Grief

This is a Really Real Trauma post.

TW: Completed Suicide Mentioned. Gun Violence Mentioned.

I was just laying in bed, starting to doze off, mind still wandering.

And I thought of my dad.

Now, this isn’t strange anymore. The latest brain trains have lead me down a road where I think of something about caring for my dad.

Transferring him from bed to chair, or him screaming “Mom” wanting to get out of bed in the middle of the night, or cooking shrimp for him in a way that I never would have thought of.

And that thought is followed immediately by a “pop” and a blurry image of him dead in his wheelchair.

I think of him a lot. Sometimes it fucks with my brain, sometimes it’s just a passing intrusive thought.

But this time was different.

I thought of my dad back when I was young.

The dad that I worshipped.

This time I thought about the times in between the abuse.

I thought about the times that we went crabbing.

The times that I really looked up to him, like when they called him in to teach navigation to my boating class.

The times when he was so proud of me, like when I passed that exam.

The times when we would sit behind his friend’s Florida time share, when he would grill hamburgers (until they were flat, dry, pucks of meat) and heat beans up in the can.

That time that he took me on a plane to some random airport, just to turn around and fly back home, because I had never been on a plane but I always watched as either he or my adult sister would leave on a flight.

I have lots of good memories with him.

And then I realized. I’m not grieving the loss of him. I don’t care that he’s gone.

I remember having a conversation with my sister. We both wondered out loud how we would react to his death.

I was ready to walk away from my relationship with him, but I felt I would regret it when he died and I didn’t want to feel guilty for another death (heh).

But I figured, no matter how little I felt towards him when he was alive, I’d grieve him when he was gone.

And obviously, as time would tell, I felt a great deal towards him. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done what I did.

But still. I’m not grieving the loss of him.

A very, very, horrible, person is no longer in this world. He can no longer treat me like “less than,” he can no longer treat anyone that way.

And he treated everyone that way.

Now, don’t get me wrong.

I am grieving the lost of my stability.

I am grieving the addition of another trauma to my history.

But I’m not grieving his death.

Even those good memories ended by the time I was 14. Once I had an actual mind of my own, my opinion was no longer tolerated. It wasn’t about building a relationship in between the abuse anymore.

It was just about shutting me down and reminding me to stay in my place.

Maybe not directly.

But by judging me so harshly, and making sure I knew it.

By calling me “butch” constantly when I cut my hair short, even though I had no idea what that meant. (I wonder how he felt when he realized he was right.)

By pointing out every thing I did wrong. Making sure I remembered it.

By making sure I remembered how often he was right. And it didn’t matter what the truth was, he was ALWAYS right.

By throwing things and yelling when I stepped out of line.

By doing the same just because something around us went wrong.

I don’t grieve the loss of him.

Actually, I celebrate it.

And I almost,

almost,

feel guilty for that.

But, fuck him. He spent long enough hurting me.

He hurt me with his final fucking action.

With his final selfish thought.

He doesn’t get to hurt me through grief, too.

Our goal is to live so someone actually gives a shit when we die.

And very few people give a shit about him.

Awoken with a bang

This is a Really Real Trauma post.

TW: Mention of Gun Shots. Mention of Completed Suicide. Mention of Suicidal Thoughts.

It really sucks when my brain awakens me from a deep sleep with a bang.

For a moment after waking I’m dazed, confused, scared. I know I just heard the gunshot, but I’m safe in my bed, we have no guns here. It was just a memory.

I’m too awake to sleep now, but I’m too afraid to leave my bed.

I cuddle in against Wonder Woman, holding her tightly, hoping the contact between us makes the sound go away.

She stirs to ask me if I’m okay and offers to turn some lights on in the house, to make it a bit easier to get out of bed.

I appreciate it, but also hate that my trauma woke her up as well.

We’re leaving for vacation today, a vacation I’m having a hard time being excited about. I feel like this is just going to follow me, and I don’t want it to ruin an area that was so peaceful for me last year.

