This is a Really Real Widow post.
I don’t feel like it’s a big deal this year.
I mean, her being gone is always a big deal. She left a hole in a lot of people’s hearts.
But this year her birthday isn’t ripping that hole bigger. Maybe it’s just because so much else is going on.
But today I went and bought cheesecake.
Tonight I’ll get on video chat with our son and talk about her life.
That’s a tradition I hope to continue each year. A few moments remembering the wonderful person she was.
So many memories are slipping away.
The sound of her voice rarely comes to me anymore.
I no longer remember her smell.
I have one shirt of hers left that I wear regularly, but it doesn’t hold the emotion that it once did.
I did intentionally take it with me to the trauma unit though. So I guess there’s so emotion left in it.
She spent her last birthday in the hospital, the psych unit, because of a change in medications that left her reacting violently to me.
She even raised her fist, which was the moment she decided to check in. She was there for almost 2 weeks.
I had balloons and decorations on the walls when she came home. A belated birthday celebration.
A belated celebration of her.
She was dead before her next birthday came around.
I can’t remember how old she would be now. I’m sure I could reach back in my memories to remember what year she was born and do the math, but that doesn’t seem important anymore.
Her mother still sends me the occasional Pineapple Upside Down Cake recipe. It’s my favorite cake. She would bake it for my birthday every year.
We talk for a few moments about life and how we are doing.
A superficial conversation that still leaves much unsaid.
I’m sure today is hard for her. I can’t imagine what it’s like to celebrate the birthday of your child that is no longer with you.
I hope I never experience that loss.
I just sent her mother a message. Letting her know that she was in my thoughts. Another small connection between two people who were left with holes in our hearts when she died.
She is missed. She is loved.
I wish she had lived to see the better side of life. The life where the lights don’t get shut off and we aren’t in fear of an eviction notice.
The life where there’s enough food in our cabinets.
The life where there’s even an occasional vacation.
I still wonder if we ever would have seen this life together.
Or if we would have always struggled.
Today isn’t as hard as it used to be, but it’s still hard.
I still miss her.
Crisis Inpatient Hospitalization
Home Sweet Home
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
It’s been far too long since I’ve put fingers to keys for one of my regular posts. I’ve been home for ~36 hours and it feels like days and days and days. So many things that I missed that are right at my fingertips again.
Typing was one of those things.
I wrote every day while I was inpatient, multiple times a day. Working out of 2 composition books. One for my regular journaling, and one for daily goals and assignments.
So many assignments.
I think I should continue the practice of setting daily goals. These weren’t meant to be “laundry list” items, or things that we were expected to do as part of our treatment, but it was more for goals of what to work on for healing. Practicing certain skills, or doing internal checks on safety, feelings and grounding.
Considering that I only ended up being there for 2 weeks, I got so much out of it. I can’t decide if I’m glad it was this short, or if I wished it would have been longer.
I am glad to be home though.
I spent most of today crafting. Cutting out so many pieces of cardstock for the holiday cards I’m making this year. I don’t have enough time to do individualized cards for each person, so I’m batch making 4 or so of each style. I have 8 pages of addresses, with more to come.
So many cards.
And I’m so thankful that I have all of these people in my life. So many people that I can spread joy to, through crafting.
And it keeps my hands and my mind busy.
Staying busy, distracted but grounded, is a big part of my healing. Letting myself think enough to process whatever is going on, but not so much that I ruminate and get into trouble.
At this point it’s been weeks without suicidal thoughts and while I don’t fool myself into thinking that they are gone forever, it’s a nice break, and I have more tools to handle them when they come up.
I didn’t really have a goal in mind when I started writing today, I just miss the routine of putting words on the screen.
I miss this sort of processing.
Don’t get me wrong, there are benefits to journaling with pen and paper, but it hurts my hands so much that I can’t fully focus on what I’m trying to get out. My entries end up being short and choppy, with horrible handwriting that is difficult to read.
Tomorrow starts NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), where people try to write X number of words in the month of November. Basically finishing an entire book in one month. It’s quite the commitment and not something I’m interested in doing, but in the past I’ve spent the month of November writing one post a day, as my own modified challenge.
I’m trying to decide if I want to do that again this year.
