Scars and Cellulite

The sun is shining. The birds are singing. And the mercury is rising. Which means clothes are being shed and skin is exposed. And black clouds are rolling over that sunshine of mine. Maybe that is a bit dark. I am truly loving this weather. In fact, I'm itching to spend the weekend outside and go camping. Or whatever it is that city girls call camping. Ok, I want to drink around a fire. But that exposed skin, it's been getting to me.

Let's tackle the easy one first, the one that is bothering probably 90% of girls in Wisconsin. I've still got my winter weight. BUT I've got the extra 10 pounds I put on because of that damn medication that makes me a lazy fuck. Slow down, Mary. Stay calm. Breathe. I went to buy shorts with Boyfriend yesterday, and while I made it out of Kohl's without tears, I did have that moment where I looked in the mirror and saw a blob. "Lard ass" and "nauseating" and "obscene" flashed clearly across my vision like spelling words on Sesame Street. And they bubbled up for the next couple of hours.

Now realistically, I know that I'm not disgusting. That is, if I can trust the numbers and Boyfriend. And the professionals who roll their eyes at me. But the fact that I am a good 3 sizes larger than I was before I went into treatment is fucking with me pretty hardcore. The fact that I can't see bones for the first time in years is sending my head spinning.

I'm not going to let anorexia get her grip on me again though. I am going to eat right and exercise and all that jazz. Living with anorexia is hell, so I am going to make a conscious effort not to fall prey like I usually do this time of year.

But there is another issue. One that I haven't really had to deal with until now. My scars. I have scars all up and down my one arm, and I am having to get used to bare them for all to see unless I want to wear long sleeves all summer. Which I don't. For months, I was able to easily hide them with no question. Now, not so much.

I can feel people's eye burning holes in my arms when they see them, and I so desperately want to explain that I am not crazy, that I was going through a rough time, that I'm past it. Look, they are all old and healed! But I know that doing that would be entirely counterproductive. So instead, I pretend that I don't notice them noticing, turn my arm inward slightly so maybe they will be less visible, and wait for Mederma to go on sale.

Maybe nobody is even looking. Maybe I am imagining that people are staring at my arm. Either way, I am not comfortable in my own skin, quite literally, these days.

You will be jealous I got to go and you didn't.

You know that feeling when you go back to your diary after not writing in it for a really long time, and, even though logically you're aware it's just a bundle of paper, you feel awkward because you know it knows you've been ignoring it? No? Just me? Ok.

Well, that's how I feel right now. I was in the hospital for a week and spent another week legitimately not knowing how to put into words what happened. Every time I thought about writing here, I had that sudden urge to hide, like when I pretend that I missed someone's text so that I don't have to make a commitment to hang out right then. I know I am not the only one who does that.

But, here I am. Braving the blog. Still awkwardly not knowing what to say to this beloved friend. I want to come back with a bang. With fireworks. Fireworks shot off by sharks.

Yeah, I'm on a couple drugs.

In keeping with the theme of feeling scattered and unsure and unable to truly acknowledge the gap, how about I just sprinkle out some of the more interesting moments of my stay in the hospital. When I have a solid footing on what actually went down, I'll let you know. But to be honest, that won't happen. I will continue to fling out random goodies and let you piece them together. That seems to be how I roll.

We're just going to skip over the intake process.

Skipping over the crying.
Skipping over the desire to escape.
Skipping over the fucked up idea that death looked preferable over being committed.

Onto the good stuff.

View from my hospital window. Through regular screen,
blinds that didn't adjust, and safety screen.

SAFETY:  They took all my drawstrings from my hoodies and sweatpants. I wasn't allowed to have tights or a purse with a long strap because I might be able to hang myself with them. Even the cords on the phones were no more than a foot long. Although, there was nothing to hang myself from. No curtain rods. No rods for hanging clothes in the closet. No hooks to put a jacket on. Even the shower head was a nub that stuck flush to the wall. The doorknobs were these cone-like things that were impossible to grasp. There were a few times when Dad visited that he legit couldn't get out of my room because he couldn't turn the damn knob. Nothing protruding out of anything anywhere.

I was fine with all that. Hanging myself was never really my style anyways. What pissed me off was when they took all my spiral notebooks and left me with just one that had no metal on it. And I was only allowed one pen! For safety reasons. Well, fuck that. I cannot feel safe unless I have at minimum 3 notebooks and 4 pens circling me. (Totally made that up, but that is what my kitchen table looks like 24/7. So maybe there is a grain of truth to it.)

