RealMental

Right now it’s crunchy/scrapey noises. I hear it when my coffee mug touches my sweater or when my fork runs along the plate. I hear it in my ears even after the actual noise stops. Like cotton getting pressed together or really dry snow under boots. Or chewing lettuce leaves. Just typing about it makes me cringe.

I’m also super sensitive to smells. Sometimes they make me cry with….frustration? Irritability past the point of knowing what to do about it? Super-sadness? Not sure. But all this makes me feel weird.

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?

Well, I kicked the puppy. But it wasn’t without provocation– not that it changes how I now feel about the whole thing. Before she arrived, I wondered if I’d be able to tell if she’d ever be able to have an honest conversation with me about how her behavior when I was a kid has affected me, but I’d determined to keep my mouth shut. But I just couldn’t.

Things were actually going pretty well up until after dinner Saturday night. I’d picked her up from my brother’s, and actually felt bad for her because of his reticence around her, and how she seemed starved for conversation. We had a nice day visiting one of her favorite haunts and having lunch, and she was cool with and didn’t pout about the fact that I had to do some work, unexpectedly. We went to the movies, had a good time, and came back to have dinner with a friend of mine who’d wanted to meet her.

It went downhill fast. She immediately started trotting out all her stories of how she was a hot shit thirty years ago, and the conversation inevitably turned to smack talking about my father and how he ruined all her hopes and dreams. I changed the subject several times, but she always tried to yank it right back. I just kept changing the subject. As soon as I left the room, though, she took it upon herself to tell this friend, whom she’d never met before, about how my father used to beat her.

I immediately put an end to the night, and drove the friend home after telling her that she needed to get the fuck over it. When I returned, she was apologetic for saying it to company, but not apologetic for saying it at all.

I’ve been trying to get her to understand that I don’t want to hear about what happened thirty years ago over and over again, and that my focus is on what has changed since then. I tried again to get her to understand that I blame her for not trying, because she felt entitled to blame everyone but herself for her predicament. And I tried to get her to understand that I thought that she needed to take some of the responsibility for her own failures, as well as for how we kids turned out.

It’s like I was speaking a different language, as always. Even worse, she accused me of lying, and then of being revisionist, in terms of how she used to talk about my father in front of us. I may be crazy, bu tI am clear-eyed.  My brother, who won’t ever talk about growing up with me, was good enough to say I was remembering things correctly.  She then started trying to defend herself based on stuff that happened before I was born, without ever listening to me say “I don’t care about that, I care about what you never tried to do to get over it.” Despite repeating that it wasn’t about failure after trying, but about not making the effort in the first place, she continued to harp on the same things that predated my birth, not the changing point/opportunity/watershed that my father’s drunk driving arrest presented for us all.  At a certain point the brick wall I was banging my head against became bloody, so I put an end to that conversation, but not before calling her (and defining) the terms narcissist and  psychopath, and telling her that she has rewritten history for herself because she doesn’t want to face the fact that she didn’t to a damned thing to help herself or us until after I’d left for college, even though she knew she ought.

When I woke up Sunday morning, of course there was a long letter that she’d spent all night writing.  (I once moved out on her after a week of no conversation, just stacks of 3 x 5 cards with accusatory notes at the bottom of the stairs to my room.  Obviously, I was not happy to see this letter.)  Of course, none of it was on point. It was all about things that happened before I was born. None of it dealt with what was the entire focus of the conversation– the time from when I was twelve onward, when Dad’s arrest presented us all with an opportunity to try a different tack, even though starting over isn’t an option. The letter did nothing to help, and just made me feel bloody and broken all over again– you’ve never seen passive aggressive like one of my mother’s letters.

I cried a little, emailed my brother with whom I never speak of these things (his choice, not mine) and asked him if he’d be willing to take her for the afternoon and/or the evening, too, in case I couldn’t stand to have her under my roof any longer. And then, of course, when she woke up, she was moping around and crying and feeling sorry for herself– even though I was the only one who had the ight to be mad.  But, as I said, she’s a narcissist and psychopath.  By the time she’d gotten out of bed, she’d rewritten the entire evening before in her head so that it was an unprovoked attack on her.

