I’m not one of those people who tends to fling myself wildly into trendy causes or mass events. I don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day (because I’m not Irish and I don’t get wasted anymore) or Cinco de Mayo (because I’m not Mexican and I don’t get wasted anymore), I don’t donate money to anything claiming that they’re “stopping global warming”, and I kind of have emotional qualms with Talk Like a Pirate Day. (Honestly, why are we promoting pirates as a cool thing!?! I just don’t like glorifying people who were into raping, murdering and robbing people. If anyone who claims to be a pirate fan actually ran into a pirate from any era, you’d be none too happy about it. ::Sigh:: /tirade)

But this year a new grassroots event has sprung up and caught the attention of millions of people [thanks to the magic of Facebook-word-of-mouth] that I actually stand behind and am more than willing to support and perpetuate. To Write Love On Her Arms is a group who initially started out to earn money for a friend who was struggling to pay for her rehab bills after dealing with depression and addiction. They began selling t-shirts with the words “To Write Love On Her Arms” (which was the name of a short story one of them wrote about depression, addiction, self-mutilation and suicide) and found that the story and their cause really spoke to a lot of people. From that, they have worked to create an actual day dedicated to promoting awareness about depression and the other associated issues in which they ask participants to simply write “love” on their arms as a means of showing support for victims/survivors of depression.

Alright. I know this is something that a lot of kids are doing because cutting has somehow become a weird social trend in teenagers (BOTHERSOME) and because this group of people are relatively young and can make cool stuff like t-shirts and get popular musicians and celebrities on board it’ll have a very fad-style following at the beginning. So I know I’m totally flinging myself on a youth-perpetuated holiday that may be trendy as hell and very well may fade if the organizers get tired of working for the cause. (I pray they don’t.)

However, as someone to which every issue of TWLOHA’s mission applies, I feel that this sort of awareness-promoting holiday is long long overdue. I mean, we have an entire month for breast cancer awareness, which, while necessary and beautiful, doesn’t apply to nearly as many people as addiction and mental illness does. The truth of the matter is, there’s no reason the old stigmas of mental illness still exist. Because nobody knows how to publicly discuss it like any other health problem, our society has become completely schizophrenic about it, overmedicating some people who are just suffering from real life, while those who desperately need help don’t seek treatment because they’re still under the impression that it’ll make them appear crazy. Sadly, the latter of these two types aren’t inaccurate in their predictions as there are still tons of people from slightly older generations who perpetuate said stigmas constantly. (When my husband and I were talking to a health insurance agent before we got married, I calmly told the agent that I had a long history with depression and had been hospitalized twice for it. He kinda chuckled nervously and asked my then-fiance, “You sure you want to marry her?” Yeah, we didn’t buy shit from that guy…) There’s just not enough information being discussed in logical, mature settings to change the mindsets of those people who don’t bother to understand mental illness and addiction and so, we’re left with those ignorant outsiders believing that depression is just something people need to “snap out of” or addiction is “all about self-control”, which adds a whole new layer to the struggle of those who suffer from these very real illnesses.

When someone tells friends and family that they have cancer, nobody tries to tell them that it’s all in their head; they rally around the friend, actively helping them seek treatment or earn funds, etc. This doesn’t happen for mental illness patients. When people are hospitalized for mental illness, there are no cards and flowers, there are no fundraisers to help pay for medical bills, there isn’t an outpouring of love and concern. Friends and family of the mentally ill are often so confused and clueless as to how to go about dealing with these people that they say nothing at all out of their fear, which only adds to the victim’s belief that they’re not worth the time and energy to save. A lot of times, they take this a step further and criticize the judgment of the victim/survivor, telling each other that this person is doing what they’re doing for attention or that they’re too crazy or unstable to be bothered with anymore.

