks) “ http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/tia/tia.htm a transient stroke that lasts only a few minutes.” What the of the to the fuck?  I laughed!  I said, I sometimes struggle for words, but when she sees me at my PSYCHIATRIST appointment, I am not taking an IQ test.  You don’t know me personally, but “TIAs manifested by major symptoms such as dense paralysis or severe language disorder” and “Drooling, imbalance, decreased alertness, difficulty swallowing”, “Confusion, headache, seizure”.  SERIOUSLY?  I knew instantly she was way off base.  She said she has ALWAYS thought my short term memory was bad.  I know, since I am crazy, this may sound weird, but I seriously though she was bat shit crazy.

Longer story shorter.  I found a new psychotherapist for talk therapy and she found me a new Psychiatrist to take care of my meds, but not all my crazy talking/listening.  I did this all within 2 weeks and I RULE.  I interviewed two talk therapists/psychologists and I can’t decide, but I will next week.  I feel positive about all of these changes for the first time in a long long long time.  I think I just picked the short straw when I was assigned Psychiatrists.  Twice.  I think I was partially concerned that if I told the tales of my two mental health providers, my DOCTORS, people would think I was even crazier and not believe me.    I still know I have a list of things to fix in my messed up noggin, but having new support makes me feel awesome

I’ve been so anxious at work, so depressed at home, that I haven’t had time to think through what I’ve been going through beyond, “gotta get outta here” and “gotta try something different with the meds.” Both are right, but I’ve been feeling like I’ve been living in tunnel vision for weeks.

I had a brief talk with my immediate boss about the crazy and abusive behavior of the big boss, which has been the cause of my sleepless nights and anxious, teary days, and when posed the either/or of “should I take a leave, or just quit?” he was strongly in the leave camp, but added, “I have enough bad karma to be mad at you if you left. You have to decide what’s healthy, what you can put up with.” So that was a bit of a relief, because other things aside, I’d hate to never speak with him again if I left.

I also had some “progress” on the headache/dizziness/depression front, in that I had a head CT (negative) and a long talk with my lovely shrink about my past month & a half. She thinks it’s a metabolic reaction of the lamictal with the increased effexor. Since I’d had occasional migraines on the lamictal before this recent dose increase, she thinks I need to come off it. I’m not happy about that– because within four days of starting the lamictal last June, when I was in the depths of despair, it had kicked in, and literally was a lifesaver. I hate to let go of something to which I owe so much gratitude, sanity, creativity, and joy. But at the same time, it’s not working anymore. The headaches and dizziness are getting worse, not better, and I can’t tolerate them and try to work, or figure out what to do about work, at the same time. So we talked about other options, and she wants me to consider lithium or Depakote.

I’m frightened of both. Lithium, because my father had a girlfriend who was manic-depressive, on lithium, and still not controlled. I know I’m a different case, and that it’s the gold standard for a reason, but that past experience continues to taint me. At the same time, though? The weight gain effects of Depakote terrify me. I’m a former bulimic, have a huge comfort-eating problem, and a massive oral fixation to boot. No pen cap is safe around me. I will always have issues with my weight, even though I’ve been pretty ok the last 10 years. At the same time, though, my mother and my aunt, who if you saw us all together in a photo, you would automatically know we’re related? Both over 250 lbs. And that’s without Depakote. I’m terrified of what would happen, even with trying my best.

Also, a really whiny, self-indulgent part of me does not want to give up my nightly glass of wine. Alchohol is a lot more contraindicated with these two drugs than with the lamictal, and I just don’t want to give my wine up. But if I have to, I have to. I actually defended a doctor years ago in a case where a bipolar on lithium ended up with tardive dyskinesia, a parkinson’s like neurological deterioration, because she was an alcoholic and continued drinking all the years she took the lithium. She was pretty much wheelchair-bound by the time the case made it to trial.