Writing just for the sake of writing can go both ways. Sometimes I end up with incredible posts that let me do some deep introspection that I didn’t even know I needed. Other times I’m just putting words on the screen with no real direction, no real topic, no real beginning or end.
Kind of like this one.
Wait, Weight, Wait
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
And a Really Real Health post.
TW: Weight/dieting/exercise. Mention of suicidal thoughts with no intent or plan.
I hate my body.
It’s making me hate who I am.
And I’ve had a few realizations in the last couple of days.
First, I remembered that I’m on a high dose of Abilify. It made me gain some weight at lower doses but the weight gain has gotten so much worse at this increased dose. I think it’s a big reason for my whirlwind eating, and my craving of sweets. It’s the medicine that keeps the suicidal thoughts under control. We had to increase the dose when I was in the hospital, and we increased it again as I finished up with partial. I think it may be time to look into decreasing the dose, or changing to a different med.
Also, I realized I hate my body right now. I hate how I look. I hate how I feel. I hate how hard it is for me to interact with my environment.
I spent the last, however many, years looking at old pictures of me and comparing my round puffy face to the slimmer version it had become. I constantly said how much I never wanted to be that fat and gross. How horrible it was that I ever got that way.
How horrible I was.
It’s really hard to take good care of a body I hate. It’s hard to stick with changes because I don’t really feel like I’m worth it.
I also feel like nothing will change, and like I’ll always go back to this weight.
That thought makes the suicidal thoughts start. The idea that I can’t change this, and this is the body I’ll live in until I die, is hard hard stuff for me.
Often, when I think too much about forever fighting to stay mentally stable, I think that death would be better than fighting for the rest of my life.
Now, when I think too much about forever fighting to keep my weight under control, I think that death would be better than fighting for the rest of my life.
I started to list the things I was doing and trying to do, but honestly, those won’t matter until I go back to loving myself where I’m at.
I hate that I could say “I deserve to take up space” when I was 50 lbs lighter, but now I feel like I don’t deserve the space I take.
I hate that I could see how beautiful I am at one weight, but I can’t see my beauty now.
I hate that I feel like I need external validation.
I hate that the same people who praised me for losing weight, will judge me for gaining it back.
I hate that some of them will feel they can speak that judgement out loud.
I hate feeling like this.
I hate being like this.
I hate me.
Out of Sync
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
TW: Talk about weight. Talk about suicide w/ plan.
The sun is out. The birds are singing. It’s a beautiful day to want to die.
I mean, I’d rather not want to die.
But it’s a beautiful day and I want to die.
I can’t fucking move in my body without getting out of breath. I’ve gained back so much weight.
I don’t want to lose it because of how I look. I know I’m beautiful no matter how big I am.
I want to lose it because I’m uncomfortable in my skin. I can’t function at this size. I can’t move around in bed, I can’t walk up stairs without huffing and puffing, I can’t walk around the block without everything hurting.
I’ve been here before and I don’t want to be back.
And I can’t stop eating. Part of it is medicine but a bigger part of it is boredom.
I can’t stop eating.
I want all of the things and I want them now and sometimes, most of the time, I’m tearing myself apart while I’m eating, beating myself up for not being a better person, for not having more self control.
I fucking hate this.
I had a good relationship with my body. I had a good relationship with food. I had a good relationship with my needs.
And it all fell apart. And while it was falling apart quarantine happened and it just destroyed that relationship entirely.
Intuitive eating no longer feels possible. Movement is hard and clumsy.
The idea of fighting my way back down from this size seems insurmountable.
And it’s making me want to die. The idea of being stuck in this body like this, makes me want to die. The thought that I’ll never be able to get this under control, makes me want to die.
I laid in bed last night calculating which medications I had available to me. Which ones I could scrounge up around the house even though most everything is locked up, out of my reach. Would it be enough? Would I slide away peacefully like Parker? Or would I just end up in the hospital, alone with my thoughts? Eating myself through days and days in the psych ward.
I kept myself in bed and eventually drifted off.
I woke up this morning with the dread that I had to drag myself out of bed. I hate my body, I hate feeling it move.
I called out of work, even though i work from the same desk I’ll spend my day at anyway. I just can’t mentally function today.
Great, another thing to beat myself up over.