This is something I have experienced firsthand. I experienced being belittled and ignored when I expressed my very real symptoms of depression to those around me when it started in my pre-teen years and I felt the confusion and ostracization from those around me each time I was hospitalized. These outside influences and social mentality allowed me to continue believing that my self-destructive behaviors and self-loathing beliefs were based in truth. It allowed me to feel isolated even further from the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally. It allowed me to feel hopeless and it took the momentum out of my new actions for recovery. My story is not unique.

So I’m adamantly in favor of this holiday, organization and entire movement. I don’t care if that makes me look like I’ve mindlessly climbed on board some new trend; this is something my heart really stands behind.

There have to be more discussions about how to care and show love for the people who suffer from this very real problem. Mental illness education has to be put on the health class curriculum in schools. People have to start listening to facts and changing their minds about depression and addiction to create a society that supports and promotes recovery and hope. This movement has to happen if there’s ever going to be any sort of hope for the mentally ill.

As an Addict and Mentally Ill Patient in Recovery, this is something I both need and want to see succeed.

Today I’m painting “Love” on my arms. I’d like to invite you to do the same.

Validation

There is a girl

who cries out at night

and the only thing

that can soothe

her

Fear

Loneliness

Pain

is

Me.

<insert space here>

There is a girl

who knows nothing.

She knows not of

Time

Society

Death

and the only definition

of Love

that she knows

is

Me.

————————————

I’ve been having, as they say in the South, “a time” of things. Usually, the Depression comes in great, heaving waves of endless sorrow and feelings of worthlessness, bringing with it a barrage of loud, relentless reminders as to why I suck and why my life is useless, etc. that simply won’t be swatted away. After tolerating/battling this for months, I suddenly felt myself shut down. For the last three weeks or so, my mind suddenly stopped everything and I found myself in a state of foggy lethargy and aparthy. This resulted in my forcing 600 calories a day (when I remembered or was pressured to eat), and staring blankly at the wall as the hours slipped by, unable to complete simple tasks or basic sentences. After about two weeks of this, the clouds parted and I was able to get out a little, socialize with friends, bathe and put on some makeup and feel a little relief finally. And then I took a tumble into the haze again.

My doctor opted to change up my medication [yet again], and I found myself both in withdrawal AND in this state of elevated depression, which left me completely useless. I attempted to take on the task of running a household and watching my daughter to no avail, and, after a day or so of this, my mother caught wind of my condition and immediately leapt into action, taking over my mothering duties and scrubbing my filthy, neglected house from top to bottom. I fought off long-seeded feelings of guilt and uselessness on relying on my parents to bail me out [yet again] and spent the days sleeping in completely exhausted, painful fatigue. Occasionally I was able to drag myself from bed to a steaming bath, staring through the splotchy green haze of medicinal withdrawal and watching my limbs disappear until I realized I was shivering and the bathwater had turned cold long before I had the clarity to notice. I didn’t check my email, I didn’t pluck my eyebrows (both being manic habits of mine for a little more than a decade), I didn’t bother to read or enrich myself in any way. In fact, the only effort I was able to manage was a smile and forced (forrrrced) enthusiasm when my husband returned home every evening, terrified that he will soon become exhausted with frustration at my perpetual dysfunction.

(I think the thing that pisses me off the most about those people who don’t bother to understand mental illness or depression is their misunderstanding about the dysfunction of it all. To them, doing nothing or staying in bed all day is a choice that is one’s way of disappearing from life, which is simply not the case. If a person is physically incapable of completing thoughts and sentences and is losing track of time as though being stoned, it is nearly impossible to pull together enough clear cognitive progress to will one’s body out of stasis. It isn’t the same as being in post-breakup mode where a depressed person lies in bed all day and sobs over old love notes and mementos; it is a real disability that is part of the whole “mental illness” diagnosis. I digress.)

Today there is movement and a sense of independence again as my doctor has put me back on the amphetamines that allow me some energy, albeit artificial. I still feel as though I have nothing of use to write about, but I am forcing myself to do so in order to keep my recovery moving forward. (And yes, this entry has taken me an hour to write, whereas it would ordinarily take me twenty minutes. I am having to retype sentences and proofread to catch my incoherencies.) Today I am showering, putting on makeup, and leaving the house to meet a friend for lunch. This, I know, doesn’t sound like a productive day to many, but I feel it is a vast improvement from the blurry suspended reality of this last week.

