This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I’m doing some of the things, but there are so many things that are going undone..
I’m going to the gym every night.
But I’m not running the errands I need to run before the sun goes down.
I’m making more intentional food choices.
But I’m eating all day.
I’m cooking.
But dishes often pile up, and my stove top is gross.
I’m getting up early.
But then I’m napping most of the day.
I feel
better
I guess.
But there’s so much I still haven’t done.
The increased dose of my meds are working.
But they aren’t working enough.
Or, maybe this isn’t the bipolar or the depression.
Maybe it’s me?
Where does my illness end,
and my lack of willpower begin.
When does it become lazy, instead of ill.
But, writing this has me thinking.
Maybe,
I’m being too hard on myself.
Maybe,
everything doesn’t have to change at once.
Maybe,
I’ve spent so long minimally functioning,
that I can’t expect to reverse those habits in a week.
Maybe,
it is both mental illness
and me.
And all I can do is make the next right decision.
Keep moving forward.
Picking myself up when I stumble.
Doing what I can and slowly adding more
and more.
Maybe I just need to take it one day at a time.
Maybe I need to be nicer to me.
Gym
Starting over, again.
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
And a Really Real Health post.
One of those ones where it’s hard to tell where health ends and mental begins. As we know, they are definitely intertwined.
This is a long one.
TW: exercise and fitness. Quick mention of past suicidal thoughts.
4.5 years ago, Parker died.
Shortly after that I went in for a minor surgery to remove an ovary that had a large, painful, cyst.
They couldn’t control my airway on the table and aborted the surgery.
It scared the shit out of everyone.
I was incredibly suicidal after the failed surgery.
I was in so much pain, and I was still in the middle of that early grief period, and it just felt like the end of the world.
At that time, my best friend was going to the gym every night.
She wasn’t willing to leave me alone, but wasn’t willing to miss the gym.
So she took me with her.
And I went for a walk on the treadmill while she was doing what she was doing.
At the time I could barely walk around the block.
When I first got on the treadmill I had to hold on for dear life because I was so unstable I couldn’t keep my balance.
I can’t remember how long I walked that first time.
But we went back the next night and I did it again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually I worked up to the elliptical and the Arc bike.
We added strength training.
My best friend and I had a great routine and we kept each other going.
I was in the best shape that I can ever remember.
And then life happened.
I stopped going to the gym.
I would start going again, and lose momentum.
Covid brought months and months of sitting in the house, afraid to go anywhere.
I fell back into old habits.
Covid kept me away from the gym, but I also wasn’t making myself walk in the neighborhood.
The concrete sidewalk hurt my joints.
The hills hurt my lungs and left me gasping.
My therapist and I have talked a lot about it.
About my lack of motivation.
About how much I wanted things to change but hadn’t figured out how to change them.
Today she asked me what would make me feel safe at the gym.
I thought about it long after the session ended.
I remembered those nights in the gym years before, going at midnight,
or later.
It was empty.
We had the whole place to ourselves.
So tonight,
I dug through my gym clothes to find ones I could still squeeze into.
I charged my headphones.
I filled up my water bottle,
I put on my mask,
and,
I drove to the gym at 11pm.
I had grand plans. I was going to warm up on the treadmill and then get on the elliptical.
But,
I felt like I was dying after 5 minutes on the treadmill.
Even at a low speed with no incline I was holding on and pulling myself along.
I felt unstable. I was out of breath. My whole body was starting to sweat.
At 10 minutes I knew there was no way I was using any other machines.
I wasn’t even sure I’d last 30 minutes where I was.
But I knew I could make it 5 more minutes.
And then, I knew I could make it 5 more.
And 5 more.
I made it to 30 minutes, just passing the mile marker during that time.
My face was red.
Sweat was pouring off of me.
My heart was pounding so hard it was giving me a headache.
And even though I’m back where I started 4.5 years ago,
I felt accomplished.
I still don’t feel like the gym is safe.
Even with a mask on and many machines shut down for distancing.
