Come Find Me

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

I wish I could show you the thoughts.

What’s locked inside my head.

When I silently walk away.

And go lay down in bed.

That place inside.

That place I hide.

I wish I could show you the place.

That’s locked inside my head.

I get this far away feeling and I feel like I need to hide from the world.

I want to be alone, but more than anything I want you to come find me and hold the pieces of me together while I fall apart.

Putting it into words feels melodramatic.

My arms are heavy and I need something to struggle against.

But I don’t know how to ask.

I want to cry and I need someone to catch my tears.

But I don’t know how to ask.

I feel like a bomb ready to explode and I need someone to make sure I don’t lose any of my pieces.

But I don’t know how to ask.

It feels like I need too much, too often, always.

You have your own struggles and shouldn’t be worried about mine.

You have your own tears and shouldn’t be worried about mine.

You have your own pieces and shouldn’t be worried about mine.

So I walk away quietly.

I lay down alone.

I gather myself,

again.

Because I don’t know how to ask.

“I’m fine.”

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

TW: Suicidal Thoughts with plan and intent.

This is a rough one friends.  One I wasn’t sure I was going to write out because I knew it would get intense and honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to shine light into these dark spaces, but I know it’s better out then in.

And I’ve learned that people actually do care to hear about it.

But seriously, this was one of my darker moments, so take care of yourself and only read on if you are up to that.

I’m going to preface it by saying I am safe now, and feeling much better.  I did eventually reach out, my therapist knows what’s going on, there’s a safety plan in place, and I’ll reach out again if I wobble.

Shit got real dark, real fast after my last post.

I talked myself out of the house, got dressed and went for that walk.  Grumbled about it but did it because I knew it was good for me and I knew I’d feel better for it.  I was listening to great music, dancing and singing along in my head.

And then something flipped, and I was just over it all, over dealing with the depression and the mania and the mixed episodes, and this time of year being so horrible for me again and again no matter how much I try to make it better.

And then I wondered, when they found my body, who would they contact.  My sister and Batwoman are still my emergency contact at some of the local hospitals, it hasn’t been switched over to Wonder Woman yet.  So I contacted both of them to make sure they had Wonder Woman’s contact info, “Just in case something happened.”

And I started walking for the main road.

I’m not going to type out the full extent of what happened.  There’s no need for it. But there’s about an hour of time that I was in a really really dark space.  I had a plan, went way too close to it, realized it would possibly leave me hurt and not dead, came up with another plan and went towards that, realized access was blocked off, and headed home for pills that I knew were accessible.

I’m thankful that, pills and drink in hand, I saw something with Wonder Woman’s name on it and I decided to text my therapist instead.  The act of typing out what had been happening was enough to make the thoughts quiet down to a dull roar that I could fight.

I don’t actually want to die, but it would be really nice if my brain would stop trying to kill me.

My therapist wasn’t able to get back to me for a few hours and by then I had gotten together with Batwoman so I wasn’t alone for the few hours until Wonder Woman got home.

The pills have been locked up with the rest of the meds now.  We discussed the possible need for a babysitter over the next few days.  I declined, the fog has cleared and that’s not saying it won’t come back (it always does, eventually) but the honest truth is we have no way of knowing if it’ll get that bad again in the next 24 hours, or if it’ll be another year.

I feel wobbly right now.  That was as close as I’ve been in a long while.  I wasn’t sure I could fight them and I wasn’t even trying.

I hate that I’m putting myself through this.  I hate that the people around me have to deal with me like this.  I hate that no matter how far I come, these thoughts can show up and knock it all out from under me and leave me feeling completely powerless.

I want to live and I hate feeling like the only way through is death.

Dissociation

Really Real Mental Health Post

Most of my experiences with mental illness are just part of me.  I know they don’t fall within the realm of typical, but they don’t feel particularly abnormal or make me feel all that strange.  But occasionally, the racing thoughts get too out of control, or my speech is too sped up, or the suicidal thoughts are too strong and it makes me feel crazy.  It’s those things that truly makes me feel like I’m sick.

There’s another thing that happens that I don’t talk about, and until yesterday I wasn’t really sure what it was because I hadn’t pinpointed it enough to get a name for it, although I’ve suspected for awhile.

It doesn’t happen often, sometimes it doesn’t happen for a year, and sometimes it happens a few times in a week.  I remember the first time it happened, when I was in middle school, and I remember a few other significant times, like when I was driving and had to pull over because it became dangerous, or when I was in a job interview and had to act like nothing was wrong.

My depth perception will shift and suddenly everything looks a million miles away, even things within my reach, my hands will feel and look too big for my body, sometimes there’s a funny taste that goes along with it, and this strange mouth feel that is almost like biting on plastic, everyone including me sounds like they are talking in a tunnel and speech feels slowed down even though it doesn’t sound that way.

I’ve never really told a lot of people about it, except those that might be able to give me a name for it.  I would talk to people in my mental health circles because they understood.  Other people typically give me a strange look and think I’ve kind of lost my mind (I have, I’m certified crazy, thank you).

And it finally happened while i was sitting in my therapists office a few weeks ago, and I could explain it to her while it was happening.  And we were able to pin down the timing and the trigger for that time.  And she told me to explain it to the psych doctor, which I’ve done.

Yesterday I found out it’s called dissociation and it’s basically a detachment from reality due to a trigger of some sort.  My psych doc says it’s a way of questioning what’s even real, although I’m not sure I fully understand that yet.

It happens so infrequently that it’s hard to really work with.  When it happens I try to find something to ground myself to, which is instinctual, and is apparently exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.  Less important, but still something to look at, is figuring out what I’m thinking or talking about before it happens, so that maybe we can figure out the triggers.

I kept quiet about this for 25 years because I knew people would think this was nuts.  I’m writing about it because I’m glad to finally know it has a name and because I’m hoping if someone else has something that seems weird, they don’t wait 25 years to talk to their doctors about it and get a name for it.

Even though the label isn’t going to change anything, it makes me feel a little better to know it’s not just me that this happens to.

I’m not alone.