I turn on music and start working on the dishes. I hear a sound, like a tiny pop, and I search for the origin.

The cat is playing in a bag, and crinkled it just enough to spook me.

I watch her play for awhile, frustrated that so many sounds remind me of that one fatal shot.

Last night we went out for modified Parking Lot Beers with some derby people. It’s tradition to stomp on the cans and rate them, seeing who can get the perfect smash.

I ask them to warn me before crushing cans. I hold my hands over my ears.

They stop crushing cans, waiting until I make a run to the bathroom to continue with their game.

Damn it, my trauma got in the way of someone else’s fun.

I spent most of yesterday in bed. Ready to give up this god awful fight.

I’m tired.

So so tired.

This is a marathon again, riding the waves and trying to keep up. Trying to heal from yet another blow.

Afraid that I’ll just get hit again.

Mad because there’s no rhyme or reason. I didn’t do anything to deserve this.

I almost wish I had done something wrong, because then there would be an answer to “Why me? Why again?”

Today feels better so far. Even though it started with a bang. I feel productive, I’m out of bed, I have coffee in hand.

Coffee=Life

When all else fails, give me a coffee and I can fight a little longer.

I forgot the sweetener in my coffee this morning, again. I’ve done it so many times that I almost like the bitter taste.

I remember when I had a bit of coffee with my sugar. Over time I’ve grown to like the taste of pure coffee though.

Over time I’ve gotten used to previous traumas and I’ll get used to this one as well.

Over time.

It’ll just take some time.

Creepy Dreams

This is a Really Real Trauma post.

TW: Mention of Completed Suicide. Mention of Suicidal Thoughts. Mention of a Gory Dream.

After a pretty good day or so, last night and this morning were rough.

Yesterday my therapist had to cancel on me. I totally understood why, her dog is sick and ended up in the pet ER. While I wasn’t mad at her, I was mad at the situation. The anger, which is becoming familiar, boiled up inside me. It’s likely that she won’t be able to see me until I get back from vacation, and it had already been almost 2 weeks since she had seen me.

This was just crappy timing.

I laid in bed for awhile, suicidal thoughts running in and out of my brain.

I felt ridiculous. There was no reason for this sort of reaction to such a minor thing. I have group therapy as part of the partial hospitalization program, almost daily. It doesn’t bother me that I’ll be missing THAT during vacation, why did it bother me so much to go an extra week without my individual therapy.

But anger is just part of my response to almost everything right now. And judging myself for the anger was part of what brought along the suicidal thoughts.

After calming down some I went for a walk with my friend. It was a short walk, after taking a few days off due to my stomach issues, I had no stamina again. But it helped.

Being active always helps.

I cooked Pho for dinner. We used boxed broth and pre-sliced meat which made it a super easy meal, but right now it’s one of my favorites.

I went to bed early, I was so tired and couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.

Even with the nightmare medication, the nightmare started almost immediately. It wasn’t about my dad this time. However, it was weird and twisting and reminded me of an episode of Dexter, a show that I never really watched but heard in the background for months as Parker worked her way through the seasons.

I woke up, and when I fell back to sleep I was in the middle of the same series of events.

People being killed and different ways to hide their bodies. Graphic visions of dismembering bodies and removing fingerprints. It was so gory and every time it felt like it would end, someone else would end up dead.

I woke myself up a few times, falling back into the same dream as soon as I closed my eyes.

I woke up at 2 am with a blinding headache. I got up and took some meds, staying awake until Wonder Woman was ready to go to bed, I couldn’t handle being alone with that nightmare anymore.

I think I got a couple of hours of decent sleep before the nightmare started again. I would toss and turn and fall back asleep right into the same dream, over and over and over again.

At least it wasn’t about my dad.

This morning when I woke up to use the restroom I was panicked. Alone felt horrifying, the bathroom was filled with the sound of gunshots.

I went back to bed, at least Wonder Woman was there and I wouldn’t be alone.