My first 2 days of being there, I managed to steal no less than 6 pens from the nurse's station and group therapy sessions. I never ended up using any of them; I couldn't cheat on my precious pen. I became a klepto based on principle.

BONNY (name changed for anonymity): One day during group, we were discussing what types of feelings brought us there. Loneliness. Sadness. Drug abuse. Depression. Despair. Suicidal ideations. Homicidal thoughts. Say what now?! Enter Bonny.

Bonny was probably about 75 years old. She looked like the petite little grandma-type that you could picture  working on a puzzle to pass the time while her snicker doodles baked. Except for one little thing. She openly admitted that she was homicidal. She had a victim in mind. And a method.

I don't know what this says about me, but she was my favorite. She had this horribly dark sense of humor that, if taken the wrong way, could have earned her a reservation in the seclusion room. But it's Bonny, so everyone laughed.

Nurse: "Bonny, here's your nighttime meds."
Bonny: "Good. If you would have forgotten, I would have had to whoop you with my cane."
Everyone laughs.

Group Leader: "What's going on with you? What brought you to the hospital?"
Bonny: "Well, I'm bipolar and homicidal. Which means I'm not sure if I'm going to kill me or her (points to random patient)."
Everyone laughs. Including random patient.

The icing on the cake is that Bonny lives in a convent with her sister who is a nun. And Bonny openly admits that she likes to fuck with the other nuns, showing off her lack of vows to God by purchasing expensive items and flaunting them in front of those who took a vow of poverty.

Had I never gone to the hospital, I never would have been able to say that I engaged in friendly chit chat with a homicidal sister of a nun over lunch.

FAVORITE GROUP: My proudest moment of my visit had nothing to do with medications or breakthroughs or discoveries. It took place during the last group session on my last day before I was discharged.

Let me set the stage. We are discussing what and who has helped us the most during our journeys. Many patients are calmly and vaguely discussing their families, friends, and religious affiliations. But one patient is hardcore a "Jesus saved me, this I know" type. In the obnoxious, judgmental, scoff at my Star of David bracelet kind of way. Now, there is absolutely nothing wrong with using your faith to help your recovery. In fact, I would encourage it. However, NEVER use it to jeopardize someone else's.

Then there is Jenny (again, name changed). She is quite, timid, and easily shut down by this loudmouth bitch. Jenny starts talking about how NAMI has helped her immensely. After waiting her turn, she tells the group about the volunteer opportunities, how they help the community, and how they probably saved her life. Jesus Bitch butts in. "I hate NAMI. I hate their core beliefs. They do NO good. All they care about is making money. Blah blah Jesus blah."

Jenny shuts down, bows her head in defeat, and the group carries on. Mary to the rescue! "Can I just say something real quick? I don't want the last thing people to hear about NAMI before they leave is how awful it is. I have seen firsthand how much those people care. Maybe Jesus Bitch had a bad experience, but everyone else needs to know that it is a safe place for them to go if they need help." Sadly, I did not refer to her as Jesus Bitch. My one regret.

Jenny perks up and Jesus Bitch turns red. We argue back and forth for a bit. She gets louder, angrier, and more irrational while I continue to calmly state my opinions and back them up with examples. I'm pretty sure at one point she even blamed NAMI for the lack of care that I had received prior to coming to the hospital. How? I don't even know.

"I don't give a fuck what you think. And fuck NAMI. I have Jesus backing me up for support. I don't need to take this." And out she walked. In my book, that was a win for me. A couple other patients gave me silent nods of approval, and the second half of group was far more pleasant. I stood up for Jenny, stood up for NAMI, and stood up for myself for once. Maybe I did find a little confidence that week.

*****

I am not yet ready to explain what happened from a medical or psychiatric standpoint, but I can with 100% certainty say that it was a good thing I went. Sure, I have had a few down days since coming home, but that's to be expected. The important thing is that I am safe again and willing to seek the help I need without being put in the hospital again, and that is something I don't think I would have reached by myself.

Thank you, Aurora.

Mad as a Hatter and Just as Sane

Maybe I cut my wrist one too many times. Maybe I talked about the relief I would get from killing myself a little bit too freely. Maybe I realized that it's not fair to make my friends and family responsible for protecting me from myself.

The truth is, I'm not safe by myself anymore, and I know it. Every time I am left to my own devices for more than 10 minutes, there is a damn good chance that I will be hunting down something sharp or challenging my garden of pill bottles to a staring contest. Even when I am not alone, a breakdown can strike with a snap of the monster's fingers. And it's happening more and more often.

So I need to leave. In less than five hours, I will be going with Dad to admit myself into a residential program at the hospital. For real this time.

