How Do You Do That Again?

Two and a half weeks ago, my Lithium dose was raised. I've had my blood work completed and my levels are still within range. High, but in range. I'll take it.

Not long after something changed. I've been describing it as if someone took a scraper and just barely removed the top part of my brain. I'm still depressed but not as much.

The suicidal ideation has never left the building. Yesterday it was a real scream.

Here's the thing... I don't know how to laugh anymore. Like, really laugh. I think joking around is stupid. I'm so fucking angry. Like, I could cut you, angry. The crying bullshit is back. I cry all the fucking time and for seemingly no reason. How do you explain to the people closest to you that you think all of that is a waste of time? They'll shake their head and walk away. Or they throw out there... You used to this and that. And I say, well I don't know how anymore. And that's the fucking truth.

Who wants to live this way?

Totally. Fucking. Edited. 

I mean seriously. I live with my husband and two of my kids.

Taking extra Ativan and throwing back a few drinks does not make anything better. It makes me numb and I need to be this way in order to make it through. That's not to say there's an addiction involved. I've had an unopened bottle of wine for over a week in my kitchen. Half the time I don't take my third dose of Ativan.

I looked into the mirror this morning and my eyes started to drool. I don't sleep much anymore, my eyes are sunken and dark beneath. I need to lose weight and I need to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other or I'm not going to make it, man. I'm just not.

I had an assignment by my doctor to take a discount card for some medication he wanted me to try. I got in touch with the powers that be and my portion of the payment would be $190/month. Thanks but no thanks. Continual upsets like this make me want to smash shit.

I had no choice but to go to work today. After looking at my reflection, I decided the only thing that would make today work is red lipstick and passing the day as quick as possible.

Back to the psychiatrist on Wednesday.

This post is not directed at anyone specific...

I'm tired of you telling me how strong I am.

I'm not.

Not an ounce of strong resides in this body.

Sometimes, for reasons unknown, I'll leave the room and have a silent cry.

Is that what makes me strong?

The idea that I can have a total meltdown without making a sound?

That I can return to the room and you have no idea how weak I actually am?

If only you could hear the racing thoughts making laps in my head.

Constant addition in milligrams and ounces.

Constant wondering of how high is that structure.

Constant planning of when and where.

Strong.

I'm as weak as they come.

I get that sometimes you're unsure of what to say to me so you turn to building me up.

You don't realize that sometimes it does a hell of a lot more harm than good.

I say thank you because it's the right thing to do, but I'm really trying to just move it along.

What does strength really have to do with getting through day after day with Bipolar Disorder?

It's not strength.

I call it powering through.

Everything in my life is a struggle right now.

Telling me how strong I am makes me feel weaker than ever.

Do you even know what I'm going through?

Do you know what my illness is?

Do you realize I'm going to have this forever?

Bipolar depression isn't situational.

Bipolar (hypo) mania isn't fun.

Bipolar Disorder is medication (I've tried over 30), therapy, ECT (10 years of my memory has been erased), hospitalizations, suicide attempts (sometimes successful), crisis hotlines, not wanting to take care of yourself, not wanting to cook or clean or leave the house, severe depression, mania (it isn't always creativity--sometimes it's anger), avoiding friends and family, irritability, careless spending, reckless behavior, anxiety (sometimes crippling), zero concentration, and on and on and on. 





I know you're trying.

But I also know, if you tried harder, you'd get it right.

Disclosure: Of course not everyone with BD experiences the same symptoms, gets the same treatments, feels the way I do. This is my perception. 

Untitled -- Read With Caution

I woke up sobbing again last night. It's happening more and more. This time was different. This time I was watching a movie, based on a true story, and it fucked me up.

I was in my dining room talking to my husband in the next room over. I looked into the mirror on the wall and saw myself behind me. I was hanging from the chandelier, legs swaying back and forth. I was dead by my own hand. This time it was a reality and not just a vision of what could be.

I began crying and couldn't catch my breath. I looked at my husband, who knew the person standing before him wasn't actually his wife. I looked him in the eye and he screamed, "I know!"

From then on, I was no longer there. I was hovering above watching; listening.

My kids.

My kids.

My funeral.

The sadness.

My sadness.

***

I know what needs to be done. There's just a lot happening. More than I can explain. I'll figure it out.

I need to say this though...it's not like going to the hospital is a cure-all. Perhaps the right one may be but most aren't. Life keeps happening while on the inside. And once you're discharged? Everyday life is the same. You jump right back in. It's not like you have access to another week of learning how to make life work for you again. You just go back to the way it was and it doesn't help. It's rather pointless.

People who die by suicide aren't selfish. They just want the pain to go away. They would take it being even a little lighter at first. The pain and the pressure inside wants to detonate.

Those thinking about death by suicide aren't selfish either. We spend every minute of every day thinking how our spouses and our kids will get on without us. We think about telling our spouses to tell the kids our death was an accident so they don't carry the guilt forever. But then we realize that's a lot to ask for.

This isn't the easy way out.

It's Always the Same

I don't know if what I sense is really happening or if I'm paranoid.

I feel like I'm being pushed away; out of lives.

Maybe I'm the one doing the pushing?


Sometimes I need more attention.

Then when I get it, I tense up, and want to be left alone.


A permanent lump has taken up residence in my throat.

Crying isn't something I like to do; doesn't make me feel relief.


I don't feel much of anything anymore.

On occasion, I feel too much.


Sleep is broken. Needed. Craved.

Yet, I often wake up too early so I don't miss out on anything.


I can't sit still.

My limbs ache and my joints feel twisted.


The anger. The rage. The accusations.

Sometimes it can't get be forgiven; it definitely cannot be erased.


Why do I keep ending up here?

A Rambling Crisis

I was talking to a friend today about people who don't get what we're going through. People want to get it, they try, but they still can't pull it off.

I'll be honest. I've been researching mental health inpatient hospitals in my area today. Not a single one is dedicated only to mental health. And I'm sorry--not sorry, Wendy, but please go take your Cocaine habit somewhere else. I want you to get better, yada yada yada, but your habit interferes with my treatment.

So I'll be powering through. Like always.

Pushing those intense thoughts of wanting to hurt myself into the wasteland, because that's what needs to be done.

I'll just be sitting over here, you know, on the verge of tears every moment of every day because WHAT OTHER OPTIONS DO I HAVE?

Also?

Why doesn't Bipolar depression warrant someone bringing me a fucking lasagna?

I may not be hooked up to an IV so you can visibly SEE my illness but it's there. OH it's fucking there and shame on you for thinking otherwise.

I get that you may not want to stop by and bring me said lasagna because then you'd have to hold a conversation with me. I SO fucking get that. Wanna know why? I don't want to make small talk with you either. Not right now. I'm more focused on the full pill bottles in my purse that I can't swallow because I have responsibilities and shit and wouldn't want to come off as SELFISH.

There are other options. It's called delivery. You know like pizza or sandwiches or anything these days because there's a delivery for every restaurant.

You want to know how to help? Send food. Send wine (they deliver that too). I don't want to leave my house because I physically can't outside of going to work. I'm already sitting here at work concocting a way home early because my anxiety is higher than it's ever been.

I won't apologize for my tone today. If people can look at me or text me or call me asking what I'm going to do about my current mental health crisis as if I'm able...I'm going to say exactly how I feel.