Every time I dozed I was back in the same nightmare, but laying awake was panicky and filled with anxiety. I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed to come to the living room. I felt again like I’d be blindsided from every angle.

It was rough.

Finally I woke Wonder Woman up and asked if she would get up with me, I couldn’t handle being alone anymore.

I felt so guilty for disturbing her sleep but the alternative was seemingly impossible.

We cuddled for awhile before getting up and leaving the house. Lunch at a new-to-me restaurant, outside on their patio. Stopping into a few stores looking for a longer leash for the dog on our vacation.

Of course we went for coffee.

Now we are back home. Going into the bedroom to get changed back into my around the house clothes was anxiety provoking. And the bathroom seems to be the perfect place for flashbacks.

I still have a headache, the same one from last night. It is just below the surface, peeking up occasionally to remind me that it’s there.

But it felt good to be out of the house for a bit. Writing has helped me get more of the anxiety out. Hopefully I can catch a nap today without the same dream coming back to haunt my sleep.

Some days are good, other days are hard, and I’m just here riding the waves.

Even the bad days aren’t quite as bad as they were.

And at this point I’m 2 sleeps from vacation. I’m looking forward to mountain views and animals that roam the property where we’ll be staying. I’m looking forward to walking back to the waterfall we saw last time we stayed in that area.

I’m looking forward to getting away.

Hopefully I can leave all of this behind for a few days as well.

Good Day, Loud Sound

This is a Really Real Trauma post.

TW: Mention of Suicidal Thoughts, Mention of Gun Shot, Mention of Completed Suicide, Some Gory Description.

Today was a really good day.

I got a few hours of halfway decent sleep before the tossing and turning began. Finally at 6 am I got up, instead of letting myself continue the cycle of dozing and tossing and dozing and turning.

Getting up early is good for me, when I can force myself out of bed before my alarm. It gives me the quiet early morning hours to do my morning routine, and on those mornings I even manage to do the dishes from the night before.

Generally, waking up that early just sets a good tone for the rest of the day.

But I can’t always do it.

This morning, however, I hopped up and got on with my day.

When I did morning check in for group, the leader mentioned how my mood seemed brighter. While we were going through the list and rating things, I realized that other than a quickly passing and easily brushed aside thought last night (while I was so angry), I hadn’t had any other suicidal thoughts in the past 24 hours.

Even last night’s anger didn’t last all that long, the edges softening before it fully took hold.

It’s been getting better. Both time passing, and the addition of Abilify has made me feel like my feet are on solid ground once again.

At least some of the time.

I’m able to be alone.

At least some of the time.

But the trauma is still there.

It’s always lurking just behind the shadows.

The quiet is the worst.

Today I was in the bathroom when the shot rang out in the back of my mind. I immediately smelled the gun powder.

This time, when I peeked around the corner I saw Wonder Woman sitting in the wheelchair.

I ran into our bedroom.

“I just need to see your face for a minute. It was you this time, it was you.”

She softly held eye contact with me and held my hand.

“It’s okay, we don’t have any guns in the house. It’s okay, I’m right here.”

I felt like I was on the verge of tears.

The gunshot was so loud, the smell of gun powder was so vivid. The gory image that followed looked so real.

As a whole, I don’t really see my father in the wheelchair when I have a flashback. There’s a fuzzy shadow where he was, I can’t quite recall what the blood looked like running from the front of his face.

Even though I know it was there.

I do remember his dog, pacing in front of him and looking scared.

The dog he was so happy to see when she came home 24 hours before.

The dog with the belly he was so happy he could reach from the wheelchair.

His selfish act traumatized her too.

Today has been a good day, with a bad moment.

It’s not a good day that turned bad, it was just a single moment.

I’m sure I will have other bad days. I’m sure I will have other suicidal thoughts. I’m sure there will be more days where I can barely stay out of bed. More days filled with a deep seated rage.

But I’ll focus on the days like today. The days where I craft and write and make tea.