Even in a gym that had less than 10 people in it.
But I can’t just spend the rest of my life sitting in this chair.
Waiting for time to pass.
Not actively trying to die,
but not actively living either.
I almost didn’t write this tonight.
I was afraid that I might write it, and then not go back tomorrow, or the next day.
That I would say “I’m going to do this,”
and then not.
But,
I went to the gym today.
And that was a better decision than staying at home.
I don’t need to look forward too far.
I just need to make the next
right
decision.
Weight for it
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
TW: Weight, weight loss.
I’m fighting an internal battle.
I’ve gained back every bit of the weight I lost since Parker died.
Actually, I’ve gained that plus 5 lbs.
It’s heart breaking.
But I’m stuck.
I’m stuck where I don’t have the drive to get up and walk.
I have every excuse.
And I can’t get back into the gym because it doesn’t feel safe.
I’m really trying to love my body as I am.
But my body hurts so much more at this weight.
It’s hard to go up the stairs to my apartment.
It’s hard to move in bed.
I get out of breath walking the shortest distances.
I feel gross.
It’s hard to love my body when it won’t do the things I want to do.
When I lost the weight after Parker died, it was almost effortless.
I enjoyed the journey.
I was also on a migraine medication that helped, a medication that stopped helping as my body got acclimated to it.
And there were cognitive side effects that were more than annoying.
I’ve been through this before.
The drastic weight loss.
Followed by inevitably gaining it back.
It doesn’t feel good to move right now.
It doesn’t feel good to walk.
It doesn’t feel good to move my body in any way that would help.
Because it hurts.
I’m embarrassed because I get out of breath so easily.
I feel like I’m eating better.
I feel like I’m making better choices.
I feel like I’m not eating quite so many sweets.
And yet the scale keeps rising.
I’ve had multiple people tell me lately that I’m glowing.
That my smile is amazing.
That I seem to be doing so well.
But I’m not taking pictures of myself.
Even though I feel that pictures are so, so important.
I see the extra roundness in my face.
I see the pictures from last year and the years before that and I’m so heartbroken.
I see the pictures from before Parker died.
The pictures that I looked at and said “I never want to look like that again.”
And I look like that again.
Maybe with a brighter glow this time.
Maybe with a bigger smile.
Life isn’t like it was back then.
But yet, the weight still came back.
I’m just not there yet.
I’m not ready to
do
anything about it.
But I need to.
I was afraid of starting before the holidays.
Afraid that it would be too much to keep up with and I’d fail.
I’m afraid of starting around new years.
New years resolutions never work and I don’t want this to be that.
I’m afraid of failing.
I’m afraid of beating myself up more.
Again.
I’m afraid.
I keep waiting until I feel like I can do it.
But what if that time never comes.
Why can’t I just push past this block?
Why can’t I just
do it?
What am I waiting for?
Day 1
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
TW: Talk of weight loss.
I still haven’t decided if I’m going to do this every day this month or not.
But just in case I keep going, I figured I should write something today.
I’m not really sure what to write about though.
Today was a nice laid back day. Lunch at a new (to me) place, Starbucks, and a nice long nap that I apparently needed.
Such a good nap.
Now I’m about to go walking with my gym buddy and hopefully get back into this routine.
I’d like to make it back into the gym eventually.
But it doesn’t feel safe to me right now, so walking it is.
.
.
.
Writing was interrupted by walking. The shortest walks leave me so winded now. I remember doing miles without thinking twice and now going the long way around the block leaves me panting and wheezing.
I’ll get back to where I was, it’s just going to take time.
And dedication.
And perseverance.
I’m afraid I’m going to repeat my old pattern again, and I’m trying to stop it. The last time I lost a significant amount of weight, I gained back almost twice what I lost.
I don’t honestly care about the numbers on the scale.
I care about being fit enough to walk up and down my stairs without needing my inhaler.
I care about the other numbers.
I care about becoming diabetic again.
I care about my blood pressure.
And I know I can be fat and active and keep those numbers under control.