And the last part? I am terrified about what will happen to my mood during the taper down. I have a lot of work scheduled in the next month– I don’t want to hand it off, because these are my personal clients, not the firm’s, and at this point, I sort of feel like they’re all that I’ve got. But at the same time, it’s going to suck, to put it mildly, decreasing the lamictal to zero, then starting the lithium. (She doesn’t want to do a “close taper,” because there isn’t a lot of research on it since lamictal is still new in the bipolar formulary.) My husband asked me if I was going to take the end of the lamictal taper off, and it tells you how tunnel-visioned I am that it simply didn’t occur to me to reschedule stuff that week, rather than hand it off. It’s true that “I will be out that week for medical reasons, and need to reschedule.” No one else needs to know more.

It’s all too much, or almost too much, but it’s got to be done anyway, and I am scared shitless. I just hope that in response to all the resumes I am sending out, I don’t get a crucial interview on what might turn out to be a dream job, the week I’m off my mood stabilizer, and starting another. That would be a little too interesting.

by StormyBluez

Since I haven’ t ate a meal in a week, my dad took me to eat the other day. He bought me a beer at a Mexican restaurant and a steak. We usually just sit in comfortable quietness and joke sarcastically a few times. But, I was feeling quite lonesome and numb that afternoon. If he hadn’t come along I probably would have gouged in the bathtub and cryed all day, so I was glad he saved me from an episode.

I attempted to indulge in a conversation & asked ” Ta, you ever want to go back to Mexico someday?” He shook his head told me ” Why would I want to go back there, nothing there but a bunch of thieves and poor people you can’t help.- gypsies!” my dads was born in Mexico – “Family did nothing but steal from your grandfather …” My heart turned BLACK … My Grandfather … I couldn’t hear my father anymore I just kept looking at his eyelashes thinking I could never break his heart and let him know what kind of bastard my Gramps was. Then our steaks came.

Not only the Ancient Poison dart to the heart, but 3 Mexicans were gawking at me from behind my fathers back, I couldn’t eat. I went to the bathroom.

I’ve always done my best thinking- crying- writing- dieing in there, I had a flash of me in shorts, me in a 80s dress as a little girl, to close to that old fuck. No one noticed, I was just a child 5 or 6. A Mouse with a mouse hole.

I remember when my Grandfather was dieing NO ONE came to see him in the convalescent hospital. No one but my dad and me. I was 18, think I went jUST to see the suffering in his eyes, never consulted him. Just watched.
I remember being left alone with him once, (my dad had to sign something) I wanted to pull the life support- rip the IVs- strangle him with a pillow, OD him, or just burn him with a cigarette, anything. This frail old man Knew I came to Watch him die and I Smiled about it. I acknowledge that I am still so angry. I need help.

Its 5:37 AM its weird I can smell his disgusting stench.
My mother knows about my abuser. I begged her not to tell my father.
I’ve never held that time of my life at fault for my dark habits,
so much more is at fault.
Although my recent episodes tell me maybe I need to go back to the start, Ive always avoided it. I’m exhausted of being here in this place of gloom and doom.

My eyes feel a flame, I should at least sleep since I don’t eat.
I tried ReAL HArD today not hate myself so, but it creeps, it seeps deeply at night but now its morning.

By Saviabella

I was spending some time with a friend of mine the other day and the topic turned to a good friend of hers. His name sounded familiar, some details sounded familiar, and then, the realization of who she was talking about hit me with such force, I felt as though I were struggling through a foggy haze. Nausea, dizziness, fear, anxiety. This couldn’t be happening. This is not possible. How can this be for real?

He has a last name. He has a neighborhood. He has a wife, who also has a name. He has children. He has friends who think he is a really great guy and feel sorry for him because he took it so hard when his mother died.

None of these people know that he molested a four-year-old girl 27 years ago.

I hadn’t heard that name for 15 years. I kept my tone as even as possible and forced my face into a mask of neutrality. There were a million questions I wanted to ask, but I only asked one, to make sure it really was him she was talking about. It was.