The days where I plan to cook my current favorite meal for dinner.

Days like today give me hope again. Hope that I can get back to stability.

Hope that I am okay.

And I am, okay.

So Sleepy

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

TW: Mention of gun violence and gore. Mention of suicide.

Apparently my posts are just going to keep being long for awhile. Thanks for hanging in there. And thanks for all of the kind words and support.

Sleeping at night is hard. Even with the new nightmare medication they started me on, I’m still awake constantly, tossing and turning and barely dozing off before tossing and turning again.

At least with the medications I’m not dreaming and ruminating of shots going off and bloody faces.

When the sun starts to come up I settle into sleep, which is broken when my alarm goes off to get ready for PHP.

I yawn with heavy eyes all through the first group, trying to catch a quick nap during the thirty minute break, before yawning through the second group.

I drink coffee, made at home. And some days I run out for a treat at Starbucks, to celebrate another day that I have survived.

I still yawn.

And the afternoon I often nap. Planned one hour naps that turn into two or three hours. It’s so much easier to sleep when the sun is up to keep me safe.

Of course, I know this is just perpetuating the problem. Sleeping during the day makes it harder to sleep at night, which makes it easier to sleep during the day.

I’m so so sleepy. Even writing this I’m yawning with eyes watering, wanting to climb in back in bed again.

And it’s not just the fact that I’m not sleeping at night.

Living with fresh trauma is exhausting. Working through trauma is exhausting.

With the addition of the Abilify to my medication I’m much less reactive, which is nice, but I’m still exhausted.

And still irritable. The smallest thing making me grumpy and agitated.

But that irritation is no longer filled with rage.

I talk in group therapy and others who follow me often say “What I’m going through doesn’t compare at all to your situation but . . . “

And that bothers me.

This isn’t a competition, anyone who is struggling is struggling for their own reasons, their fight isn’t less important or less strenuous than mine.

We talk about the underlying emotions that connect all of us. Fear, Sadness, Anger, Guilt, Shame.

Those emotions are the ties that connect each of our stories.

Sometimes, when we’re telling the story of our situation, the therapist will have us focus on the emotion that’s underneath of it. While someone may not be able to relate to their father shooting himself while they were in the next room, they may be able to relate to the guilt I feel for leaving him alone. Or the sadness I feel because I’ve experienced yet another trauma.

Often they relate to the shame of feeling like I’m too much, like my emotions and my tragedies take up too much room.

That’s a common theme in my therapy. Being too much. The group therapist in PHP is the same on that runs my once a week group, and is also a therapist I saw individually for a short time.

She can pick up immediately when the theme of my emotions is that shame of being too much.

She doesn’t try to fix it, neither does anyone else in the group, but just pointing out that the thread underneath it all is that feeling. That core belief.

It’s enough to show me that it’s still there, still something for me to work on.

Today, I was told by someone that they hope I can put this behind me and get on with my life.

I wish it was that simple.

I spent a lot of time after Parker’s death talking about how I will always move forward, but I will never move on.

And I think that stands true for most trauma as well. I will keep moving forward, I will keep healing, but there will never be a finish line, a line where I say, this is behind me.

The trauma of my abuse growing up still shows up when I make myself smaller after hearing harsh words or a violent scene in a movie. The trauma of poverty shows up when I spend money incorrectly, and then panic at a low balance or overdrawn bank account. The trauma of hearing my son scream in the back of an ambulance shows up when I recoil at the sound of a siren. The trauma of the house fire shows up when I strongly react to an unplanned smell of smoke, or panic when a smoke alarm goes off.

The trauma of Parker’s death is there when I check that a loved one is still breathing.

And the trauma of my father’s death will live on in its own way.

My reaction will decrease, my tolerance will gain traction.

And I will forever be resilient.

But I will never get over all of these scars, and so many more.

It’s no wonder that I’m tired. This trauma just brings with it, the rest. Just like a new grief will bring up the old ones.

