Oh no . . . That’s today.

scientific calculator ii

Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

Mentally, I still feel like shit.

But a little less like shit then I felt yesterday, so that’s a plus, I guess.

The difference between, I really want to die

and

I just don’t want to live.

And for those who have never been here, there’s a distinctive difference.

Today is a good day for that difference, because today I have a final exam to go take for my health class.

A final exam that I may not have shown up for yesterday, but today I’ll at least show up.

I all but aced my English class.  Two points shy of a perfect score.  I’m still waiting on a few grades to come back from health, but I think I’ll pull at least a b, depends on how I do on this final that I didn’t study for.

Yesterday was rough. I spent most of the day in bed with covers over my head. I got up to cook but didn’t clean and my sink is overflowing with dishes.

We had dill pickle chicken wings for dinner which were both amazing and time consuming. Even though I baked them, my house smells like fried food, which is kind of annoying.

When I’m depressed like that I’m also super triggery, although I hate the word trigger. But the wrong sound from a video game or the wrong scene in a movie will go straight through me and I’ll need to run and hide, or I’ll want to fight back against it. But I can’t find my words to ask Wonder Woman to turn the TV down or that I can’t handle that movie right now. Sometimes I’ll put headphones in so that I’m not a bother, so that I can just zone out into my own world at the computer.

Other times I run away to the bedroom, into my safe space. Under my down comforter with the covers pulled up over my head. Just enough light filters through that it’s not completely dark in there. The sound is muffled like when there’s a few feet of snow outside.

I feel safe.

I always quietly hope that Wonder Woman will eventually come and check on me even if I can’t quite tell her all of what is wrong.

She is part of my safe space.

I also hate that I just walk away without telling her that I’m going. Words are hard when I feel like that. I want to shrink into my own skin.

I don’t want to admit that I need to hide from the world and speaking it out loud makes it too real.

Makes it too noticeable.

Makes me feel like I’m over reacting.

Like I’m being a drama queen.

But today is better. Today the sounds aren’t quite as loud and I don’t need to run.

Today I don’t want to die.

I’m just not quite sure I’m ready to live.

Blanket Fort

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

TW: Suicdal Thoughts. Guns. Possibly disturbing descriptions.

I spent most of yesterday evening in bed, under my blankets.

Wide awake, but shutting the world out.

Suicidal thoughts swirling around, like stars in the galaxy.

I had plans and means but couldn’t hold onto a thought long enough to have the drive to put anything into action.

I guess my scatter brain saved me from becoming any real danger to myself.

Either way it was uncomfortable and I was afraid to get out of bed because then the means would be too accessible.

And when I’d lose track of my suicidal thoughts I didn’t want to get out of bed because I was just to defeated to move.

I kept hearing a gun shot going off in my head.

Not that I have access to guns, I know better, but I just kept hearing the sound reverberating in my head.

It’s what happens when the thoughts get bad. It’s been the same since middle school. The thoughts would get bad and I knew there was a loaded gun in my dad’s night stand drawer and I could hear it going off in my head.

And I’d fight against letting it happen.

I wonder what it feels like when the barrel is pressed against your skull?

I wonder what it sounds like when the gun goes off?

Does it sound different when the vibrations are right there up close?

Do you even have time to hear it?

I wonder if I would screw that up too and live and just be a burden on everyone around me.

It really is better that I don’t have access to guns.

And the thing is, I’m not actually having a horrible morning. I woke up, I measured out my food and logged it in a new program I’m trying. I’m planning on being all crafty and making shit in a little bit.

But still, the dark thoughts are just swirling around.

I’d kinda rather be dead.

I wish it was a therapy day, not that therapy is a quick fix but I always feel safer when she reassures me that these thoughts aren’t going to kill me. That I don’t need to be locked away to be safe from myself. That this isn’t a crisis.

It feels like a crisis but also doesn’t.

They are just there, quietly hanging over my shoulder.

I feel like I can almost have a conversation with them.

“Hey, what’s up? Please don’t let the cat out as you come and go.”

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.

Watching Me Fall

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

Trigger Warning:  Talk of past suicidal thoughts

I’m thankful that I started writing my story like this, and I’m thankful that I share my journey on Facebook where every day it reminds me where I was a year ago.

A year ago I was on a very quick spiral downwards.  I was in a very dark place and it wasn’t getting better.

I’ve been watching it happen, through my memories, day by day, since early March.  Post after post about suicidal thoughts, holding on, trying to decide what treatment option was best.

I forgot about the fear though.  I felt that the wrong move would certainty end in death.  I felt like I had to choose the right direction because I wouldn’t have a second chance.

I forgot how deep and how dark it was.  How much control it had.

The suicidal thoughts haven’t gone away.  I get periods where they are less severe and I’m able to easily flick them into the background.  Then there are periods when I thought they were still just as bad as they had been a year ago.  However, reading the post today I realized that there isn’t as much fear as there was.

I’m able to see a future even while I want to die.

