Ok, so update on my post about psychiatrists yesterday. Apparently now most psychiatrists don’t even do therapy – only meds. So I have to go to a whole other place for counseling.
What a racket. I mean, shouldn’t we be able to go to a psychological professional that can take care of our whole person, instead of just one piece? That doesn’t help anyone get the full picture.
Well, the good news is I have an appointment this week with a therapist, and an intake visit next week with a psychiatrist. I won’t get in to see the psychiatrist until May, but that actually works well for me. Summer is my slow time at work, so adjusting to the meds won’t cause much trouble.
So, the ball is rolling. I’m taking steps toward a better me. I have to admit, filling out the questionnaire for the therapist yesterday made me feel nuts – having to list all of my issues. But that’s why I’m seeking help. This isn’t a “pull yourself up by the bootstraps and keep going” situation. This is a deep, dark hole that needs a rope ladder. I’ve started to put the ladder together. Soon, someone will be up top ready to catch it – then I can slowly climb out.
It really shouldn’t be this fucking hard to get help.
There are literally only 5 psychiatrists near me that accept my insurance.
Two are for children. Two are only doing meds, not therapy.
That leaves one option. Now I’m just waiting for a call back.
I hope he’s decent.
And people wonder why people with mental health don’t get help. It’s hard enough to get yourself to the point where you’ll ask for the help… then when you finally do, it’s a fucking obstacle course just trying to find the help.
My brain is enough of an obstacle – finding help shouldn’t be.
So goddamn frustrating.
Out here in the cold; Wandering astray…
I planned to make this blog all fancy and shit, with title images and excerpts and whatever.
I’m just going to write what I’m thinking and feeling and post it. I’m not here to be pretty. I’m here to be honest.
Mixed states are the very definition of insanity. When you have all this energy but all you want to use it for is being depressed. It’s during the mixed states that the anger is at its worst – it’s like my brain is frustrated with the state of chaos in which it finds itself so it channels that into a nagging feeling of being really pissed off – except you have no idea why.
Why. That’s such a double-edged word. I have reached the end of my tether with people asking me why I’m depressed.
What’s wrong? You seem down.
And then the inevitable next question: What’s making you depressed?
The chemicals in my brain are making me depressed. Sure, the state of my physical health adds to that, but the root cause is that my brain can’t figure what the fuck it’s doing with my emotional state.
Let’s have a depressed day! We’ll celebrate with not getting off the couch except to overeat followed by some suicidal ideation! How’s that sound?
That sounds like a fucking hoot, let me tell ya.
Oh, wait! I’ve changed your mind! Let’s be manic and spend so much money your checking account gets overdrawn then follow that up with risky hypersexual behavior that you will definitely regret later!
Actually, I can’t decide. So let’s do BOTH! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
Fuck you, brain. All I want is some normalcy. Some predictability. Some boring, everyday, routine. But, no. Throw in the fact that I am now in a rapid-cycling hell that makes it impossible sometimes to even have a single day of feeling one way or the other and it’s just too much bear.
The burden is overwhelming. I carry this weight, this ongoing battle in my mind on my shoulders and each day I hunch over a little farther. Soon, I won’t be able to walk anymore – crushed beneath its load, gasping for breath.
I don’t recognize myself anymore. I used to be awesome; driven, focused, smart.
I used to be me.
The scratches are numerous on my arm now; like notches in the belt of a manwhore counting his recent conquests. There’s no blood. I haven’t been able to bring myself to cut that deep. Its just the surface, red and raised, with little flecks of skin sticking up like tiny stalagmites.
Counting these parallel lines is oddly comforting. Seeing these soldiers of my psychological battle lined up, ready to take the pain, makes me feel peaceful – like I have an army in my corner.
What a fucking load of shit. I know that, deep down. I know it’s a crock, that these scratches aren’t doing anything but hurting me, but who cares? No one; hence the scratches. It’s not that I find pleasure in the pain – it’s not some sort of masochism, providing sexual gratification. No, it’s not that at all. The pain feels good – because it stops. It’s the only pain that stops and I need that. I need to know that a pain exists that isn’t endless. I need to know there’s a reprieve.
There’s a remission with these scratches. The pain is instantaneous… then it’s gone, it’s over, and there’s relief. Relief. Pain to take away pain. Seems counterintuitive, doesn’t it? But then again… The treatment for cancer doesn’t exactly feel good.