I’m fat. And I honestly don’t mind being a healthy, move comfortably, good relationship with my body, kinda fat.
I do mind being like this.
It makes me want to die.
The sun is out. The birds are singing. It’s a beautiful day to want to die.
How Far I’ve Really Come
This starts as a Really Real Mental Health Post.
And ends as a Really Real Widow Post.
I can’t really believe how far I’ve come.
Each day that I work, I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I can’t believe I actually earned this money. I can’t believe how much earning this money really means. I can’t explain how good it feels.
Each problem I solve, each new task I conquer, and each fear I overcome, I’m amazed that this is who I am now. That this is what I am accomplishing.
I remember when I realized I couldn’t work anymore. I remember the shit storm that lead up to that moment. I remember the heartbreak that came along with applying for disability.
I remember.
At the worst of this, I couldn’t leave my house. I couldn’t be left alone.
I remember.
And the truth is, I will probably end up back in the hospital some day. I will probably do another round or three of the partial hospital program. I will have countless more hours of therapy.
But I’ve come so so far.
So far.
I can see myself going further. I can see myself working full time. I can see myself becoming more comfortable in my own skin. I can see myself getting better at ignoring the constant anxiety running through my head.
It’s a big deal that I can see a future with further recovery.
It’s a big deal that I’m seeing a future without disability.
Without being disabled.
And there’s another side to this.
I remember watching Parker push through her own struggles to go to work and support the three of us while she was barely making it emotionally and physically.
I remember.
I love my life and I know everything that has happened has brought me to where I am now.
But still, I wonder.
If I could have worked before. If I could have shared some of the load. If I could have helped more. If I could have taken some of the weight off of her shoulders.
Would she still be alive?
If we had the money to pay the bills. If we had the money to keep the lights on. If we had the money to avoid the eviction notices. If we had the money to keep food in the fridge.
Would she still be alive?
I’ve come so far, and I’m doing so well. And I know her death is a big part of what pushed me towards my recovery. I know that I wouldn’t be where I am if things hadn’t happened exactly as they have.
Every success, every bit of growth, with every push towards recovery, is served with a small side dish of sadness.
But I can’t really believe how far I’ve come.
And I can’t wait to see how far I go.
This year, this decade.
This is a Really Real “Life in Review” Post.
It’s the end of a year.
I figured, just like so many people do, I’d reflect on the past year of my life. Think about my accomplishments and what I’d like to take with me into next year.
This year I started giving myself permission to take up space. Physically, verbally, emotionally. I realized that I was allowed the space that I need. Some of the time I was able to hold the mindset that everyone who thinks otherwise can fuck off. I want to get better at that mindset next year and stop trying to shrink myself to suit others.
This year I survived one of my more intense series of suicidal thoughts. I got myself help. I saw that I have a huge community of people who support me, both virtually and locally. I want to be better connected with that community.
I learned that even though I feel like I’m outside of a group, it doesn’t mean I actually am.
I found joy in sending snail mail. Making well over 100 cards in the past 3 months has been so wonderful, and even better was knowing that it put a smile on someone’s face. I want to keep going, and maybe start selling my work.
I think one of the biggest things I learned this year is that it’s okay for things to be stable. It’s not the calm before the storm, it’s just the calm, and life can really be this way without worrying about what comes next. I want to carry comfort with stability going forward.
I learned to live in the moment. That fully accepting what is happening is the first step to finding solutions. Fighting against a problem only takes energy away from solving it. I learned that not being okay, is perfectly okay. That as long as you don’t make a problem worse, you’re doing the right things – you can always build from there. I learned that it’s okay to ask for what I need, that it doesn’t always mean fighting.
It’s the end of a year. One of the better years of my life.
It’s the end of a decade.
It’s hard to wrap up the past decade because there’s a giant split down the middle. The before and the after.
In the before, there was a lot of love, and a lot of trauma, and a lot of resilience, and a lot of struggle.
In the after there’s a lot of growth, a lot of falling (metaphorically and physically), a lot of healing, and a lot of pain.
It’s the end of a decade. The hardest in my life.
I wrote a big long thing trying to list out the good and the bad of the last decade, but honestly, that’s not all that helpful. The past decade (and the ones before that) got me to where I am now, and now is what matters.
Now is where I want to spend my time.