My mind is quiet for now. For the first time in literal years, I am not bombarded with constant doubt and worry, I am not hearing my inner Opponent laugh at my intentions, I am not shirking away from forward movement because my relentless neuroses convince me that I’m worthless. I am not beating myself up for making my parents and loved ones carry me through my dark times or clean up my mental mess. I’m not raking myself over the coals for all the mistakes I ever made to anyone ever. This, too, is a major improvement on a number of levels.

But something still doesn’t feel right. I feel this sudden emptiness, like a veil has been lowered to keep me from feeling anything. Perhaps this is another stage in recovery, my mind shutting down and resting before slowly allowing itself the freedom of emotion again. Maybe this is The Hermit card incarnate, when I’m supposed to hibernate and store energy for the next chapter of my recovery instead of wrestling with the demons in hopes that they’ll be forced into submission.

Thankfully, however, there’s a tiny inkling of hope that has returned, which is the biggest relief of all. For the past few weeks, the apathy and lethargy has hosted a belief system of hopelessness, which was the most intolerable of all emotion. Even in my darkest moments of the past, there has always been a notion of hope. Even sitting in a mental hospital amongst the other crazies, I still believed there was a life better than this, a reality just out of my reach where claircognizance and functionality were a part of life. The daunting idea that this would always evade me, that there was no point to any of this, no use for any of our society or recovery or progress, no hope in any form for any one person or people was too much to bear. I don’t know where this sense of renewed hope and worth has come from suddenly, but I will consider it another blessing and not delve too far into my Higher Power’s motives in returning it to me.

(NOTE: I wish I knew a better way to describe the events of last weekend than what I’ve concluded. I’m sorry if this reads as just a vague outline, but I’m keeping specifics to myself so as not to exacerbate and publicly expose painful events of a private matter.)

Without warning, an unfamiliar demon crept into my home, slinked under my sheets and soaked into my mind. As it seized the helm, I suddenly found myself convinced of things I’d never before supposed, aware of realities that had never before occured to me. Unquestionably believing these notions to be true, I found myself standing, completely sober, telling those that I loved these horrible new ideas that had taken root in my psyche, as if overnight. Safe in the knowledge that these sudden notions were factual, I was able to construct entire backgrounds and arguments as to why they were indeed real, why they were residing in my mind all along and how I was supposedly only just finding the courage to release them now. Without doubting myself for a moment, I stood and confidently proclaimed these falsities on behalf of my Self, completely annihilating the trust and relationships I’d worked so hard to build and maintain. Fully aware and understanding of the upheaval my actions would cause in my immediate life and the hurt I would be responsible for, I clearly, soberly spoke the most horribly destructive revelations I’ve ever uttered without a shadow of doubt that what I was doing was pure, honest and right. I never wavered, I never second guessed myself, I just kept plowing forward, watching those around me listen in shock and devastation. 

This is a demon I wasn’t prepared for. One I never could have predicted, one I’m most terrified of, of all that I’ve encountered over the years.

Within a few hours after my erratic behavior, something inside me switched back to my Sane self and became immediately horrified at what I had done. What had I said? What had I done? Why had I taken such drastic, sudden measures? Where had these notions come from? Why would I have said such devastating things to those that I love in the knowledge that my words could literally decimate the life that I have now and destroy those who take the time to love me back? 

