Day 19

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

Two steps forward.

One step back.

I cancelled almost everything today.

I showed up late to PHP, and was thankful when we ended both groups early.

I cancelled meeting up with a friend.

I cancelled my doctors appointment.

I barely made it out to the store to pick up a medication I had run out of.

Part of it is that I’m flaring right now.

Every joint hurts.

A burning pain that makes me want to cry.

But I don’t.

Honestly, I look just like I look any other day.

I just,

deal with it.

Silently.

But inside I’m screaming.

And, it was also depression.

I could feel it gripping at me, holding me back.

Holding me down in bed this morning.

Holding me back from leaving the house.

Some days it’s releasing its grip enough to let me function almost normally.

Whatever that is.

But today it held firm.

I pushed through some this afternoon.

Staring at my design software I stopped scrolling Facebook long enough to work on some cards.

I kept having to push every step of the way.

I would make a few edits and find myself mindlessly scrolling again.

I would cut a few pages and catch myself mindlessly reading post after post.

Eventually I’d get them put together.

I managed to make 12 cards today.

I was wading through the thickest mud though.

Even writing this,

I’m forcing myself to stay on track.

I keep getting distracted by everything.

Zoning off into the distance.

Two steps forward.

One step back.

I’ll move forward again tomorrow.

Day 17

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

Today has been productive.

It feels good.

I had PHP this morning.

I over slept.

I almost didn’t go at all.

But I did.

Afterwards I had coffee with a high school friend. Someone I probably haven’t seen since we graduated.

Or maybe in my Denny’s days right after high school.

Conversation flowed easily, and my ever present anxiety was quiet for a change.

We sat outside.

The cold wind threatening to blow our drinks over.

But it was nice to be around someone as worried about safety as I am.

We talked a lot about Covid.

About how our lives have changed.

And how it will never go back to the normal that was.

There will forever be a new normal.

It felt nice to socialize.

When I got home I was worn out.

The smallest things do that now.

But the coffee kept me going.

I spent this evening filling envelopes with already created cards.

I’ve made 64 so far.

I need to make another 33.

I’m having so much fun with them, so much love is going into these pieces of paper.

And I’m surrounded by so much love.

I remember being in school, horribly bullied, with no idea what was wrong with me.

Or what I was doing wrong.

Now, I’m surrounded by a support system bigger than most people have.

All of you that read my posts.

Some silently.

Some reacting.

Some commenting.

The people inviting me out for coffee and walks.

The people keeping me company over zoom or at bonfires.

It’s nice to be so loved.

It’s nice to be able to feel that love.

Instead of being surrounded by a fog that won’t let it in.

I’m feeling better every day.

I’m sure rough times will come again, but I’m also sure I can handle them.

For now, though, I’m going to enjoy the clear blue skies.

Day 13

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

I almost forgot to write today.

I spent the morning in PHP, followed by leaving the house for some errands, and then jumping right into crafting.

It feels good to be productive.

I had a phone appointment with my pdoc today, she said I’m still not my normal chatty stuff.

Partially it’s because life is boring right now.

I don’t leave the house often as it is, but now I’m even more worried about going out.

Numbers are spiking.

And there are still people who don’t believe in this virus, I have a hard time associating with them.

They are putting the lives of themselves and others at risk, and they don’t care.

I’m going to be alone for Thanksgiving, and I’m okay with that.

I’m not going to go searching out a friendsgiving, maybe I’ll meet up with some people via zoom, but I’m okay being in my own little bubble where I’m not taking a chance on making the numbers higher.

There are two people in my PHP who lost loved ones to Covid. Two people out of the 9 or 10 of us there.

One woman became a widow, another lost a child, younger than me.

Because of a “fake virus” that people aren’t taking seriously.

It breaks my heart. It scares me.

It scares me.

I’m more depressed being at home all of the time.

I miss derby.

I miss gatherings.

I miss going out without fear.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to go out more.

I guess this post wasn’t all that much about mental health, but at the same time, this is affecting all of our mental health.

This is a slow sort of trauma for all of us.

Or at least those of us who are taking it seriously.

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.

Fair

This is a Really Real Trauma post.

It’s not fucking fair.

Prior to 2016 we were constantly looking for “baby sitters” for me because I couldn’t handle being alone if Parker went out of town for more than a day.

Hell, even when she worked for part of a day I’d have a hard time being alone.

Even when she was asleep in our bed in our house I’d have a hard time being awake without her. Unless I was interacting with someone online or on the phone.

I woke her up so many times just because I couldn’t handle being alone long enough for her to nap.

I fought and I fought HARD to get over that after she died. I fought with everything I had, sitting through discomfort and anxiety and fear.

I started to look forward to my mornings when I’d wake up and the house was quiet. My time to feed the animals and wash the dishes and play my own music without worrying about who it might bother.

When Wonder Woman and I started living together, I would be gone all day doing my appointments, and she would be gone all evening working.