L-I-G! (Life Is Good!)
This is a Really Real Life Post.
Being able to be myself is nothing short of amazing.
I mean, yeah, being wholeheartedly me means I deal with some really bad depression and suicidal ideation. It means I spend days inpatient and weeks in partial sometimes. It means there are some really shitty times.
But it also means I get to be open and out there and vulnerable. I get to wear my wild skirts and bright hair. I get to tell my story in a way that helps others (and helps me at the same time). I get to laugh and cry and let my dorky hang out.
I get to spend time with people who are just my kinda people, instead of struggling to fit in with the people who aren’t.
I’m learning how important all of this is.
I trip down the sidewalk, I fall face first down the stairs, I spill food down my shirt, all on a regular basis. But that’s just part of my charm, even the bruises, scars, and messed up shirts.
I am anxious and moody and sometimes my memory is all kinds of shit. But I keep moving forward no matter what life throws at me.
I’m falling in love with my authentic self.
My imperfect, beautiful, self.
I wish I could see things from this perspective all of the time. I wish depression didn’t creep in and pull me under. Make me nervous and afraid. Make me sad and apathetic. I wish life was all roses and bright smiles.
But even my mental illness is part of who I am. It’s part of what makes me, me. It’s part of what makes me beautiful.
Even though sometimes I’m a beautiful mess.
I’m learning to accept all of me.
And that’s pretty fucking amazing.
I can’t wait to see who I’m becoming.
The best is yet to come.
(Someone save this post and send it to me next time I’m falling apart, please.)
Gotta take it easy on myself.
This is a Really Real Health post. Mental Health and Physical Health, one effects the other. This is also one of my longer posts.
CW: Weight talk. Mention of Suicidal Stuff.
I’ve been really down on myself.
The first year after Parker died I lost a shit ton of weight by seriously working hard at getting active. I got sick, gained some back, got back on track and kept losing. The gym was my sanctuary. Can’t tell the sweat from the tears. Work it out. All that happy-crap.
Over time I’ve slowly slacked off at the gym, and it became apparent that my diet had to change in addition to the gym for me to get anywhere. I gained some weight back, enough that I was uncomfortable in my own skin.
About 4 months ago I started doing Noom and went back to working out as often as I could. I lost 30 pounds. The same 30 I had gained in the previous year and a half. And then 7 weeks ago my mental health took a dive.
I came out of the hospital going back and forth between binge eating and restricting my food. I couldn’t stop eating some days and on others I couldn’t force myself to eat. I was skipping meals, refusing to eat dinner because I knew the scale would be down more the next day. It was really really unhealthy and not typical behavior for me. Well, the restricting food was new, binge eating was what got me in trouble in the first place.
Luckily I mentioned it to a close friend who told me that maybe I should give weight loss a break and focus on my mental health. Ya kn
ow, keeping myself alive was more important than getting myself skinny. I backed way off for a few weeks. Still kept weighing every morning (it’s a Noom thing) but stopped focusing so hard on what I ate.
I tried to get back on track with Noom, kept rewinding the program and kept slipping. Finally I dropped Noom, I had at least the basic idea and knew what worked, I couldn’t justify paying for a program that I couldn’t keep up with. I’m GLAD I started with Noom, I learned a ton from the articles, weighing myself daily is a major game changer, tracking food is key for me. Even when I wasn’t sticking to the program I maintained my weight, even if I didn’t lose any.
Now I’m using another program to track food, I’ve tried to get back on track with doing this consistently for the past 2 weeks. I start off great, tracking breakfast and maybe lunch and then when I realize dinner is going to be something quick and unhealthy, I don’t bother tracking it and then forget for the next 2 days.
I’ve also only been to the gym a handful of times in the last 2 months.
I’ve been really down on myself.
About all of this.
And then today I came across a picture from the day I first cut my hair short.
My jaw dropped.
I’m an entirely different person than I was 5 years ago.
The weight loss is striking, but so is the smile. My smile goes up to my eyes now. (I swear, in some ways Parker left that to me, she used to smile so big her eyes would squint shut.) I’m happier, so much happier, I’m also So So So much healthier.
Five years ago I was letting myself die slowly, a slow suicide through food and inactivity. And I mean that, I was done with living and was just waiting to die.