Immediately I ran back, apologizing for my massive misstep and searching for any explanation I could conjure as to why this had happened. Fumbling through excuses, I tried to explain this that I could not completely understand. Naturally, I took complete responsibility for my actions, although I couldn’t fully offer any sort of motive or explanation. My excuses sounded hollow and insane as I swore I hadn’t meant what I’d said, had no idea what had gotten into me, had no idea where this sudden urge had come from. One of my unassuming victims claimed that I talked about the event as though I was describing myself in third person, and I tried to explain that this is exactly how I felt, watching someone else come into my mind and convince me to ruin my life. Those that love me nodded in sympathy and forgiveness, assuring me that they would be okay and that they would still be there for me, no matter how psychotic and erratic I became. This, of course, made me feel even more terrible and undeserving as I struggled to make things right, to undo my words, to convince them that what I’d said wasn’t true, wasn’t how I felt, wasn’t even something I’d previously entertained, knowing all the while that the words I’d spoken and the actions I’d taken in my demonic possession carried far more weight than any apology I could ever offer. 

Somehow, I’ve been granted grace and forgiveness, although the wounds will inevitably be harder to heal and forget. As I look into the eyes of those that I most recently hurt, I know that this is something I will not soon forgive myself for, even though it felt completely out of my control. 

This is a demon I’ve never encountered and one I have never been more petrified of. I have never felt more powerless or more volatile than I do at this moment, and I’m living each moment terrified that I will become possessed again. 

—————

It seems pretentious and trite to say that one is exhausted at the young age of 26, especially when one lives in a prosperous country, in a fortunate lifestyle with every blessing she could want having been handed to her. 

And yet, more than exhaustion I feel the seeping-in of complete apathy at this battle. After all the resolutions and lifestyle changes and meditations and medications and prognoses and doctors and reforms and new habits and recovery Steps and therapy and sobriety, it seems my sick mind is still upping the ante, still pulling out weapons I could never anticipate, finding ways to wreak havoc on my life that I cannot predict or defend myself from.

And my mind feels weary and exhausted. I’m tired of the ever-present fighting to stay afloat, I’m tired of the doctors, I’m tired of those around me working to help and only being hurt, I’m tired of the loss, I’m tired of the hurting, I’m tired of the crushing obsessions and loud, screaming neuroses that keep me up all night. I’m tired of screaming back at those neuroses, fighting to silence my mind, fighting to be still and find a center in which to rest, if only momentarily.  I’m tired of the momentary happiness that gets interrupted by plummeting lows. I’m tired of waiting and tired of complaining. I’m tired of the pity and I’m tired of the advice from those who only love me and are trying to help. I’m tired of reading and learning about treatment options, I’m tired of trying something new in hopes that this time, this time something will give and begin to work. I’m tired of the feeling that my hope is worthless, my life is a burden. I’m tired of that familiar sinking feeling when more hope leaves my body and the light at the end of the tunnel turns out to be an oncoming train. I’m tired of the drama, tired of the heartache, tired of the frustration, tired of the weight, tired of slapping on a happy face so nobody worries. I’m exhausted from fucking talking and thinking about it, fighting it nonstop, constantly shushing my racing thoughts and fighting to function normally through mundane, daily activity. I’m tired of the constant war that rages on relentlessly, despite my changing tactics and allied strategies.

More importantly, I’m tired of the obnoxious monotony of thinking of and dealing with this battle every single day and the aching notion that I’m wasting my life in this relentless uphill fight. And I’m tired, most of all, of begging for strength and answers and guidance. I’m exhausted and embarrassed with my naive hope and childish faith, and I’m too weary to keep digging for answers on my own. 

And I realize that this exhaustive search has finally ground itself into an empty, deadening apathy.

My Gran used to call them “pity parties” to make fun of our human need to feel unabashedly pitiful every so often. Dane Cook talks about them in all their messy, redundant glory, pinpointing all the hideous, grotesque natures of them and our complete release of inhibitions during them. I’ve heard that we all do it and yet it’s something that happens only once biannually for me, something I never think to resort to even though it’s the one thing that can really make me feel both rejuvenated and exhausted when it’s all over.

The Great Cry was imminent.

