This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

TW: Suicidal thoughts with plan and intent.

I’m not safe.

I mean, I’m safe right this second. The thoughts are quiet and my day is going well.

But, I’m not safe.

The most dangerous time for me is when I go from “fine” to “not fine” in wild swings that come at random. When I have these rapid cycling mixed episodes that give me the hopelessness that builds a plan, and the energy to follow through with a plan.

Those times are dangerous.

Yesterday was scary, partially because it wasn’t scary. I had a plan, I had the intent, I had a time. Actually, I had multiple times. I knew if I couldn’t follow through when Wonder Woman was in an appointment, I would have plenty of time to follow through when she went in for her evening meeting.

It took everything in me to stay in bed through that first appointment. The bed is safe, the floor is lava.

It took everything for me to read through the loving comments on facebook and let some of that in. It was hard to hold on to.

And then it took everything in me to get up and attend my Monday night group. I wanted to stay in bed, and then I wanted to do the meeting from bed.

Fortunately, when I set up the computer on my bed, I looked ridiculous on the camera while laying down.

So I got up and came out to the living room.

Fortunately, there was a technical error with the zoom meeting, and the people in my group started joking around, and joking with me while we were waiting.

Fortunately, my friend kindly bullied me some. The good kind of bullying where she made sure I did what I needed to do.

Fortunately, She wouldn’t let me walk away just because things were running late.

That’s a lot of events that lined up, and made it so I had a safety plan by the time group was over.

It could have gone very differently.

So, today I have a virtual appointment with a mental health hospital. They have lots of programs. I’m not sure how they are all being run right now.

I’m not sure what their outpatient php looks like. Is it virtual? Is it in person? How many hours a day? Do they help with transportation? It’s obvious that my normal php, the one that has kept me stable countless times, isn’t doing it in its shortened, virtual format. Would their program be a better fit? Is it even running?

I’m not sure what their crisis inpatient unit looks like. I’ve heard great things about it, but right now we’re living in a different time. I know at minimum I won’t be allowed visitors. But what does the program look like? Will I be kept in isolation so that there isn’t a covid outbreak? Are they still running daily programs that would help me heal and find solid ground again after this latest trauma?

I’m not sure what their longer term units look like. I’m not even sure that’s what I need or would be eligible for.

I don’t know what I need right now.

But I want to be safe.

And I want to take some of the load off of those around me.

I want to give Wonder Woman a break.

It’s exhausting caring for a loved one who is in crisis. I know, because I’ve been on both sides of this coin many times.

And I will be on this side of the coin many times in the future.

That’s so daunting to look at.

Even without trauma, other triggers occur and send me in a spiral. Intrusive suicidal thoughts are just a part of my illness. Mixed mood episodes with thoughts that grab hold are just a part of my illness.

This isn’t the first, and won’t be the last, time that I go through this.

There will never be a last time.

Until there is.

Until it either wins or I die from some other cause.

I finally messaged my individual therapist today to let her know about the upcoming appointment. I haven’t seen her in nearly a month because of her own life situation and the way that appointment times worked out before that. It’s been shitty timing for a break in that kind of care.

But at least I’ve had other care.

I guess this could have happened at a worse time.

I feel defeated right now, while still trying to go about life as normal.

I keep trying to give myself grace that this is a normal reaction to trauma.

Or at least my normal.

This is hard. So very hard.

But I’m still fighting.

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

And a Really Real Trauma post.

Can you really separate them?

TW: Suicidal Stuffs, possibly mention of completed suicide, who knows where this will go.

I washed my dishes.

I’m out of bed.

I played my game.

I gathered the trash for Wonder Woman to take out.

I’m listening to a playlist called “Wet-faced and hopeful” that a friend put together and sent to me.

And, I washed my dishes.

My sink is always a pretty good indicator of my mental health. Lately though, it’s stayed pretty empty.

I’m fine.

And then I’m not.

And then I’m fine again.

When I’m really not fine, one or two lined Facebook posts come off of my fingers, rapid fire. Normally from my phone while I’m laying in bed, the only place that feels safe when I’m that far in the hole.

It’s hard to type a long winded post when I can’t even hold my head above water.

When my buoyancy is the only thing keeping me alive.

“I’m not afraid of that hurricane,” my aunt once said, “people are only afraid of hurricanes because of the water. I’m not worried because I’m fat. Fat floats.”

Fat floats.

But anyway,

I washed my dishes.

Rubber gloves on my hands because of a nasty cut I got the LAST time I was washing my dishes.

Knives and I don’t get along. Fingers scared from wayward blades.

Ask kidlet the story about the Eversharp Knife sometime. It certainly was sharp.

My brain is still scattered. The remnants of suicidal thoughts still floating around in the back of my head.

I filled out the form for a virtual crisis intake appointment. When it asked for details it felt pertinent to explain that not only am I suicidal, but that I’ve lost 2 people close to me to suicide, and I’ve been there for both of them.

When you look up the risk factors for suicide, number one is often “Family history of suicide.”

What does it happening twice do to my risk?

But,

I washed my dishes.

Headphones on and music blaring.

Writing this post in my head.

Figuring out what needed to be said.

Figuring out what I needed to get out of my head, through my fingers, into the keys, and onto the screen.

When I’m rapid firing those one and two line posts on Facebook, the comments flow underneath, people reaching out, messages sent, people checking in.

People letting me know I’m loved.

I can’t always feel it. I used to think they were saying it out of obligation. Now I just think I’ve got everyone blinded, or that they are blind or seeing something that isn’t really there.

I still don’t see what’s so important about me.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it. I need it.

Otherwise I wouldn’t fire off those cries for help.

It would be easier not to. It would be easier to get out of my bed and find the way out.

