Sunday, November 22, 2015

Photo Confessional -- The Shirt

I was rummaging through my drawers this morning trying to find something comfortable to wear. I was on my way to do some shopping. Retail therapy actually.

Then I came across it. That shirt. That shirt I practically lived in that time I was in the hospital.

It's sort of white with blueish stripes. It feels like a bed sheet and hugs my skin with its soft fabric. It has a hood I can pull on when I want to hide from the general public further. The front pouch pocket is slightly off kilter. Whoever put the thread in the panels to create a piece of clothing didn't put a lot of love and care into it.

But I love it.

The memories though, I don't care for as much.

- checking in - not knowing I couldn't check out at my leisure - explaining why I was there - turning in my shoe laces - meeting my roommate - standing in line for medication - group therapy - meeting the staff psychiatrist - having to sleep in the main room one night for suicide watch - stalking the psychiatrist who wouldn't sign my release papers - screaming at him at the top of my voice - being calmed down by a true friend I met on the inside so I wouldn't be put in solitary - ECT - the food - getting to sleep the day away if I chose - telling everyone what they wanted to hear so I could go home - being thrown back into the real world with no preparation - craving to claw my way back to the place I wanted out of so bad because it was so much easier than real life -

I've been doing my best not to reopen old wounds on my body. I've allowed myself to do it but not nearly as much. Sometimes I just like to rub the tips of my fingers over the marks then try like hell to leave it alone.

I failed at this today. I failed at it miserably.

One look in the mirror before getting into the shower and I just lost it.

What the fuck have I done?


I'm $350 lighter and the retail therapy didn't help. Like at all.

The heaviness of the day was getting to me. It got heavier by the minute. I kept going through the motions that is Saturday but it felt like I was standing still.

I cut through it eventually. In the literal sense.

I cut right fucking through.

1 comment:

  1. Been there, but my 'therapy' goes internal. I'm a depressive bipolar. It keeps telling me how worthless I am, See, I have a great big black pit. It calls to me all the time. I fight it every day. Even while on meds. Then it gets easier after the first hour or so. My so-called 'therapy" is not taking meds.

    Thinking I can handle it 'this time'. That I can and will overcome myself forefully. Why not? I did in high schoool, and somewhat in college and while in the military.

    But the emotional shut down isn't there anymore. That wall, that is so needed isn't there. Chaos ensues, I hurt myself mentally. I never hurt myself physically. Even to the point that I take pills in order to stop the voices of put downs, to kill the pain of not only the black pit, but the hurts I'm doing to my family by them seeing me off meds, when I do go off.

    Six weeks. The magic time period that it takes to get my meds totally working. During that time my family walks on egg shells.

    Been hospitalized at least five times for overdoses. In addition I've put myself in two times voluntarily, Yes, it's degrading to me. Turing in or waking up to find no shoelaces, To wear gowns, to be hand fed medications by another person. Group therapy (that helps a little but I don't do well in groups) when I need or want to sleep, and heavy meds to keep me to sleep during the night when I'm used to being up.

    I know about ECT. Never had it though. Where I am from it's not recommended except in severe cases.

    I'm still married, almost 26 years now. With two kids that I worry about extensively, even now that they are grown, I worry about mental illness. They have a 50-50 chance of having a mental illness. All because of me.

    My husband and I, not to mention my kids spent a good deal of time dealing with this with me spent 10 years (he's a saint when it comes to me and my illness) dealing with it while being misdiagnosed, mis-medicated, and spotty and ineffective therapy.

    Finally, I got to the right person. For another three years I fought the diagnosis, off and on medications, different cocktails, and therapy.

    I can't say that I'm totally stable. Tweeking of meds is always something that happens to try to keep me in a upper depression so I can try to function. I love the manic though, doing house work, being more social, just being able to do what 'normal' people do.

    So almost 22 years in I'm now able to function fairly normally. Yes, big things like losing my last job, on top of losing my mother the year previously, and losing my father right before my job put me in the hospital.

    I don't know if this will help. I want you to know it's a hard but productive road, Acceptance of the illness, the grudging acceptance and the thought of a life long line of medications, and therapy is what is needed. Sorry to put it that way but it's true.

    I'm going to put a link here to my blog on twitter: yeah it's recent, and shows up as Facebook But it's a blog about my life in general and the fight for 'normalcy'.

    Be strong.

    To you (and anyone else that wants to read this: I with love, life and peace.


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