Here I am. 36 hours into increasingly-melancholy sleeplessness and a strange hungerless starvation, days into abandoned hygiene, three-ish months into yet another battle with this stupid mental illness that just will not go away despite thousands of dollars in medication and doctor’s bills. The one-day pile of dishes in the sink is insurmountable, the daily “To Do” list is nothing short of impossible, the teething baby can’t seem to settle into a routine without wailing for constant attention. Every conversation is a massive undertaking, every action equivalent to hauling stones up an Egyptian Pyramid and the redundancy of this obnoxious mindset is enough to irritate anyone into insanity.

Still, though! I’m pushing forward! Valiantly! Getting out of bed! Bravely! Washing linens! Courageously! Caring for baby! Trying to make myself write essays for deadlines, make phone calls, respond to emails, help out an old friend, tidy up the house, mail letters, make grocery lists! Taking a shower! Nobly! Forcing food down my gullet! Fighting the good fight! Not letting my mind get down on myself! Yay, me, for beating back my stupid effing neuroses for one more day and doing what I needed to do to be functional like every other normal person in America can without extra effort!

Suddenly, It was upon me without any prelude or hint of warning. It was like the rug I personally crafted every morning in determination to face another day was suddenly yanked out from under me and I was crumpled on the floor, crying great, heaving sobs in unfiltered self-pity, exhaustion, and frustration.

I was shuddering in devastated agony, not just about the dishes or the laundry or even about my greasy hair or lack of sleep, either. I was sobbing about everything my mind could possibly manifest that has ever made me feel dilapidated, unsuccessful, and pitiful up to this point in my tiny, decent life. I cried about repressed personal issues I’d never stopped to explore my feelings about and stupid things I’ve delved into and cried about ad nauseum over years. I cried about times I’d royally screwed up everything and times I thought I’d screwed up everything that probably weren’t even a big deal to anyone else. I cried about how ill-equipped I feel to handle my daily life and I cried about how I have no idea what I’m going to do with my future as a whole. I cried because the clean clothes haven’t been put away and I cried because I don’t know what my purpose in the world really is. I cried because I want to be successful and then I cried because I’m often too terrified of various minor obstacles to let myself be successful. And then I cried because I felt so guilty for crying in the first place.

For about a half hour, I stopped putting on the happy face, stopped glossing over all my insecurities and outright fears, stopped fighting my underlying emotions, stopped making jokes, sat on the floor and let myself become a sniffling, helpless wreck. I really milked it, too. I kept feeding my mind all the pathetic, self-pitying notions I possibly could conjure until, gradually, the heaves became smaller and the tears slowed to occasional drips.

Finally, I helped myself to my feet, exhausted and still wiping drops from my puffy, blood-lined eyes. I brushed the wrinkles out of my clothes, took a single cleansing breath and was finished. There was no more energy for pity, no more interest in tears or doubt or nagging self-deprecation. The ever-present Critic in my mind was finally quiet. The frustrated lump that resides in my throat was somehow gone. I was suddenly buoyant with an unusual lightness, almost like I’d checked off that one giant task on my “To Do” list that I’d been putting off for ages. My mind was clear to think about being normal, functional and rational, my body wasn’t tied down to the racing thoughts of my overbearing subconscious. My body and mind were working together like a well-oiled machine for the first time in a long while, communicating between each other without getting tangled in the wire-trips of my fears.

Assuming that this specific episode is evident of the very worst my neuroses and memories and self-pitying/loathing can possibly make me feel, I realized that I had survived it without a single scratch or loss to my overall well-being. Which meant that even if I should encounter this level of insane, overwhelming, hysterical grief again, I would be able to embrace it in the knowledge that I’ll feel refreshed and cleansed afterward [instead of chronically terrible for the rest of my life, which I was somehow expecting.]

Makes me wonder what the hell I was fighting so hard to avoid feeling in the first place.