But I have to start somewhere, and right now I’m starting back at the beginning.
Walks the long way around the block. Both for my body and for my mind.
Eventually I’ll be able to go the even longer way around the block. The way with the steep hill.
The way that’s intimidating for me now.
I’m tired of getting out of breath this easily.
I’m tired of letting myself fall back into old habits.
I’m tired of eating because I’m upset.
And then getting upset because I’m eating.
I’m just tired of this same old battle, that will probably never stop.
It’s just like my mental health. I’ll be battling that till the day I die.
A constant fight hoping to stay stable and keep myself alive.
A constant fight to keep myself active and fit.
It’s tiring.
I’m tired.
Lost Stability
This is a Really Real Trauma Post.
And a Really Real Mental Health Post, because the two go together.
TW: Mention of Suicidal Thoughts. Mention of Completed Suicide.
These have been long lately, thanks for those who are reading along.
First for the good news.
I’m wearing headphones and not freaking out, for the first time since that shot rang out.
I also turned off the hallway light tonight after we got home, without waiting for something to jump out from behind the shadows.
Slowly, I’m healing.
I’m taking note of the little things because maybe they’ll help me stop focusing on all of the bigger things.
Today I talked to my psychiatrist, she started off talking about raising my antidepressant, which we had been talking about a month or two ago.
I told her that was no longer the concern. The minor depression I had still been feeling when I was stable before wasn’t anywhere near as important as the current desire to end my life.
Or the sleep deprivation and nightmares.
And I realized, that’s part of what’s pissing me off so fucking much. Not only did this traumatize me, bringing with it, the previous traumas in my life.
Not only did this make me wobble in a really big way.
It did it when I was in a place of pretty solid stability. Yes, I was still slightly depressed. Yes, I was having problems focusing on work or other projects. Yes, it wasn’t perfect, but I was stable.
My feet were planted on solid ground and we were just making minor adjustments.
Today after PHP I laid in bed, unable to nap, but unwilling to be up. When Wonder Woman started mentioning going for a walk I got so angry with her. A rage that made me want to scream and yell at her. A rage that made me snap at her via text because I couldn’t trust myself to talk to her in person.
I haven’t felt that sort of rage in a long long time. I hate that side of me. I hate that it even exists.
I remember when I was finally fighting through the trauma of Parker’s death I sat on the kitchen floor and kicked the side of a shelving unit in. Using all of my force to release the rage brewing inside of me. So deep and solid with nowhere else to go but out. I started by drawing lines on my skin and by the end I was digging the pen in with all of my force. I remember that day, and I remember it being the day I measured my successes against. At least I wasn’t that bad anymore.
Today when I was talking to my psychiatrist, I told her I needed to be back on Abilify. The same medication I fought so hard to get off of because it makes me eat the house.
But I’m back to needing to be fat and alive rather than skinny and dead.
And it fucking sucks. I was so proud of myself for being able to brush away any suicidal thoughts that I had, even without the help of that medication. I was so proud of myself for being able to ignore them, or distract myself from them.
And now they are back with a vengeance. That rage turned inward taking away my will to exist.
I just want to go to sleep and never wake up, unless waking up means this never happened.
I see myself with a gun to my head, I hear the gun shots that no longer sound like bangs in the back of my head but now sound like the pops that they truly are.
The sound of gunshots in the back of my head were always the first sign of a suicidal downswing. Hearing how those sounds have changed, and seeing that it truly would be a viable way out, if I had a gun. Now I not only relate a way out to pills, but also to guns. They are ways that I know will work, I’ve seen it first hand.
And I was stable.
I was stable.
Now the thoughts have a tight hold around my neck, squeezing tighter and tighter. The bed is my safe space. Holding the blanket tight around me means I can’t act on the urges.
The other day Wonder Woman, in reaction to a suicidal post, told me she knew that if I looked hard enough I could find what I needed around here. No matter how careful we are to keep things locked up, if I tried hard enough, anything in this house could be a tool for my death.