Two months ago I didn’t want to live for another moment. I had the plan and the means. I was ready to end this all.
I need to stop being so down on myself. I’ve come a LONG way. Even though I still have periods where I’m suicidal, it isn’t an every day, all day problem. Most of the time I’m living so much larger than I ever would have before.
And as a small bonus I’m 100 lbs lighter than I was in that picture.
Will to live.
This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
I used to have this feeling, when sitting in therapy, or the psychiatrists office, or at PHP, that they knew something that I don’t know. Like there’s some big secret they aren’t telling me, something happening in the conversations behind the scenes.
Like they know the outcome and just weren’t letting me in on it.
That feeling was so strong last year.
I haven’t thought about it in awhile.
But back then, last time I was here, I wanted to scream at them.
“Tell me, what does the ending of this story look like.”
“Does the main character live, or does she die?”
“What type of story is this?”
I hadn’t thought about that in a long time.
I’ve been feeling like I’ve taken 20 steps back.
Like I’m right where I started.
Like the past year has been useless.
But somehow, in the midst of this crisis.
Even while buying bottles of pills.
Even while checking into the hospital.
Even while sitting in the rooms at Partial.
Even though I don’t know what the ending of the story is.
I know the main character makes it out alive.
Of course, it’s kind of funny (and horrifying) that today they let me in on a little secret.
The last time I was sitting in the rooms at Partial, they weren’t sure what the ending of the story was going to be.
They had their own doubts.
Not that I was in immediate danger, they would have gotten me safe, but that overall, I hadn’t solidified my will to live.
I remember being that person. I remember the wish to die being so strong that I could feel death surround me. I remember that darkness. I remember feeling no connection with life.
I remember.
Suicidal thoughts are different now. Even at their worst. Even in absolute crisis. Even when I’m truly in danger.
It doesn’t make them any less dangerous.
They could still make me just as dead.
But there’s a will to live that wasn’t there before.
There’s a fight.
There’s a chance.
There’s a light.
There’s hope behind it.
Yeah, shit still sucks sometimes and I’m honestly not sure just how far I’ll be able to go with this fucked up brain of mine.
But at least we aren’t questioning my chance at survival anymore.
And I guess that’s some pretty significant growth.
In the grand scheme of things.
Sick of Being Sick
This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
I’m tired.
I crawl in bed and close my eyes.
But this is not the kind of tired a nap will fix.
I’m tired of being sick.
I’m tired of knowing this will never go away.
I’m tired of not knowing what days will be good and what days will be bad.
I’m tired of it being out of my control.
I feel like I do the right things.
I take the meds and I go to the classes and I go to the groups and I do the therapy and I work hard. I practice mindfulness and all of the skills I’ve learned over the years. I stay active and I eat well.
I give myself all of the things a little plant needs.
And I still never know when I’m going to have a bad day or week or month. I never know when it’s going to come back.
And I know it will get better, and that’s great. That’s wonderful. That’s fantastic.
But I can’t plan around it getting better. I can’t even plan around it getting worse.
It will always do both, on it’s own timeline, and sometimes it doesn’t matter what I’m doing at the time.
I could end up suicidal on my wedding day, just because the chemicals in my brain decide it’s a good day to go haywire.
I could end up manic the day I’m supposed to have surgery (which has most likely been cancelled, again, anyway).
I could end up fine as they’re checking me into a psychiatric unit.
I’m tired of being sick.
I’m tired of it being out of my control.
The idea that I just can’t do things now, but that maybe one day I’ll be able to do them, seems like bullshit because I have so little control over this shit.
And it’s not fair.
I didn’t ask for this.
I didn’t do anything to deserve it.
I got out of PHP 15 months ago with the idea that after DBT I’d be able to return to work, because DBT was going to give me the skills to better manage my illness.
I WAS IN MY SECOND ROUND OF DBT WHEN THIS EPISODE STARTED!
I’m doing the work and it seems pointless. It seems like I’m never going to get any better than where I’m at now.
And where I’m at now means two pages worth of medications daily, suicidal thoughts almost daily, a severe mood episode monthly, not being able to work or even hold down a part time volunteer position.
It makes life itself seem pointless. It makes me want to give up.
I’m tired.
Really Real Blog 