I’m not going to say I pwned depression or anything outlandishly brash, but I suddenly feel more equipped to handle the constant pressure of my oppressive neurotic thoughts, knowing that the worst self-inflicted feelings imaginable are all survivable. This massive wailfest doesn’t feel like a daily/weekly practice, of course, but more like a tremendous ritualistic release that I’m suddenly not so afraid of, should it crash over me again. It’s like having a secret antidote tucked into my arsenal for when shit really goes down. Actually, it seems like all the destructive power has been stripped away from those deeply-seeded subconscious mantras of mine now that I realize that they can’t really do anything worse than what I’ve already experienced firsthand. Wow, that’s liberating. I’m not saying I’m cured, but I’m definitely hitting a new level of optimism and not a moment too soon.

So, what I’m saying is: Bring on the Pain. I have another strategy to work with.
(Preferably after I blow-dry my hair, though. And take a nap.)

NOTE: I’m literally exhausted from the last few unbelievably mental-havoc-wreaked days, to be completely honest. I think it may be time to hermit myself away for a while and meditate quietly to myself for a change. If nothing else but to rest up for more of the same, although I’m planning on being more optimistic than that. (Depression makes for terrible blogging, I’ve noticed.)

Chloe sits on the floor, babbling, playing with various toys and holding them up to me, asking “Gah?” as if to ensure that I’m staying engaged with her play session. She excitedly toddles around the room all afternoon, babbling on about whatever’s on her mind and creating little messes as she explores our bookshelves.

But, every ten or fifteen minutes, her pace comes to a halt. She stops what she’s doing, walks over to me and gently puts her arms around my neck, resting her little head on my shoulder, almost as if to say, “I’m just creating distraction here, Mommy. I know you’re having a hard time, but we’re going to be okay. I love you.”

It’s a weird feeling when you realize that your infant knows how to love you better than you do.

I haven’t been posting as often as usual (daily) because, even with all the excitement and birthday and exterior activity, my blasted mental illness is still pushing itself forward, soaking through all my intentions and muting all my attempts at progress.

I’m still seeing a psychiatrist and a psychologist. I’m still staying constant on my prescribed meds. I’m still staying away from booze (obviously) and caffeine. I’m still getting plenty of sleep. I’m still exercising at least 5x a week. I’m still getting up and staying active all day. I’m still taking time to meditate and just be still for a while every day. I’m still reading, still journaling, still praying, still writing gratitude lists, still eating right 98% of the time, still putting my desire for sanity into the Universe, still subscribing to holistic approaches and still implementing every possible tactic I can possibly conjure to possibly knock the momentum out of this stealthy disease.

I’m fucking exhausted.

I hate it when I keep getting advice, as if, after years of researching and seeking help I still haven’t heard “Well are you eating right?” “Maybe you should get out of the house and get some sunlight!” “Why are you so unhappy? Try thinking about things you’re grateful for!” I EFFING KNOW, okay?

I know there’s no reason I topple into this physically painful hole every day where my mind can’t focus on anything and I sit, staring for unaccounted periods of time. I know there’s no reason I shake and cry as my mind pushes all my neuroses on me. I got it. I know.

I’m still trying. I’m still pushing forward. I’m still standing. I’m still fighting my habitual destructive thoughts with a gentle “NO!” when they start and I’m keeping in constant motion to keep my mind from wandering to that hurting place anyway. I’m still doing everything that I can and praying, begging for relief. I’m ready. I’ve been ready.

In fact, at this point I would rather never have a single moment of elation for the rest of my life if I knew that I wouldn’t have to contemplate real self-destruction so often. I mean that. I’d sacrifice every potential moment of unadulterated bliss for all those thousands of evenings I endure where I’m convinced I’m on my last legs of sanity. In a heartbeat.

I’m tired of having this in my back pocket every day. I’m tired of throwing it away and cleaning my hands of it, only to find that it’s crawled back into my life when I wasn’t looking. I feel assaulted and taken advantage of, even though I keep fighting.

But I am still fighting.

(Hope that doesn’t make me sound like I’m vying to be some sort of martyr. I just had to vent a little. I’m tired.)