So when the thoughts are bad, I put myself in bed. As long as I don’t step foot out from under those covers I can’t do any harm.
And while I’m there the shots can ring out in the back of my head, and the urges can come all they want, but I can’t act on them.
But that same survival mechanism allows for the thoughts to twist and turn and get stronger and stronger and louder and louder.
Being in bed is both the best and the worst place for me.
I’ve started walking late at night with my old gym buddy. We are doing super short walks for now, but plan to build up our strength and stamina again. Maybe one day soon I’ll be back in the gym where you can’t tell the sweat from the tears. Maybe I’ll be back to working it out that way.
But for now we just walk our little circle around the neighborhood, sometimes talking, sometimes silently, becoming accountability buddies for each other.
Just like before.
Just like the last time I healed from finding someone dead.
This sucks, but sometimes I can see myself getting back to stability. Sometimes I can remember that I did this once, and I will do it again.
Sometimes.
The rest of the time I just have to fight to hold on. Live from one Starbucks trip to the next.
Just make it one more day.
One more hour.
One more minute.
One more second.
And to think, just a few short weeks ago, I was stable.
He took that from me with the same shot that took his life from him.
Suicide doesn’t end the pain, it just gives it to those who are left behind.
I guess there’s a reason for this rage that keep building up inside of me.
This isn’t fair.
But I’m okay.
Or at least, I will be okay.
Just hold on
This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
TW: Talk of suicide, including plan. Talk of weight/weight loss/weight gain.
There’s so much in my brain and I don’t know where to start. This ended up being super super long, but I need to get it out. Words of encouragement and understanding would be greatly appreciated.
Last night was really, really hard.
It started with boredom. None of my usual activities were grabbing my attention. I tried pushing through and making myself start something anyway. Just start, just design one card, just complete one quest, just plan one dish.
Just start something.
But I wasn’t able to. So slowly I felt myself drifting towards bed. Once there I couldn’t even bring myself to turn on the TV.
Laying there my mind was wandering. Is this the medication change, it’s supposed to make me less flat and sometimes it just doesn’t seem to be doing that. It’s supposed to help me eat less, and I thought I was, but yesterday morning I had gotten on the scale, and I gained another 10 lbs.
Inching ever closer to my heaviest weight. A weight I swore I’d never reach again. I worked so so hard to lose so much. Even at 300 lbs I was proud of my body and what it could do. I felt accomplished at the gym. I was far more at peace with my body, even though I still had a lot to lose.
I spent months working towards bariatric surgery, for the 3rd time, and right as I cleared the last hurdle, they thought that emotionally it could be very dangerous for me to move forward. I walked away from the program on the day I was supposed to set a surgery date. I still don’t know if it was the right decision.
That was when this latest weight gain started. I had already stalled with losing, due to the medication increase, but then I started gaining. We increased the medication more, and I gained more. First I noticed 10 lbs, then a couple of months later there was another 10. Then in the first couple of months of quarantine it just kept going up and up and up.
And as much as the numbers suck, even worse is that I’ve lost my ability to walk as far as I used to. My pain is worse. I get out of breath just getting adjusted in bed. Walking up to my second floor apartment feels like running a marathon.
I don’t feel proud of what my body can do anymore. I spent almost 2 years celebrating accomplishment after accomplishment, and now I’m back to living in my desk chair barely able to hold myself up.
And last night it crashed down on me. Weight is such a huge trigger for my suicidal thoughts.
It started with a quiet whisper. “You failed again.”
Then a little louder. “You’re right back where you were, fat and useless, and no matter how hard you work, you’ll always end up back here.”
With a little more force, “You’ll never overcome this, it’s not worth trying anymore, it’s not worth living.”
In the back of my mind I started telling myself. Get up, get dressed, go for a walk. You don’t have to give in to this.
“See, you can’t even do that, can’t even bring yourself to work on this. You’re such a fat failure and you’re just taking up space. The world would be better off without you in it”
Then the quiet voice again. Please, just get up, put on shoes, and walk. You don’t even have to change out of your pajamas, just get out of bed and walk.