I wonder why these difficult things always find me. Always land at my feet.

I don’t think there’s some grand reason, but it’s hard not to think that I’ve done something wrong to deserve it.

People talk of my resilience as one of my biggest strengths. But my resilience was forged out of necessity. I have to stand up one more time than I get knocked down, no matter how often I get knocked down.

And each time it’s both a little harder, and a little easier to stand back up.

It’s harder because I’m exhausted from repeating this same pattern, through no fault of my own.

But it’s easier because I’m just using muscles that I’ve already used. I know how to stand back up, I know what help to reach for, I know which parts I have to do on my own.

I know that the sleepless nights and the napping all day will pass.

I know I’ll get back to work eventually.

And I know I’m strong enough to do this again.

And there may be an again after this.

And after that.

And I will never be ready for it when it comes, it will always catch me off guard as trauma often does.

But I will always stand back up.

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.

He comes home

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
And a Really Real Aging Parents post.

My dad comes home today.

I’ve watched countless videos on how to get him off the floor. Different methods, different positions, different ability to help. I’ve spent hours wondering if I have the strength and stability to get him up.

I’ve watched videos on how to help him transfer. Hoping that he won’t stay stuck in bed, that I can let him have some shred of independence in a wheelchair.

I’ve rearranged tables and chairs, making the house more accessible so that he can retain some sense of normality.

I’ve moved his bed to the far corner, making room for the hospital bed that is being delivered as we speak.

I’ve spent days making phone calls and arranging intermittent home care and the therapy he will need.

I’ve spent hours looking for every possible item he may require, making sure it would arrive before he does. I’ve set up a raised toilet seat, a shower chair, a walker, and so many other things that I can’t even remember. There’s a pile of equipment in his room, items that I have barely ever seen, but will have to learn to use, quickly.

I’ve spent nights dreaming of how this might go, while also recognizing that I can’t plan for every occurrence.

I’ve been overcome by nerves and cried. The build up of the last week reaching a crescendo that overtook me. Frantically texting word walls to family, spoken words mixed with sobs while talking to loved ones.

I’ve been reassured by those same loved ones, as well as countless friends, many of whom I only know through this screen in front of me.

I’ve held onto hope. I’ve fought with the fear of failure. I’ve felt utterly convinced that this is both the right thing, and the wrong thing to do.

All in the same second.

I’m sure I’ll be writing a lot in the coming days.

If I can find stolen moments to type.

I don’t know what this will look like.

I don’t know how this will end.

I just know that even through the difficult relationship I have with him, even through the memories of abuse, even through the feelings of complete unworthiness he showered on me . . .

I love him.

He is my father and I firmly believe he was doing the best he knew how to do.

Even if it was horrible.

When I first planned to do this, honestly, it was because of what I’d receive in return. It was for the hidden benefits for me. The ability to see my son for a few hours as we traded off caring for him.

I told my sister how much I hated our father. How I loved him, but at the same time I hated the man he has always been.

And now I realize its not actually hate. It’s a longing for the father I deserved, its grief for the father I will never have.

I hope to give him the care that he never gave me. I hope to give him unconditional love, something I never felt I had. I hope to give him grace and understanding.

I hope to let him leave this world with his sense of dignity intact.

My dad comes home today.

Tacos

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
And also a Really Real Aging Parents post.

The two are so intertwined right now, which makes sense, my mental health weaves its way in and out of all areas of my life.

I just cooked Tacos at my dads house.

I think it’s the first time I’ve ever cooked in his house, I even avoided it when I lived with him as a teen. I don’t particularly love the food he cooks for me when I visit (well done boiled steak anyone?) but I’ve never cooked for myself during any of those visits.

I don’t cook because Dad may see the taco seasoning that sprinkled on the stove top and yell because I’m making a mess. Or he might smell the tacos cooking and yell because it’s too spicy. Or he might see which pan I chose to use, and yell because it’s not the one he would have chosen.

Every step in his presence was made with extreme caution.