I’m reading Kay Redfield Jamison’s An Unquiet Mind and loving it, which is strange because usually when I read memoirs about addiction or mental illness, I end up feeling worthless and trite. A lot of times I walk away from the book feeling empathic but completely useless as a writer, with the inherent knowledge that my illness is not only textbook, but has been discussed ad nauseum and, therefore, shouldn’t be blathered on again by myself or any other person remotely sharing in my general demographic characteristics. What I love about Jamison’s book is that she is a Doctor in psychiatry and yet, manages to speak about her illness as someone who has stepped around all the pretenses of what it means to have such a high social standing, bridging the gap between the Healer and the Unwell. She writes about emotions and mental sensations that I am entirely familiar with from a standpoint of a physician who fully understands her mental incapacities, but still doesn’t allow herself to bolster her tone with any ego or condescension. It’s really a fantastic work that I highly recommend anyone reading, whether or not they’ve been exposed to mental illness.

This being said, I’ve recognized in her writing that one of my new medications sends me into a light mania during the day. Granted, it’s not nearly intense enough to be classified as an actual manic spell and it wears off around the time that the extended-release capsule stops emitting drugs, but still, there’s a definite “high” that I experience during the day due to this drug. I am active and creative and productive, I get scores of things done and have wildly enthusiastic ideas about my potential, I feel great about life and where I am and who I am, and it’s like a completely new feeling for me to be flying so high and feeling so wonderfully optimistic. I’ve never suffered from any sort of mania at all if not chemically induced (read: illegally) and none so pure and bright as this and I’m really enjoying it. I love the feeling of accomplishment I feel at the end of a busy day and how bright, confident, and competent I magically seem in public. I love wanting to dance and sing and write and play all day and I love the palpable feeling of excitement and ambition that I feel when I start my mornings.

The problem, of course, is that I do tend to enjoy things that feel good to excess and I have this sneaking suspicion that this full-steam-ahead feeling that I experience during the day isn’t something I need to make permanent. Sure, it was good for drastically reversing my depression, getting me out of bed, making me a productive member of society, etc. but any more than this and I’ll slowly go to the other extreme of mood disorders and that’s not something I want to invite on myself when I’m doing so well. I’m supposed to be feeling happy and successful and confident because of the reality that I create, not the reality that pharmaceuticals create, right? I mean, I intend to stay on antidepressants, but the stimulant is something I know in my heart I need to get away from eventually if I want to be truly happy and healthy.

Damned morals.

Jamison talks about adoring her manic spells because she felt like she was floating up and away past the rings of Saturn, feeling like a million bucks and hurdling herself headlong into life. Aside from her manic spending-sprees and overzealous behaviors that she exhibited during her manias, she really enjoyed the feeling of invincibility and bliss that came with mania and really missed these when she started to level out. I never thought that such a notion would apply to me, but it does right now.

Now is when all that AA training steps in and takes over, because if it was up to me, I’d let myself feel maniacally exhuberant every day for the rest of my life and just deal with the inevitable crashes in mood that come later on. But instead, I made a commitment to being healthy and finding balance, and so that’s what I’m working toward, even though I have to give up the first consistent, productive rapture I’ve ever felt to do it.

Damned morals.

I’m effing exhausted from soaring emotionally upward and then crashing down so often in the course of a week, all because of the new drugs I’ve been trying for the last couple months. I’ve never had bipolar tendencies in that when I get depressed, it lasts a longlong time and then I come out of it and return to my normal self for a while. I’ve never been manic except in short half-hour bursts and only if/when caffeine/other substances are involved, so that’s been ruled out of my diagnosis as well. However, with this new medicine, I’m very up and cheery and perky and uberproductive and optimistic and creative and perfect during the day until that inevitable instance once or twice a week when I plummet back to rock bottom. (And if I’ve had caffeine at all during the day my meds decide to pull the rug out from under me, the depression is even more exacerbated and hopeless.) This constant up-and-down has never happened to me before [yes, even when I was drinking] and, I have to say, I’m not fond of it. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE how I feel when the medication is in full swing and I’m bright and perky and everything seems beautiful and wonderful, but the comedown seems hardly worth it if it’s risking my sanity every few days. That’s not really a decent trade-off in my book. I want to be leveled-out, even if that means not feeling blissful on a daily basis. Euphoria’s fun and all, but the nature of a balanced universe insists that I have to come back to reality and, frankly, I’d rather just live in real emotion with natural peaks and valleys than these drug-motivated ones.