My brother was kind enough to confirm that I was not a liar or a revisionist, and my dad actually filled in a few things that confirmed what I’d suspected all along, i.e., that while he was not saint, he did not do the things she said he did, and that she was making things up and rewriting history– but damn, is it hard to learn, much less accept, that the worldview your mother brings to bear has nothing to do with you, or with what’s right, or with what’s true– that her perspective is so limited by her selfishness, her self-centeredness, her complete insecurity and paranoia, that she denies history that’s true, and tries to rewrite her own (and everyone else’s) past. Sorry, Mom. Just telling me I’m wrong doesn’t change things.  And even though you’re living on Planet Mom, everyone else around you knows better.

Having her out of the house let me catch my breath, and grit my teeth to get through the evening “family” birthday party, which my dad wanted to host. But honestly– it’s like I did something wrong, the way she is acting, rather than the other way around. And that’s not just limited. That’s insane– and way crazier than I’ve ever been.  I wish I’d kept my mouth shut when I got back, and just told her I wouldn’t discuss it with her, and let her stew in her own juices– but that probably wouldn’t have worked, either, because she’dve picked, picked, picked at me to forgive her until I exploded anyway.

So, now?  Now I know how limited her reality is.  And now?  Now she’ll have to learn how limited our relationship will be as a result.  Or maybe she won’t.  Since I am never going to discuss anything important or heavy with her again, maybe she’ll think everything is happiness and light.  Or at least she’ll tell herself that it’s true, until she believes it.   And me?  I’ll keep my unlimited grief and anger to myself, and limit my resolution of it to therapy, since I can’t expect it to come from the one source that might have been truly healing.

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.

we’ve just moved to a new city, my boyfriend and i that is and i’m at home tonight on my own because i got my period and i dont feel like socialising with new people on the first day of bleeding from the vagina each month (these same people invited us out last month too… they must think i hate them). at least, thats the most obvious “disease you can see” answer to why i’m at home alone on a saturday night. the other reasons, well they’re the ones you cant see. they are despression, anxiety, insomnia and suicidal thoughts.

i’m really really struggling with myself at the moment. i know i’m in a downward spiral and that its possible i will get worse before i get better but i dont know how much worse or how long or if “getting better” will mean getting medication. i’m totally horrified that i could need full medical treatment for this but i’ve given friends that same advice and its worked wonders for them. i dont know why i’m so against it. maybe i do just like feeling like this. but i dont.

tonight before my boyfriend left to go to drinks with people (i cant call them friends. i dont know them. are they his friends. i dont know. could they be my friends. i dont have friends. i have some people that have always been my friends but i suck at making new ones and i suck even more at keeping in touch with the ones i have.) he hugged me and tickled me. i dont know why. i’m not ticklish but sometimes when he does it i giggle because it does kinda tickles and its fun. but tonight i cried. i started sobbing. sobbing and laughing. then more sobbing. big fat tears that i couldnt stop. this happens more often than i care to admit. i cry. i cry a lot.

when i go see my acupuncturist she asks me a lot of questions about my body and how i feel. then she asks me about my mind, my emotions, my general wellbeing. and i tell her. i tell her how many days i felt good. how many days i felt crap. i dont tell her about the days that i think about stepping in front of a bus. or the ones where i wish i didnt have to get off the tram. that if i just sit there all day instead the day will pass and i can either go home or just keep going somewhere else. i dont know where else. i dont know if the acupuncture will help. i know that seeing someone every week no matter what its for will. an appointment to keep. something i cant cancel.

a few weeks ago i told my boyfriend that i used to cut myself, the soles of my feet, hidden. i think we were looking at post secrets?? it was a passing comment, we didnt discuss it. i dont think i’ve told anyone before. i stopped doing it about 7 years ago. i used to keep a blade beside the bed. i would cut and cut and cut, slicing layers of skin off till they started to bleed. or until just before they would bleed but it would still hurt. when i was 22/23 we moved, i threw away the blade and everytime another one would be purchased by someone in the house i’d throw it away. i couldnt have them in my house. i still cant.

it was last year that i started thinking about busses and trains… stepping in front of them more specifically. waiting on the platform, toes at the yellow line. at the back carriage end of the platform, where the trains are still going reasonably fast. on platforms where trains dont stop, they just speed past. busses on corners, at lights when they’re turning, coming up the hill, keeping speed up to make it around without getting the red light. here… i dont get the train and the trams go slowly enough that i dont think the same about them. but i still see a bus once in a while and remind myself to step back, not forward.