There was a back and forth battle between the voice that wanted me to die, and the quiet voice trying to stand up and help me live.
I came out to the living room and checked some pill bottles. I don’t have enough of this, this, or that . . of course we keep most of it locked up, but maybe, maybe if I take all three different ones.
I started hoping that Wonder Woman would go in the other room. Go into the bathroom, so that I had enough time to take what I had. I know she’d notice if I took the pills into my room, and she’d definitely notice if I took them right there. I just needed to take them and go to sleep. Hopefully I wouldn’t wake up.
It was a calm sort of suicidality . I wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t rushed, I was just waiting for the right moment.
Just waiting in bed and listening for the moment when she got up from the sofa.
Quietly waiting.
Instead I sent her a text. A that small voice fighting to live. “I’m calmly but intensely suicidal tonight.”
She asked how she could help. I didn’t have an answer.
Eventually, I heard her get up. I was waiting to hear the bathroom door. It would finally be my chance. But instead she turned off the lights and came to bed. We talked.
I told her my plan.
She locked up more meds, and I felt like a child in need of a babysitter.
And then I felt defeated. I felt, and still feel, like there’s no way out of this mess I’m in. This mess that is me.
We went to the store this morning. She reminded me that I had to stay alive to cook the food we were buying. I felt the voice slowly fading away. Slowly backing off.
I’m worried that these thoughts are because we’re lowing the medication. But staying on such a high dose is just going to exacerbate my weight problems. It’s nearly impossible to lose weight when the intense craving for food feels like a drug addiction. I can not adequately explain the drive to eat that has been occurring the last 6 months or more.
And you can’t just quit food cold turkey.
I don’t have any answers. I don’t have any uplifting ending to this post. I don’t have any feel good words.
I just have me, feeling like I don’t want to continue to fight.
I just have me sitting here, getting my words out on the screen so that they don’t eat me alive.
Huff and Puff
This is a Really Real Health post.
TW: Weight mentioned
Before quarantined life, I had started putting on weight. It wasn’t so much about the numbers on the scale as it was that I could feel it in my body. I was less flexible. It was harder to do things.
Then I became a shut in to save the world and the weight has been adding up more and more. I have a hard time with my shoes again. Moving around is harder. I feel it in my joints.
Early on, I tried walking but our neighborhood is busy during the day. I felt like I was zigzagging all over the place to stay away from people, none of whom tried to stay away from me. It took all of the joy out of the walk when I had to be hyper-vigilant for who was going to walk up on me next.
I stopped walking.
I kept eating, and eating, and eating.
I keep telling myself it’s not about the numbers on the scale, while also refusing to get on a scale because I’m afraid of what I’ll see. I feel it in my clothes, though. I see it in my face.
I feel it everywhere.
So yesterday I went out around 9pm and started walking. The streets were mostly empty. I talked on the phone to a good friend for the entire 1.5 miles or so. She didn’t mind my huffing and puffing luckily.
Tonight I needed to pick up a prescription, so I walked to CVS and asked Sarah Jane to pick me up once I got there. I could have done the round trip a year ago, but today even the 2 miles felt like it was pushing it. It hurt. I still hurt.
But, that’s 2 days in a row.
The way I did this the first 2 times was by celebrating every small victory. Today’s victory is that even though I’ve spent a lot of the day in bed due to boredom and depression, I got my ass up and walked tonight.
Lets see if I can keep this up.
If anyone feels like keeping me long distance company on my walks around 9 or 10 at night, let me know and we can plan a night for me to call. Hope you don’t mind listening to me huff and puff though. Otherwise I have plenty of music to listen to.
Gold Star for me, 2 days in a row, even though I didn’t want to.
I’m Tired
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
This time last year I was intensely suicidal. I was tired of fighting the thoughts that so often wanted to kill me. I was tired of being in pain.
I was tired.
This year, comparatively, I’m doing really well. I don’t really get all that suicidal all that often. My pain is somewhat controlled. I’m relatively stable.