So, even though I received some really very cool, really very hopeful, really very dream-fulfilling news about my professional life last night and had a genuinely great evening, I still sat in the darkness of my house feeling empty and scared and alone until 2 a.m. when I finally meditated myself into a restless sleep. And it wasn’t based in anything at all, [not even those ridiculous self-loathing mantras my sick brain likes to repeat to itself during my bouts... I think they were taking the night off] which is more evidence that these deep crevices are purely from the drugs. That ain’t right.

Auuughh.. I’d like to be fixed now.

It never ceases to amaze me how one whole week of Feeling Really Great and Being All Productive can be completely obliterated by one single evening of Shaking, Sobbing, Deteriorating Crazy that just descends on me from out of nowhere. Nothing caused it, mind you. My mind isn’t off beating itself up for sucking in general, I’m not sad about any certain, specific thing; I just started sinking and couldn’t pull up out of it. So, instead I sat on the couch in a tight little ball all evening, trying to focus on a movie that Greg put in for us and wringing my hands like I’d just snorted a line while little white flashes of light darted around my periphery for no reason. Occasionally, I’d need to inhale so abruptly that Greg would dive to my side to make sure I was okay like I was on the brink of dying. (Poor guy; three months of this has to be making him wonder why he’s married me.)

————————————————-

Okay, God,

 I’m exhausted with this now. I know I’m not one to argue with your judgment but seriously? Haven’t I done this enough? I’ve worked my ass off this round, not sitting back and taking it or drinking myself into dysfunction. I’ve been charitable and objective about my needs in recovery and I’ve changed my meditation and medication and eating habits and gone out and gotten some physical activity and rerouted my focus and talked to my therapist and gone to a different doctor and gotten out of the house to do things that I like and expressed gratitude and appreciation when I could and made amendments where I felt I needed to (no matter how outdated) and read scripture and self-help books and been still and tried to let You talk to me and had friends come to visit and literally every-fucking-thing I can think of to put into motion my feeling better and expedient recovery. I’ve held up my end of the bargain… 

…So, for fuck’s sake could I please just go for one whole week (or two) without contemplating opening a vein or overdosing on sleeping pills and wine in my bathtub? I’m literally begging You now. I haven’t had a week like that since early September, which is bullshit in itself because it almost completely wrecked the time around my wedding. (The week in Hawaii was bliss, mind you, if only I could have staved off those sleepless early mornings of quivering in my neuroses that I tried to hide from Greg in an attempt to keep him from worrying about anything on our heavenly honeymoon.) I mean, I don’t want to get all vindictive and fist-shaking and screaming stuff like “YOU OWE ME RESTITUTION!” but dammit, would it really damage me and my personal character development to be completely content and catch my breath for just a little while? I’m just wondering.

I appreciate Your consideration and expedient response in this matter.

Ever Patiently,

Castallare

Even with this New Life
New Blog
New Habits
New Shape
New Mind
New Meditations
New Family
New Hope
New Method
New Reaches
New Patterns
New Ideas
New Movement
New Perspective

I am, somehow, the same Old
Raggedy,
Expendable,
Frustrated,
Stagnant,
Cluttered,
Blocked,
Awkward,
Chubby,
Messy,
Frenzied,
Dirty,
Vacuous,
Deterred,
Susceptible,
Selfish,
Blabbering,
Stumbling,
Blubbering

Me.

So,
when is that notion going to stop owning my mind?