I fight before I post. I wonder if I’m just whining, just being dramatic, just stirring up a fuss over nothing.

I used to say “It’s not like I’d be able to follow through anyway.”

But now I’ve got two people in my life who have completed suicide.

I know with my own two eyes that it isn’t all that hard. Staying alive is much harder than getting dead.

Some lyrics in one of the songs caught my ears. One of those songs on that playlist that my friend sent over.

A song I’ve heard a dozen times before.

But this time I actually listened.

“When it rains, it pours, but you didn’t even notice
It ain’t rainin’ anymore, it’s hard to breathe when all you know is
The struggle of staying above the rising water line
Well, the sky is finally open, the rain and wind stopped blowin’
But you’re stuck out in the same ol’ storm again
You hold tight to your umbrella, well, darlin’ I’m just tryin’ to tell ya
That there’s always been a rainbow hangin’ over your head”

Even when I see that rainbow, there’s often a storm still brewing in my head. A storm made of memories and past traumas. A storm made of worthlessness and hopelessness. A storm made of my history. Of what I see as my future.

I may end up inpatient again. My moods are swinging too wildly and I’m having a hard time staying centered.

There’s nothing wrong with going inpatient, I’m just trying to avoid a holding cell, with patients locked down in rooms because of covid.

Isolation is not the answer, it might keep me safe, but it won’t let me heal, and I’ll come home in the same position I’m in now.

The last time I got put in a fish bowl, where they watch you and keep you safe but give you nothing to heal, I came home and was inpatient again within the week . . . at a different place that was more involved.

So, I filled out the form for a virtual crisis intake appointment. I’ll ask them what kind of units are available.

A year or two ago my therapist tried to get me on the trauma unit at this hospital. A six week, intensive, inpatient stay.

My trauma wasn’t recent enough though.

I wonder if I just needed something more recent. Maybe they’ll want me there now.

Or maybe just a crisis unit where they can play around with my chemistry and make sure I’m back on dry ground.

Who knows, I should hear from them tomorrow. I guess part of it will depend on what part of me is present when I have the appointment.

I’m still not okay, and that’s okay.

But at least I’m safe.

And,

I washed my dishes.

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

And a Really Real Chronic Pain post.

And a Really Real Weight post.

TW: Talk of body size and weight.

I feel like writing this morning. I don’t really have all that much to write about since yesterday, but sitting here in the cool mountain air, it just seems like the thing I’m supposed to do.

Especially since I’m the only one awake and the house is silent except for the humming of the refrigerator and my fingers on the keys.

And the occasional annoying tap tap tap of Siah’s nails against the floor. I’m not sure why that seems so much louder here.

Maybe it’s because there’s no quiet banter on the TV, the latest cooking show that we’re binging our way through.

Maybe its because there’s no quiet hum of computer fans, with my dual screens in front of me.

Maybe because it’s just more peaceful up here and her loud tapping breaks the silence.

I feel like it’s wrong for me to be on my phone or my computer, like I’m tainting this beautiful countryside with electronics that have no place here.

And I’m sure others agree.

But I’m learning that it’s okay to just go with the flow, to let my mind and my hands focus on what feels comfortable.

Within reason.

Today we’re supposed to go see a waterfall.

We saw it on our last trip here, traversing the icy steps to and from the beautiful rainbow of water that you could almost touch. Icy lines running down the wall beside us as water dripped down and froze. Icicles hanging everywhere.

But this time I’m worried about the trek, even though it won’t be icy.

My body isn’t used to carrying this extra weight. The thin mountain air makes me out of breath with even the slightest exertion.

Walking to and from the car will sometimes have me winded.

On top of that my normal pain levels are at a new high. On our drive here I felt like my joints wanted to explode, I don’t know the scientific reason, but I’m assuming it’s the change in altitude.

My knee is swollen and sore. It creaks and wobbles as I make my way around. I remarked yesterday that I’m starting to waddle like an old fat woman.

I feel like an old fat woman.

None of the chairs in this cottage seem like they are the right height or size. The sofa is too low, I strain and rock trying to get up out of it. The chairs at the antique table are too skinny, the sides digging into my thighs.

This time I trusted the bench that runs around two sides of the table. I have to sit carefully to make sure something will handle my weight.

“You’re pull up two chairs kinda big” my dad once said to me.

I was smaller than I am now.

But the bench, with its wide, flat, surface, seems to be the answer.

Even though I had to pull the table away from it to fit.

Maybe my body will relax enough that I can make this journey today.

The view will be worth it.

It’s hard writing about my weight, harder than writing about my mental health. I know lots of people who struggle with mental health.

I don’t know many people my size.

Yesterday we saw a commercial that mentioned an airline was keeping middle seats open.

“Where should we go?”

The empty seat would mean I’d only have to buy one.

And the thing is, I know that among most of my readers, most of my friends who take the time to read this far, my weight is a non issue.

People will say “You’re beautiful no matter what size you are.”

And they’re right. As much as I sometimes have a hard time seeing it, I know that I’m beautiful. That’s not what I’m talking about here.

But the world isn’t built for someone my size.

The world isn’t built for someone with this level of pain.

I may not need a wheelchair, but things still aren’t always accessible. And sometimes it’s not reasonable for them to be.

I’m determined to make this walk today. Up and down steps that aren’t icy like they were last time.

I will pay for it later.

As I take pain meds and lay on the couch playing on my phone willing my joints to stop throbbing.

Apparently I did need to write. There’s always something trying to bubble its way to the surface, and today it was this.

It feels good to get it out, it feels good to be vulnerable and transparent and maybe give someone insight into what it feels like to live in my body.

A beautiful body that sometimes feels too big, emotionally and physically.

But I’m allowed to take up space.

And if I say that enough times, maybe I’ll truly believe it.