i’ve started not sleeping again. at first i put it down to my boyfriend keeping me awake but its not that. i can sleep beside him even at his loudest. i just dont. i lay there. i make a fuss when we go to bed, play stupid games, beg him to have sex, anything so we stay up that little bit longer. then i lay there. i get up sometimes and play xbox or read. sometimes i go have another shower. i try and stay off the internet because i know that makes it worse. i can sit here all night and wait till the sun to come up then i’ll go to bed. thats what i used to do. back when 2 hours sleep was all i got each night. i’m trying for 6 hours at the moment. i’m getting 5. on the weekends i get 12. sometimes 14. then a nap. i could spend all weekend asleep and i’d still be tired on monday morning.

i didnt leave the house today. i didnt speak to anyone other than my boyfriend. i havent spoken to anyone since tuesday, maybe wednesday. i dont answer my phone, i dont even look at it, its on silent now. i havent gotten phone credit so i’m not listening to voicemail. i leave the house 15 minutes before work and i’m back here 15 minutes after. i sometimes think of coming home for lunch but instead i go to a cafe thats so busy no one sees anyone else and there are big tables that i can sit alone with the paper and my headphones in.

i think i will leave the house tomorrow. for a little while at least. and i will talk to people. i will seem normal. i will interact. i will function. i will be thankful that my boyfriend knows me and what is going on inside my head much of the time. that he loves me. that my close friends will do all they can. but i know i need to do something. that this cant go on. i need to get help. i need to sort this out. to find ways to make it stop because whatever i’ve been doing for the last 30 years… its not working as well anymore. the cracks are starting to show. plates are falling, i cant keep on spinning these sticks on my own.

Originally written May. 20th, 2007 at 12:42 AM

How do I differentiate between all the things that are ”wrong” with me? How do I know which symptom is causing what? I get so scared that this is it. This is as good as I am ever going to feel. Anxiety is the number one thing that has plaqued me since I was 12. I am on Paxil to help with that. I know if I go see my Regular doctor she will throw sedatives at me. My psychiatrist is gone for 10 days and has no back up. There seems to be no alternative when you are in crisis except the emergency room and wouldn’t THAT help. A possible 10 hour wait., unless I threaten to hurt myself. Which is not where I am. I am anxious, hypomanic too? I have no idea. IT feels like no combination of all the medication will take care of all the things that hurt so much. I am anxious and sad and scared. Scared because maybe this is it? Maybe no one can help me feel better. No drug, no therapist Why does it feel like it is getting worse and not better as we added the medication? Trial and error right? No one can really know what the perfect or near perfect cocktail will work for me. Perhaps it doesn’t exist? That is possible right? Maybe I just have to be sedated on a high dosage of benzodiazepines forever. Be a lifelong addict in order to not feel horrible so often. I love my child, but it was having my child that changed me. Not post-partum depression, but something propelled me from “just” anxious, depressed, OCD and ADD into bipolar 1. This site is a good one for Bipolar 1, by the way http://www.psycheducation.org/. Good information and links to other resources. There are mood charts on there and the fellow who runs the site seems very empathetic and kind.

I feel calmer now. Talking to people, on the interweb or on the phone seems to ground me when I am a ball of anxious-mania-what-the-hell-ever I am feeling. I will throw some more benzos at myself until I can see my psychiatrist again. I am 37, is this really the journey I will have my whole life?

I am going to say it. I am so scared of these words.

I am manic. I am in a manic episode. I am acting irrationally. I have been high of energy, high of life, happy.

Too happy.

It hurts my heart so much to say these words. I thought i was better. I thought i was recovering from my suicide attempt. I thought things would be better.

But.

But, the mania? The mania is almost as bad. I know i am doing dumb things. I know i am being selfish. I know i am being a bad mother. Drinking too much. Staying up too late. Losing weight too fast. Having too much fun.

I watch myself. From the outside. I know what is happening. But i can’t control it. I am about to walk out on my marriage. And i don’t care. I don’t care. How can i say those words?

Fifteen years. Four children.

I have been unhappy for so long. I am unhappy. This didn’t come from nothing.

I want to know who i am. I want to be free from all the pressure of having a spouse who knows me so well. I want to leave.

Is everybody who is crazy this self-aware?