Quiet Voice of Defeat

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post, but also a Really Real Health Post.

CW: Talk of weight and food.

The quiet voice is back. The one that tells me it would be so much easier to just end it all.

Wednesdays are hard and even with my sister in town yesterday it was a long hard day. I came home after she left and climbed in bed without saying goodnight to Wonder Woman and pulled the covers up over my head.

I was irrationally angry over things that we just haven’t had time for.

Or maybe we haven’t made the time.

But either way I wanted to lash out and I wasn’t in a place to have a rational conversation so I climbed into bed and pulled the covers over my head and didn’t even stir when Wonder Woman came to bed hours later.

But that’s not why the voice is back.

I had a doctors appointment today and realized I’m looking for a quick fix when there isn’t one. I’m not willing to do the work right now because I feel like I have to work extra hard for minimal results and it’s just not fair.

When I was riding the wave of mania for almost a year it was hard work but at the same time it was easy. And there was all this external validation because in the midst of the hardest thing I’d ever been through I was making all these strides towards self improvement on so many different fronts.

Including losing weight.

But now I’m not manic, and now it is just hard work without all of the positive feedback and without even having anything to show for it.

I’m back in another weight loss surgery program and this one knows the problems I had with the last surgeon so I doubt I’ll have the same problem. Except the last time I was all about working the program and losing weight leading up to it, and really into how successful I was going to be pre and post surgery.

I gave a fuck and it showed.

This time I don’t really give a fuck. I just know I can’t keep living like this, and this is one program that won’t give me the amount of shit the last program gave me. It’s why I chose this program, it has minimal requirements.

See, I know surgery isn’t a quick fix. I know surgery is just a tool and if I don’t do the work it won’t work. I know it isn’t the easy way out.

And I also know that right now my heart isn’t in it.

And my heart isn’t in it because even while I was working so fucking hard, I just started gaining the weight back because I’m fighting against PCOS and I’m fighting against medications.

I don’t even know where to start with my food intake. There are so many things that need to change and I’m so overwhelmed about how to change them. I keep saying I’m going to do this or that differently but there are so many different areas that I end up not following through with any of them.

I’ve quit doing cardio at the gym because what’s the point of working myself to the point of exhaustion on the machines when I’m not getting a single benefit. I still go for strength training a few days a week because I feel the difference with that when I stop, I still walk a mile or two a few nights a week because walking made a huge difference in my life when I started, but even that I’m not all that consistent with.

I worked my ass off . . . and gained 25 lbs due to a medication change. Once that stabilized I kept working my ass off and my weight didn’t change. Now I’ve slacked way off for the last month and my weight didn’t change.

It makes me feel like the effort is useless.

I’m supposed to go for 4 more monthly nutrition appointments and then I can schedule surgery, but if I can’t get my heart into this, there’s no point in scheduling a surgery date.

Depression and poor self image are playing into this big time.

I care about how difficult my weight makes my life, but I hate my body so doing loving and caring things for it is difficult.

Self sabotage via food.

I’ve been here before, for a lot of years. Mania and post traumatic growth made it easy to overcome this cycle but it’s possible to overcome it even without that.

I need to get my heart back in the game.

I need to make changes.

I Can Feel It Coming In The Air Tonight

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

It all starts with this feeling.

In my gut.

In my chest.

In the back of my throat.

Behind my eyes.

I start to notice.

Things that would evoke empathy cause me to become annoyed.

I want to lash out.

I want to be willful and uncooperative.

I feel like a tantrum is about to explode from my body.

But it all starts with that feeling.

That feeling scares me.

What will follow.

Can I stop it here, before it goes any further.

Can I stop the spiral before it truly starts.

Wonder Woman asks if I want to talk and I spend a few minutes on the phone walking in circles in front of the library.  It’s helpful to hear her voice.  She’s the calm to my chaos in times like this.

I remember a time that 17 year old me would spend hours on a payphone in front of the college library.  I was grounded from the phone at home so I’d skip my college class to spend time on the phone with my boyfriend or my girlfriend or maybe both.

I remember that I got this same feeling back then.

It started the same way.

I remember seeing the same cycles, instinctively knowing when they were going to get worse but not knowing what to do about it.

I’m no longer that 17 year old kid.

I have a lot more skills, a lot more tools.  I have a much better support system and I no longer have to hide at a payphone to reach them.

I can feel that feeling.

In my gut.

In my chest.

In the back of my throat.

Behind my eyes.

But it doesn’t mean I’m going to spiral again.

It just means it’s a good time to practice my skills.

One Year Ago and Today

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

Today my Facebook memories reminded me that one year ago I wrote a big, long, really real mental health post about suicidal thoughts I was having.

It was hard to go back and read those dark words from that dark space.

It took me back to that time where I got a message from a friend at just the right time to help me.  A message letting me know that she was thinking of me, even though she had no idea I was in such a dark space.