This may be one of the first times I have set out to write a blog post and had no words. It's not a case of writer's block or being unmotivated. It's that I feel frozen in this space and time. A numbness beyond the lithium and seroquel and lamictal. A natural, self-protecting numbness against my fear of the unknown and leaving my not-so-safe comfort zone.

I can't picture leaving my home and moving into my room at the mental hospital. I can't picture not using Pinterest, TV, my blankets, and cleaning as distractions against my monsters when I am alone all day. I can't picture not using razors and calories to fight them off when distractions fail. I can't picture having coping mechanisms that are healthy and actually effective. I can't picture having to trust someone with my life besides Boyfriend.

This numbness will disappear in a few hours. I bet I'll start getting nervous after I take a shower and start picking out an outfit that suits the day, the day I admit that I am too crazy to live in the real world. It will really kick in on the car ride over when the reality of the situation sets in. Racing heart, sweaty palms, winking monsters. By the time I am left alone at my new home, my fucked up head will be spinning with a fight or flight reaction that will likely result in some sort of unwanted sedation.

I don't know if I will be there for a few weeks, a month or two. A part of me still feels like this is a bad dream. I am never leaving my home. But I also feel like this is my last day ever to sit on my couch, cuddle with my cat, sleep in my bed, write at my desk, look out my window, cook for Boyfriend. Make my own decisions. When I think about these things, I don't understand how everything I could need in the world isn't right here at my fingertips. Everyone and everything I love is outside those hospital walls. I will be locked inside, separated from them. How will that help? How will that not make things worse?

I guess I just have to let go for a little while. Open myself up to the possibility that this might be what's best. That I just might walk out of there healthier and happier than I have ever felt. Instead of adding some reinforced steel to my guarded walls, I should cut out a window to see the great opportunity that may be in front of me. I don't want to and I don't have to live the rest of my life this fucked up. And maybe, just maybe, I really do want my life to last longer than I think.

Most likely, this hope will disappear when time starts moving again. But at least I will be leaving my written record of the fact that there was hope in admitting myself to the hospital. I won't be able to reread this when I am there, but maybe someone else will. Maybe someone else who is struggling will read my other posts illustrating how horribly fucked I am in the head and think that if someone as crazy as me can take this step, then so can they.

Ok, now let's do this shit. See you in a month.

Beginning the Book

Of all the pieces I've written, this is the one I have been the most leery about posting. I've been dreaming about writing a book for years, but in my state, I can't go about it the proper way.

It scares the hell out of me to think about how my mood, dreams, and emotions can change in a mere 12 hours. But since I'm not in that state anymore, I feel a bit disconnected from what I wrote. So here it is:

INTRODUCTION/ CHAPTER 1

In the spirit of the way I feel and have been acting, I am going to write this book in the most fucked up way imaginable. My method goes against everything I’ve ever learned as a student of Literature and Philosophy. There will be no outlines. I’m not going to research important topics before portraying myself as an expert. Hell, there is a good chance that I won’t even edit the finished product. I’m taking the whole “unreliable narrator” thing to the edge and over.

I am going to write my story as it plays itself out. At this moment, I have no true diagnosis for whatever it is that is causing me to go crazy. I am off all the meds that I had been taking to help me sit still, shut up, and stop crying. We are starting at square one. No drugs in my system, no professional help being received, no clue what the future holds.

Actually, if this thing actually does make it to publication, you will probably know more about the ending than I do as I am sitting here writing it. The jacket may say something like, “One girl’s harrowing story of the journey into the dark descent of “going bat-shit crazy” (insert medical term here).” Or in a more Sylvia Plath-like style: “Mary receives immortality through her death, all captured in this eerily compelling diary of a novel.”

But more than likely, this book will sit here on my Google Drive, another relic in the collection of projects I’ve abandoned, failures I’ve achieved, and goals I couldn’t reach.

Let me set the stage. Nothing about the future. I don’t know what that will bring or if it exists. Nothing about the past. Given there is a future, we will have time to talk about that later. Here is what’s going on with me, body and mind, as I sit here at my computer at 9:46 in the morning on January 23, 2013.

My wrist itches. There are 18 healing cuts going every which direction neatly placed between two disgusting, parallel scars. I want desperately to scratch the hell out of them, half because I hope it will open up the scab and I can enjoy the blood again, half because it just really itches.

I’ve been awake for less than an hour. My mind is dazed from all the sleeping pills I took last night but not so dazed that I’m prevented from thinking about the option of killing myself. I have gone back and forth half a dozen times. What should I have for breakfast? Whatever. The calories I eat today won’t matter if I off myself tomorrow. No, if I act normal maybe I’ll be normal and they won’t put me in the mental hospital again. What should I make Boyfriend dinner? Will I be here for dinner? I hope not. I hope so. I hope not. Fuck.