Part of me had always wondered what happened to him. If he was still in the city. If he had children. If it was only a one-time thing or if he had done it again and again and again. If he ever thought about what he had done and regretted it. If he ever looked at his own children and realized how horrible it would be if anyone did to them what he had done to me. Or even if they were his latest victims.

I’m not really sure how I made it through the rest of the morning or lunch, but I managed, and then got the chance to go to my room and be alone for awhile. But I really didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts, because they were coming at me so fast that I couldn’t make much sense of them. I didn’t know what to think or what to feel. I tried to call Schmutzie, but she wasn’t there. Then, I tried Superstar, who must have been on his phone, because the voice mail picked up right away. As soon as I put down the receiver, I got several sharp pains in my stomach and felt my insides curl up into a ball. I ran for the bathroom and was violently ill.

There was something about emptying my digestive system of its contents that made me feel a bit better. I think I finally understand why so many people who were sexually abused have eating disorders. I understood the binging and overeating aspects of it before – that made sense to me because food fills a physical and emotional void and adding layers of fat to your body can feel very comforting and safe. But I never got the purging thing until now. It feels like you’re expelling this poison from your body, like a purification, like it’s taking the anxiety with it, even for a moment.

Still dizzy and shaking, I lay down on the bed. So many thoughts, so many questions. Do I say something to my friend about it? Would she even believe me? Is it even worth it to dig up this skeleton from his past? Maybe he was just a really screwed-up 16-year-old who made a stupid mistake and then went on to become a decent person? But then again, what kind of person is he if he ever made that kind of “mistake” (I mean, I certainly would never have done that)? Did the fact that he was almost caught mean he never did it again or did the fact that he actually got away with it mean he knew he could do it again? When he told everyone I was lying about it, did he convince himself of it, too, burying it in the recesses of his unconscious mind? Why does he get to have a normal life while I’ve had to struggle with the aftermath of his actions for the past 27 years, having it affect all aspects of my life, my view of myself, my relationships with men, my self-esteem, my body image, my health, my nightmares, my burden, my secret? And the guilt and disgust that I feel every time I think about the possibility that he may have done it to someone else because maybe I should have tried harder to get people to believe me, even though I only was four years old.

And, now, 27 years later, it comes down to the same thing: my word against his. No proof, no evidence. Just everyone wanting to believe that he could never do such a thing, that it was just too horrific and absurd. That the child must be making it up. Because toddlers have such intimate and detailed knowledge about penises and what you do with them, don’t you know?

I had a quick talk with Marlena, a friend who probably knows me better than anyone else, and a long conversation with Superstar that made me feel a bit better. (Verbal purging is definitely higher on my list than physical purging, thank god.)

“Do you want to know the answers to all those questions?” Superstar asked.

(long pause)

“…yes, I do. I do want to know. But I’ll never know the answers, because even if I go and confront him, which I could do, what are the odds that he’d tell me the truth about his life or even admit to me or himself what he did? I want to believe this was a one-time thing. I want to believe he was just a horny 16-year-old who didn’t really understand what he was doing. I want to believe that me telling put enough of a scare into him that he didn’t even think of doing it again. I have to believe that, because every time I think about the other option…” The wave of nausea began to rise again.

“…it’s hard to say. He was young. Maybe he was just curious, as sick and fucked up as that sounds…”

“I had to live next door to him for years after that. He was our paper boy. I remember walking by him on the street when I was seven, looking him straight in the eye, smiling, and saying , ‘Hi, ____.’ He never said ‘hi’ back. He only glared at me. Glared at me with such hatred that I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. Because it was my fault he had almost gotten caught, because I didn’t keep our little secret.”

“Sounds like you scared the hell out of him.”
“I guess I was pretty fearless, even back then.”

Originally published at Savabella on April 25, 2007.