I’m able to see mutliple options and I don’t feel as trapped.

A year ago I wrote that during the worst of it, I couldn’t even see far enough forward to imagine someone finding me and worrying about what that would do to them.  I couldn’t see past death.

Now, I’ve realized, even while I’m wanting to die and working out plans, I worry about what will happen when Wonder Woman finds me.  What will happen if it doesn’t work.  What will happen past the attempt.

I think about the future even while I’m thinking about the finality of death.

My therapist kept saying I was future oriented during my suicidal periods and I understood what she meant, but this makes me remember how much I wasn’t future oriented a year ago.

It makes me realize how far I’ve come.

And while my suicidal thoughts are still dangerous now, it makes me realize just how dangerous they were a year ago.

I can remember being there.  I can still put myself in that place and feel that emptiness and that desire to just be gone.  I remember the longing for wellness and the desire to stop fighting for it.

I remember how tired I was and also how driven.

I remember the terror of making the wrong choice.

Sometimes I think I’ve lost all of my progress when I spend a night fighting my own brain.  I think these skills I’ve learned are useless and I’m not fighting hard enough or learning fast enough.

And then I see a post like this and realize how far I’ve come in the past year.

How even in the worst of the darkness, my growth shows.

Speak Up, I Can’t Hear You

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

I’ve talked before about “shining light into all the dark spaces.”  Often, that’s what writing is for me, a way to shine light into the deep dark areas of my mental illness and remove the power that goes along with hiding it.  It’s a HUGE part of what I believe in.  Removing the stigma by “Sharing my story and speaking my truth.”

Except, when I’m suicidal, the fog grabs hold of me and silences me.  It tells me, if I reach out I’ll be attention seeking, or bothering people with my whining.  It tells me people don’t want to hear that I’m fighting those demons again, for the umpteenth time this year.  It tells me I have to do it alone, quietly, without bothering anyone else.  It tells me no one else has the time or energy to deal with my crazy.

But this is dumb.

The second I share my struggles…

The second I put finger to keys and hit send…

The second I put sound to lips to be heard by another’s ear…

…my pain lessens.  The load is lifted slightly.

It’s almost like, shining light into all the dark spaces, makes those spaces a little less dark.  (Who woulda thought!?!)

But first I have to be able to see my way out, enough, to find my own voice.

Sometimes people are reaching in, and I can’t even find my voice to tell them.

Sometimes I don’t even know what I need to say, except, “Help”, and I don’t know what help I need, except someone to just be there.

I know, when I’m in that space I can totally understand why Parker didn’t speak up.  It’s hard to reach out from within that void.  It’s hard to find my way out of the fog far enough to ask for help.

I think it takes a different sort of strength to ask for that kind of help, to admit to that kind of pain, over and over and over again.

For now, those thoughts are quiet.  I have no doubt that they’ll find their way back at some point.  All I can do is prepare myself to do battle again, and to reach out to lighten the load a bit.

 

Fighting Hard

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

TW:  Suicidal thoughts, loose talk of plans, hints at death.

I feel like I’m in a war zone.

One minute it’s quiet and calm and everything is peaceful and fine and the next I’m being bombarded with ugly thoughts that just won’t quit.

Not good enough, never going to succeed.  Never going to make it, what’s the point.

Of course that isn’t what I’m pushing for.

When it comes to my relationship, my wonderful, loving, amazing relationship, I start thinking about running, thinking about how we would both be better off if I just left now, save her the ridiculousness of dealing with me and who I am when I’m like this.

Of course that isn’t what I want.

My brain starts searching for ways out.  Ways to die.  Reasons that everyone would be better off without me in this world.  What’s the most complete way to finish the job.  How can I make sure I end it.  I go so far as to look things up online when ideas cross my mind.   “Overdose on xyz” “how much xyz is fatal” “death by xyz”  I wouldn’t want to leave the job half done.  I think about the note I would leave on the door, telling Wonder Woman to call 911 instead of coming in.  I wouldn’t want her to see my body.

Of course, I don’t really want to die.

These thoughts are my enemy.  I hate that they are there.  The problem is, sometimes I start to believe them.  Sometimes they take hold and I fall down the rabbit hole.  It’s a deadly path.

The less I want to think something, the more the thoughts come.

Sometimes I can ignore them.  Sometimes I can just let them be thoughts, let them pass through without them taking hold.  Sometimes they aren’t even there.

But right now they are loud, and ignoring them feels impossible.  Right now they feel like they are attacking me from every angle and the more I fight the worse they are.  I can’t find my way to accepting that they are just thoughts and just let them be.  I can’t find my way to peace with them because they feel so ugly and so hurtful, and sometimes they feel so true and so real.  They feel so scary and so tangible.  They are so inconceivable and so possible.

And I’ve seen where they lead, I’ve felt the cold, stiff, outcome with my own two hands.

I don’t want to die and yet sometimes I do.

I just want it all to stop.

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.