The littlest things would cause the loudest yell.

But he doesn’t yell anymore. He’s a shell of the man he once was. Old and withering away to nothing. His thoughts jumbled and speech difficult. Standing on weak legs that no longer hold his weight.

And I just cooked tacos.

I also touched the thermostat, I’m sure, even without yelling, he’ll have something to say about that, when he comes home in 2 days.

When we start caring for him around the clock, in 2 days.

When I scold him for trying to stand up unassisted, in 2 days.

When he falls on the floor because he tries to walk alone, in 2 days.

I drove his truck today, moved it around so that a neighbor could build a ramp up to his front door. I had the thought that he’ll never drive again. Did he realize, the last time he drove, that he’d never be behind the wheel again?

I went to Walmart today, picked up some things I needed for myself, as well as things I needed to care for him. Did he realize, the last time he walked into a store, that he’d never be in a store again?

I cooked tacos tonight. Did he realize, the last time he cooked, that he’d never cook for himself again?

Did he realize when he took his last shower, that he’d never shower alone again?

Did he realize that the last time he slept it in his bed, that he would never sleep in that bed again?

Do we ever realize when something will be done for the last time?

He wants to be home so so badly.

I heard him cry tonight, for the first time since his Mother died. When I told him that Friday was 2 days away, and not tomorrow, he cried, and begged me to get him out of that hell hole.

But this is just a trial run.

This is just an attempt.

An attempt that we aren’t convinced will be successful.

He’s very strong willed, very independent, and I can only pick him up off of the floor so many times.

And then what?

And then I will get to tell him that he will never be in his house again.

That he will live out the rest of his life in a facility.

These 2 days, in his house without him here, I’m building up my courage. I’m comforting 5 year old me, who comes out whenever I’m around him, and letting her know that he isn’t in charge anymore. I’m letting her know that it’s safe to let me handle this, as the adult.

I’m reminding myself that it’s okay to stand up to him.

I’m rehearsing the different things I’ll need to say to him. I’m rehearsing strong solid boundaries. I’m rehearsing firm but loving reminders about him following the rules.

I’m rehearsing for that pivotal moment, when I tell him he has to go back.

Because even if it isn’t this week or next, he will eventually have to go back, if he lives that long.

This week I’ve made calls to arrange a hospital bed, and wheelchairs, and home health, and, and, and.

I’m setting things up so that my son and I can take turns living with him. So that we can fly away from our lives, for 2 weeks at a time, and let him live out as much of his life as possible, at home.

And,

I just cooked tacos at my dad’s house.

I just cooked tacos at my part time home.

Side Effects

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

And a Really Real Medical Health post.

TW: Talk of weight, mention of suicidal thoughts, talk of marijuana use, talk of narcotic pain medications. (Also, side note, sorry I haven’t been as good about TW, I will go back to using them more frequently.)

This is super long, way longer than most of my posts (twice the length it seems), but, writing helps, and I have a lot to say this time. I totally understand if it’s too long to get through, thanks for reading this far.

I need medications to stay stable.

Medications come with side effects.

Side effects make it difficult to continue taking the medications.

I need medications to stay stable.

The Abilify really really helped me. It kept the suicidal thoughts tame enough that I could handle them most of the time. An extra 50 lbs later (more than 50, who am I kidding), I couldn’t continue taking it anymore because my weight and the fact that I gained it all back, was making me suicidal. It seemed dumb to stay on a medication to control my suicidal thoughts when the side effects were making me suicidal.

Around the time we were taking me off of Abilify, I started using medical marijuana. A few different doctors and my therapist had mentioned that it might help with this and that, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.

It helped a lot once I found the right strains, I found that keeping a very low buzz was just enough to make me able to focus on work, I got more done in that few weeks than I had in awhile. It was easier to do the things that needed to be done, but at the same time I was facing a lack of motivation. I felt less anxious. I was sleeping better. My pain was almost completely controlled.