I loved this setup, because as much as I missed her, I enjoyed the time in solitude.

And then covid happened, and I had to adjust my expectations. There was no time in the house alone but I still enjoyed my mornings when she was sleeping and enjoyed the evenings when she was holed away in her makeshift office.

I took a nap this afternoon, I knew it was safe because I could hear the TV playing in the living room, I knew she was right there. It was still early in the day which is easier for me.

Then, as I woke up, she was ready to lay down and nap before her night time appointments.

I pouted and then cuddled up against her. I wasn’t tired anymore but it had hit that time of night where the world suddenly seems scarier.

That time of night when the shot rang out.

That time of night where the light in the sky starts changing.

That time of the night leading to darkness.

She said she would get up with me, but that’s not fair to her. She needs her rest because I’m so much . . . more . . . right now. She needs a break too.

And eventually my sister texted me, a beautiful thing that needed to read. I told her I was stuck in bed, because I couldn’t bear to be alone in the house.

She asked why, and as I was typing the tears started flowing.

If I’m alone and a shot rings out there will be no one there to comfort me. If I’m alone and I’m blindsided again, I won’t have anyone to hold me. If I’m alone and the world is suddenly scary, there won’t be anyone right there to hug me.

I fought really hard to stand on my own two feet.

And now those feet are shaky. Those feet are afraid. My knees wobble and want to buckle.

Even when I play music I hear the silence underneath. I’m afraid to wear both headphones because I might miss something. Something might sneak up on me.

Something may catch me off guard.

It’s not fair that I did all of this work and with one gunshot he left me behind to work through it again. He got to leave his pain and he brought mine back with a frenzy.

And no, I’m not back at square one, I have a head start over last time.

I know that there’s work to be done but I’m bitter.

And I’m sad.

I don’t want to be a trauma queen again. I want to go to sleep and wake up as I was.

I want to have enough emotional energy to do the work I need to do on my self AND to work a job that I worked so hard to be healthy enough to do.

I know I’ve got this. I know I will make it through this. I know I’ll be back where I was.

But damnit. I worked

So

Fucking

Hard.

It feels like he took all of my hard work with him, with that one gunshot.

I’m sitting alone writing this, literally glancing over my shoulder every few lines. I can’t play music because I might miss something. I need to pee but the effort it will take to walk down that hall feels unbearbable. Something might catch me off guard from one of the rooms.

Another gun shot might ring out.

I worked so hard to not be afraid anymore.

So.

Fucking.

Hard.

It’s not fair.

It’s really not fair.

Road Trip

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

TW: Completed Suicide including some description.

I picked my sister up from the airport late last night. She had a choice between flying in last night, way past her bedtime, or this today at noon.

“I just need a hug.”

“I’ll be there tonight.”

Yesterday while I was still at dad’s place, I asked if we could fly Wonder Woman in, so I didn’t have to do the drive home alone. Wonder Woman quickly realized it would be $700 and 3 layovers for her to get here yesterday or today.

That just seemed excessive.

While Aimee was on the plane, texting back and forth with me, she had the idea that she could drive with me back to Baltimore, and fly further north from there.

We were both giddy with excitement over this idea. We rarely see each other, I think it’s been 3 years this time, and we’ve only done one other short road trip together, 17 years ago.

On the ride back to the hotel she made a list of things that needed to be handled before we could leave this godforsaken state. Tying up a few odds and ends, paying the boarder who will train Willow and then find her a new home, thanking the neighbors who have gone above and beyond.

We realized we could be on the road this afternoon, making it at least a few hours north before getting a room for the night. Aimee isn’t a drive all night kind of person, and honestly, it would be a horrible idea for me to let myself get that worn down right now.

I need my strength for fighting through the restless anxious nights ahead.

Last night Aimee got herself a room with 2 beds, just in case I couldn’t be alone. I slept in my own room though, leaving a light on in the bathroom because the dark seemed too scary. Comedians playing through my phone, as a reminder of home.

I, thankfully, didn’t have any nightmares, but I tossed and turned a lot, and each time I woke up I’d start ruminating about what I’d heard and seen. I’ve pieced together the scene before he died. The movie replaying in my head of him shuffling his way to the dining room, fighting to open the drawer where yet another handgun was hidden, I even see him hold his the gun in his shaking hands and put it in his mouth.

Of course I didn’t actually see these things, and I don’t know exactly how it played out, but minds are good at trying to fill in the blanks.

More than once I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, figuring that 3 hours was all I’d get. And then that 4 hours. And then that 5 hours.

I actually slept until 7 this morning after going to bed at midnight. I call that a success, given what yesterday looked like. I haven’t slept through the night in more than a week, at some point that would be nice.

We will drive to the funeral home so that Aimee can sign some papers and we can arranged for dad’s cremation. We’ve discussed chucking the whole urn off the side of a bridge.

He’s always liked the water.