Maybe that’s what this is; rudimentary chemotherapy for this cancer that is my depression, anxiety, and pain. The worse before it gets better.
Or maybe I’m just fucked up.
This morning I woke up in pain so bad I couldn’t move. Yesterday my body agreed with me. Today it rebelled against me. It’s a level of frustration I can’t always put into words. Sometimes I think it would be better if I was incapacitated all the time – at least I would know what to expect.
That’s all kinds of fucked up, isn’t it? To wish for an illness that was constant instead of one that comes and goes? They say I’m lucky to have the “good days,” but sometimes I wonder. Yeah, it’s nice to have good days, but they aren’t really good, they’re just days where I’m able to do most of what I want to do without too much pain. The problem is, the good days ALWAYS lead to what I call “punishment days.” The days like today when I am totally debilitated and all the plans I made to continue what I was doing on my good days are out the window, which makes me feel like a waste of oxygen.
At least if every day was a bad day I’d know what to expect. I could learn to adjust myself to the pain and limitations. Instead I spend my good days doing all the things I want to do, feeling like “hey, maybe it’ll last this time,” only to get the rug yanked from beneath me. I fall flat on my ass while every nerve and bone and muscle screams out for help. While my mind tells me I’m useless, to “buck up,” to get up and do things – it’s not that bad.
So not only do I spend my bad days physically immobilized; I also spend them feeling overwhelmingly guilty for it – and then projecting it onto my husband. Bless him, he takes it – and he takes care of me. It’s a terrible, terrifying feeling – uselessness. It takes away every last ounce of pride and dignity and leaves you in a pile of humiliation and doubt, tearful and tired and helpless.
I try to focus on the things I can still do when I’m in that state – but to be honest, some days there isn’t much I can do. The pain makes my vision jumpy and blurry – which then makes my headache worse and causes nausea, like seasickness – which then leaves me with only one option – doing nothing but sleeping. See? Useless.
Not every bad day is THAT level of bad. The intensity of the awfulness of the bad days is in direct correlation to the number of good days and the intensity of the things I did on those days. Could you imagine having to decide whether to spend the day walking around museums or a park, knowing the trade off will be a physical and mental depression so deep it could make your soul hurt? Welcome to my life. Living, anecdotal proof of the phrase “take the bad with the good.” Because every single good thing that requires me to be physically or mentally active in any way is followed by the infliction of pain by my body and mind. Everything has a punishment, a price. Every stitch of fun has time limit that ends with the inability to function for a period of time. Every. Single. Thing. There is no simple joy, because every joy, every passion, every action, every bit of living is not only temporary, as it is for everyone, but it’s also sin – a sin for which the penalty is gut-wrenching. Try, for one moment, to imagine how that feels.
It’s exhausting; so very exhausting. Down to the core. Down to the soul.
I don’t know how much longer I can do it.
I think about the comfort of death all the time. Not suicide, but death. I don’t think I’d ever have the guts to pull the trigger – but sometimes I think it would be such a relief if someone else did.
Death is a complex thing. I don’t fear it, really. I guess what I fear is the act of dying – not the reality of being dead. I’m not scared of being dead, of no longer existing in this world, of the seductive, terminal rest of the grave. What I fear is the pain of dying – of gasping for breath or feeling excruciating pain. I’ve had enough pain in life, I don’t want that kind of pain in death.
I just wish for eternal sleep. For the ultimate respite – no longer having to feel like my heart is breaking every day. For the disappearance of the petty, everyday barrage of negativity that seems to surround me at the most inconvenient moments. For the deliverance from the abyssal loneliness that takes my breath away. For the cessation of this nightmare of ups and downs that comprises a life full of constant inconsistencies – of never being able to count on myself for anything because I never know what hell my mind or my body will be going through each morning when I wake up.
I want the daydreams of heaven. Of a place where I can be my perfect self, free of this burden of humanity and wrapped in the embrace of a God I know loves me – just seems to forget about me sometimes.
I have love here. I have the love of my life. But sometimes it’s so dark I can no longer see the love in his eyes or feel his warmth. It’s cold and crushing – and even he can’t save me when it gets that bad. He tries so hard and I feel so guilty that I can’t be better for him, but it’s not always in my control. Some moments the only thing that feels like it could save me is death, but it’s a cure I cannot impose upon myself. So I curl up and wait for it to pass, praying for someone to pull the trigger. Pull the trigger on this hell I’m in and send me to heaven.
Pull the trigger and the nightmare stops.