This is one of the reasons I do what I do.  So that a year from now I can see these words and remember where I was.  I can see my growth and my progress.  See the dark and also the light.  I can also see how far my writing has come in that time.

Today I’m fighting depression, but the dark, suicidal thoughts are mostly quiet, only peeking their heads out but not taking hold.  I have a plan to handle the pain that I’m in, which will hopefully give me some relief through the trip this weekend.

I still fight suicidal thoughts sometimes, nothing has really changed there, they still get really dark, really fast and I’m still learning how to sit with them without them becoming so dangerous.

I think I’ve gained a lot of skills in the last year, through my time in partial, and my time in DBT, but at the same time.  I handle the flow of my moods a lot better.

Things may not change as far as my moods shifting and the suicidal thoughts coming, but how I handle them has changed and will continue to change and get better.  I’m growing and learning and doing better.

And I still have amazing support around me, for which I’m quite thankful.

Bouncy Bouncy Bouncy

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

Parker had a tattoo of Tigger on her calf.  I can almost see it but not quite, one of many images of her that are in the back of my mind but I can’t quite recall them.  Kinda pisses me off, kinda hurts.  I remember she wanted an Eeyore on the other side to make up the bipolar set.

I’ve been a productive little T-I-double guh-er the last few days as I’ve left depression land and moved into hypomania town.  I swear I’m getting whiplash from all this shit.

I didn’t overspend this time, I did clean most of the house (including some areas that hadn’t been cleaned in a year), rip down some of the wall decorations (vinyl stuff) wash the walls from it, frame and put up tons of pictures, make a bunch of vinyl stuff with the Cameo and play around with it more, plus stay caught up with school.

Not bad considering that Thursday I was fighting asshole brain just to stay alive.

The one nice thing about bouncing from depressed right into hypomania is that it lets me catch back up on all of the things I fell behind on.

Now I’m kinda sitting and looking around going “What’s next?”  I want to keep going but I’m out of things to do for the moment.

I saw my pdoc last week.  We didn’t really change much, but since I refilled my meds I can take the higher dose of Abilify which in theory should keep the suicidal thoughts quiet, and should keep the mania toned down.  We shall see.  She also ordered blood work (which I actually went and did, go me with the adulting) to see if my Lamictal (mood stabilizer) is at the right dose.  If it isn’t, we’ll adjust it.  If it is, we’re going to consider adding another one.

Because I totally need another pill bottle in my, already full, gallon sized, ziploc bag.

But if it helps stop this bipolar coaster I’ve been on, then it’s worth it.

Round and round and up and down.

Bouncy trouncy
Bouncy pouncy
Fun fun fun fun fun!

Someone slow my brain down please?

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.”

The good kind of boring.

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

I’m not really sure how many days it’s been since my last post.

Only a day or two, I guess, but it feels much longer than that.  I’m on more solid ground again, can’t even believe that I was so low, so recently.

Today I officiated at a derby bout and there were a few people who asked how I was doing, then, when I said I was doing good, they gave me that look.  That look like, “What aren’t you telling us?”

I don’t exactly understand it either, two days ago my brain was trying to kill me.  Two days ago walking out into traffic seemed like a perfectly logical plan.  And now, I’m fine.  Nothing has changed.  No medication changes, no major life changes, nothing.

Welcome to life with mental illness.  Don’t like what’s on the mood channel?  Wait a few minutes, it’ll change!

Except it doesn’t always happen that way.

Sometimes, you really want it to change and it doesn’t.  Sometimes, you really want it to stay where it is, and it changes.  Sometimes, you are intensely suicidal one day, and then back to boring old mixed mood symptoms the next.

I’m happy with this kind of boring.  This is the good kind of boring.

The dishes are piling up in the sink because I’m pushing hard enough to find the motivation to cook, but I’m having a hard time finding the motivation to clean up afterwards.

I’m okay with that.

I’m getting hyperfocused on projects that take me all day, and then looking for the next project, and the next, and I must do all of the things.

I’m okay with that.

My sleep is either too much or too little.

I’m okay with that.

I’m still struggling to stick to a budget and I really can explain exactly why it’s perfectly logical for me to buy everything.

I’m okay with that.

I have to talk myself into showering and even brushing my teeth.

I’m okay with that.

I haven’t been to the gym in 2 weeks or more.

I’m not really okay with that, but I’m not ready to change it either.

This is the good kind of boring.  This is the kind of boring that isn’t trying to kill me.

I see my pdoc on Tuesday and I’m sure we’ll talk about all of this.  I have a nice, month worth of notes for her.  I have no idea if we’ll change medications or not, but at least we can talk about what options there are and if we want to consider changing something.  Some of this isn’t really fixable.  Unfortunately, some of this is just riding it out, weathering the storm, and using my skills to make the best of it.

This is the good kind of boring, though.  I’ll take it.

 

 

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.