I feel like I can go back into dad’s house. The police said that there was just some spots on the rug, any carpet cleaner would get them out. We’ll have that room cleaned, and the bedroom where he pissed all over the floor more than once.

And if I can’t go in, I’ll drive over to the next middle of nowhere town and hang out while I wait for her to clean out the fridge, arrange for the disposal of hundreds of guns, throw away the still wet sheets and clothes in a dryer that never finished spinning.

I wonder when my head will stop spinning with these images, both imagined and real.

I won’t shed any tears over his death, good, fucking, riddance. But I may shed tears over what I heard and what I saw.

His one last traumatic gift to me.

But I’ll be okay.

I am, okay.

Loud

TW: Completed Suicide, some graphic description of the event.

This is a Really Real Aging Parent post.

Although, I guess that’s not the right way to put it anymore.

I’m going to repeat this . .

TW: Completed Suicide, some graphic description of the event.

Gunshots are less of a bang, and more of a pop.

I’ve known this for most of my life, I have memories of shooting in the back of my dads yard back in Maryland. Gun safety being drilled into me from such a young age.

We knew he had a gun in his endtable, it’s been there for as long as I can remember. My first suicidal thoughts reminding me that if I died that way, I’d just become one more anti-gun statistic.

Back then I felt very strongly about gun rights. Even from a young age.

Not so much anymore.

But back to the beginning. Gun shots are less of a bang, and more of a pop.

I never realized how loud they would be indoors. The sound echoing off of the walls on all sides of me.

I knew immediately what that sound was, but I had to go look.

His sweet dog was standing there looking scared, and as I turned the corner I saw him slumped over in his wheelchair.

What looked like dark, thick, blood was hanging from his face.

I didn’t go any closer. I didn’t need to check if he was alive.

If he was, hopefully he would be gone before anyone got there.

I called my sister first, I don’t know why, I just needed to hear a voice other than 911.

I’d made that call to 911 before.

I’d been asked the questions and told to go try CPR.

I listened the first time, touching Parkers cold, dead skin. She was long gone by the time I found her.

But I knew my dad would still be warm, and when 911 told me to go check for a pulse I refused.

“But he might need CPR.”

He has a DNR, I’m not doing that.

Aimee got a neighbor to come over. By then I had locked myself in the bedroom where I was when this happened. Some irrational fear that he was going to come shoot me next.

I knocked on the window as the neighbor walked to the carport.

“He’s in the dining room,” I yelled. “Please remember he has a DNR.”

I wanted to make sure everyone knew, because no one deserved to live the way dad had been living for the past few days.

With his daughter wiping his ass after helping him from wheelchair, to bed to get his pants down and diaper off, and from bed to commode, and from commode back to bed to help him clean up and get him dressed again, and finally back into his wheelchair.

A routine we had mastered, even in just a few short days. A routine that wore us both out.

But that wheelchair was his final resting place.

He had been mostly quiet today, but we had fought over a tube of chips. He wanted to open them and I wanted him to wait until I had gotten him back to the table. I don’t want more mess to clean up.

I used dad’s voice on him. I yelled, furious that he wouldn’t just relax and work with me. Furious that things still had to be his way.

We had gotten very quiet and tense, and eventually I went to my room, setting my computer up at the little makeshift desk i had created from an end table.

I set up the monitor so I could easily hear if he yelled out for me.

The gun shot reverberated from the monitor and through my closed door.

Or was it open.

It’s a blur now. As happens after a traumatic event.

The neighbor came back to my room. “He’s gone. There’s no pulse.”

I’m so thankful that he didn’t suffer in those final moments.

I wonder what was going through his mind.

The house filled with EMS and the Sherrif’s office. So many questions that I’d been asked once before. I knew this routine.

“Please warn me before you take him out, I don’t want to see that.”

I remember going with my mom to Burger King when Parker died. I don’t think I ever ate what we bought, but I couldn’t be at the house when her body was taken out.

I closed the blinds in my room, it became my safe haven as I called and messaged more people than I can remember.

I remember making those calls after she died too.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have dropped that like that, I should have given you some warning.”

I remember saying the same thing after she died too.

Once all of the questions were asked, and my hands were swabbed for gun powder (“Just a formality,” she said.) I hastily packed my clothes. My sister rented a room for me, far out of that backwards ass middle of nowhere town.

I wonder if that gunshot silenced his voice in my head once and for all.

I wonder how long I’ll hear that gunshot, less of a bang, more of a pop.

I wonder how long I’ll see that dark red blob hanging from his face.

I wonder why my life is so filled with trauma.

But I’m okay.

I really am, okay.

Tired

This is a Really Real Aging Parents post.

We have good days and bad days, and today is an incredibly difficult day.

I’m over tired and grumpy.

Today this is overwhelming, today I’m wondering what the fuck we were thinking. And Dad is having one of those times where he can’t find words, and hes bored and restless and I don’t feel like I have the patience for this.

I’m tired.