And I was eating the house again, because, munchies are a real side effect of marijuana. What’s the point of stopping a med that makes me eat too much, just to replace it with a med that makes me eat too much.

So I stopped it.

But now the lack of focus is back, the anxiety is back, the difficulty sleeping is back. My pain is back, too.

I’m on a few different medications for pain. The one I take every day is an anti-inflammatory. It helps, but not enough.

Earlier this year my primary put me back on Oxycodone, not necessarily daily, but on an as needed basis. It helps, a lot, but also I’m hesitant to take it. I didn’t need it at all when I was using marijuana. But now that I’m not using that, I’m instead falling back on the Oxycodone. It scares me. I was on it daily (actually, multiple times a day) a few years ago. I absolutely feel like dependency on medication isn’t always a bad thing (I’m dependent on my psych meds), and I absolutely feel that withdraw is something that happens with a lot of meds (stop taking a psych med cold turkey and you’ll see what I mean . . .actually, don’t do that.) Dependency on narcotics feels like a whole different ballgame. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. I don’t really want to go there, so I use it super sparingly.

I’m falling back on my Ativan more often, because it controls the overwhelming anxiety. Ativan is another one I’m super careful with. A thirty day script will often last me 6 months or more. But right now, because of the whole 2020 thing, I need it more often, and I don’t like that.

Oh, and I should mention my antidepressant and those side effects. It causes nausea. It’s bad enough that some nights I actually get sick a few hours after taking it. We’d like to increase it because it could probably work a bit better. But increased doses cause more nausea. What is worse, living with low grade depression constantly, or being miserable after taking the medication to treat it.

I’m stuck in this trap. All of the medications have side effects. Figuring out which side effects are worse than the ailment they’re treating is a constant conversation within myself and with my doctors.

I’m frustrated. I want solutions that don’t cause more problems.

I need medications to stay stable.

Medications come with side effects.

Side effects make it difficult to continue taking the medications.

I need medications to stay stable.

Hulk Smash

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

Anger.

Coursing through my blood.

Irritated.

Through every fiber of my being.

The whole day just snowballed against me. The littlest things setting me off.

Except, it was all internalized. Nothing was said other than a quick “I’m grumpy today.” But beyond that, the anger just stayed in my head.

Spinning round and round, like a tornado, finding more things to suck into the vortex. I just wanted to scream and lash out, but I also knew that wasn’t rational. I knew it wasn’t actually anything that was happening around me.

I was just angry.

The inside of my skull was so so loud. Scripting fights, scripting explosions, scripting a loss of control.

But I controlled it, kept it deep inside.

We got home and I climbed in bed.

I kept trying to think of DBT skills that would help, and I could feel them, just outside of my reach, just beyond my grasp.

I was afraid to get up and go for my book, because it felt like the anger would eat me alive. It felt like I would lose the battle to keep it all inside.

So I stayed in bed. Fuming at everything and nothing.

Finally I dosed off, powerful angry dreams haunting me in my sleep. I woke up a few hours later, Wonder Woman asking if I wanted to get up so that I could sleep that night.

I opted to get up long enough to take meds (mother fucker, they had to be put together again), take a few ativan and a meletonin, and go back to bed for the night.

I slept straight through.

Today I’m not so angry. Today I can look back from a place of calm and see what went wrong.

The Abilify is totally out of my system now, a few weeks after I stopped taking it. And for the first week or two, I was smoking medical marijuana. It did a great job at lowering my reactivity off of the medication, but then I realized it was making me eat the house. Which was the whole reason I went off of Abilify.

So I stopped that too.

And now I’m left wondering if this anger could become my new normal.

Anger makes people die.

Today I’m tired, melatonin and a higher than normal dose of ativan will do that.

I’m tired. But I’m not angry anymore.

Anger is the most likely to make me lash out. Anger pulls me apart. Anger feels like it’s going to split me at the seams.

Anger is wrong. Anger is the one emotion I wish I could stop feeling, forever.

Anger.