But.
I am tired.
I’m tired of being inside. I’m tired of not going to the gym. I’m tired of missing my friends. I’m tired of hearing about people who aren’t even trying. I’m tired of working. I’m tired of avoiding the world.
I’m tired.
I’m tired.
I’m tired.
And this time I know I’m not alone. I know there are lots of us that are tired.
And it’s still not fair.
None of us deserve this right now. None of us were prepared for it. None of us should have to learn to live with it.
But most of us are learning to live with it. We are doing what we’re supposed to do.
Those that aren’t, piss me off. The more we leave our houses the longer this will take, and it’s going to take a long while as it is.
Stay the fuck home.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of living in this world even though I’m not tired of living.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of not being able to write because there’s no life to write about.
I’m tired.
I am tired.
Pushing forward.
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I spent most of last night coming up with excuses to stay home today.
I’m supposed to be going to a DBSA (Depression Bipolar Support Alliance) meeting. I’m supposed to go to the gym for the first time in who knows how long.
But last night I was already looking for excuses.
I woke up at 5am, couldn’t sleep anymore, and decided that I needed to do the menu planning and grocery shopping I haven’t done in weeks. We’ve been surviving off of what I could pull together out of the kitchen, and the occasional quick run into a store. I don’t really want to, but it’s very much needed.
I still don’t want to go to support group or the gym. Both of them seem like a kind of work I just don’t want to deal with right now.
But I will go.
Excuses are easy, the real self care comes in pushing to do the things I don’t want to do.
Pushing myself to leave the house.
Pushing myself to get involved in stuff when nothing is appealing.
Pushing myself to do the dishes and clean the house.
Pushing myself to function.
Pushing through the depression.
And the thing is, the depression doesn’t even seem all that bad. I just want to hibernate and sleep. It’s cold out, it’s dark, it’s crowded everywhere I go.
I’d rather sit home with an adorable little kitten sleeping on my chest.
But, I’ll push myself forward.
Again,
and again,
and again.
Until this passes.
Part of Self Care
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
It’s really easy to get wrapped up in crafting. I get to sit in one place and let my creative mind flow, distracting me from whatever else is bothering me.
Distracting me from depression,
from housework,
from showering.
Distracting me from life outside of the safe space by the computer.
I just saw a post from this time last year, and I was in the same head space. I am able to peek out for small bits of time and clean the house, or go spend some time with some friends, or do self care in other ways.
And because of that, it is hard to recognize how pervasive the depression has been. I mean, I’m still functioning, so it can’t be THAT bad.
Except I dread leaving the house. Not as bad as it was, but it’s certainly there.
I have to bribe myself into the shower, a part of depression that no one wants to speak out loud because it just seems incomprehensible to those without depression. It seems gross.
Even brushing my teeth takes focus and effort and willpower.
But I don’t FEEL that bad. I’m still smiling and laughing and finding things to be happy about.
My writing is almost non-existent. I just can’t find anything to write about. I can’t find a reason to stop my other forms of creativity and put fingers to keys.
Except this is part of self care too. My writing is a big way that I process. A big way that I pull the blinders off and actually focus on what is happening.
My writing is my place to get really real with, not only everyone else, but also myself.
I’m still not sure how to break this cycle. Leaving the house is hard, going to the gym is harder, socializing feels like a chore.
I went for a walk the other night, and when Mickey was going to meet up with me to walk, we ended up driving to Starbucks instead.
It was just easier than the physical effort of being cold and miserable outside.
I remember a time when I couldn’t walk very far. I remember what it felt like when I started walking further and further distances. I remember what it felt like to have goals and aspirations around fitness.
I have no idea how to get that back.
I have no idea what to set as a goal.
I don’t even know if I care, to be honest.
But I am beating myself up about it. While still making excuses not to go.
I guess I care enough to give myself shit for not doing what I know will help.
This shit is hard, friends. Even when mental illness isn’t trying to kill me,
it’s keeping me from living.
Really Real Blog 