Chance are, I am not going to kill myself. I have lethal doses of drugs about 4 feet away from me. Up the stairs and to the right, I have a bottle of razors. If I really wanted to die, I would be dead. What I really want is to not live. I know they sound like the same thing, but they are not. Living is too painful. It is physically and emotionally taxing to be present in my head at all times. A minute doesn’t pass without me thinking about how I am ruining everything for everyone little by little every second I am here. But I know that if Boyfriend comes home to find me dead on the ground, or if a hotel cleaning lady finds me in the bathtub, all hell will break loose, at least for a moment. I don’t want to do that to anyone either. Instead, I want to fade into the background until I can disappear unnoticed. Not death by suicide. Just a mystery of science that people will shrug at before they change the channel my medical mystery is being sold on, disregarding it more quickly than it happened.

So there’s my pipe dream. Until I can figure out the logistics behind making it reality, I am forced to continue on this path, grasping at fleeting moments of hope and hiding under my sanctuary of blankets.

It may be weeks before I add more words to this document. But it could also be as soon as this afternoon. I may be under the influence of doctor-prescribed meds that help. Or ones that don’t. I may be able to wear short sleeves in public again. I may be writing with a bleeding wrist.

Recording the events of my journey is less for what the reading public will think about the completed, and more about giving my monsters somewhere to reside. Maybe if I keep putting the abstract mental monsters into words, giving them definition and taking away their illusionary power, I will be able to lock them inside the pages of this book forever, freeing myself from their hold and allowing myself to make the decision about whether to live or die on my own.

Drunk Blogging is Probably not Smart

I have written on Lithium. I have written on Zoloft. I have written on Lorazopam. I have written withdrawing from any or a combination of these drugs. But this, my friends, is the first time that I am blogging drunk. Yup, half a bottle of Charles Shaw down after months of not drinking, save a beer or sip of champagne, and I am pretty well fucked.

I'm justifying it by telling myself that all the great writers did it. Ernest Hemingway. Edgar Allen Poe. William Faulkner. F. Scott Fitzgerald. James Joyce. Hunter Thompson. And those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head. While drunk. 

But who the hell am I kidding. I'm not a writer. I'm a head case with a bottle of wine and a laptop. The internet shouldn't be for everyone.

The wine hasn't given me any inspiration to write the next great American novel or caused me to come to any life-changing conclusions. But it has given me the courage to admit a few conclusions that I have come to over the last few days. 

Let me set the stage. I have been alone all weekend. Many of my close friends went away for the weekend on a trip that I was supposed to be on. Boyfriend is in Florida for a funeral. My entire extended family is actually in town, but hasn't extended the invitation to me. Not that I would accept. So I have been sitting in my apartment, trying to survive. Too depressed to read. Too manic to do anything productive without flipping shit. And here's what I've discovered.

First, I am far too dependent on Boyfriend. He is the only one that I can actually talk to about what I am truly feeling. But somehow, he is also a trigger. He is too fucking wonderful. He is loving me and complimenting me and supporting me when I deserve to be thrown to the curb. Every text from him makes my heart leap and my stomach sink. I am destroying my brain trying to figure out how to make him break up with me in a way that hurts no one. Sooner or later, one of us is going to explode. I'd rather it be me.

Next, I am sick of living. It's not that I really want to die. I just don't want to live anymore. She was right. I will never be anything, and all I am doing is bringing the people who choose to associate themselves with me down. I am crazy. I am a fuck up. I should have killed myself when she told me to. If there was a way I could fade into the background and disappear, I would take it. 

Before anyone freaks out, I'm not going to commit suicide. I've had a lethal dose of lithium by my side all weekend. If I wanted to do it, I would be dead by now. I suppose this goes hand in hand with not wanting to live: I should be locked away for a while. I cannot be trusted by myself. Hardest confession right there.

Third, self-harm is actually becoming an addiction for me. I'm not going to go into detail about what I feel when I do it or why I do it. That's a-whole-nother story. But I will say, the list of feelings and reasons is growing. I am finding any excuse to grab that trusty razor.

Finally, there is no one I can turn to. As much as I love my friends, Boyfriend, and Dad, I cannot call them when I need them most. I know with my whole heart and soul that they would be there for me, offering whatever they possibly could to make me better. But it won't work. And then that will just be another notch on the chart of disappointments that I've been racking up over the last few decades. So when I am sitting alone with these horrible thoughts, ideas, and plans brewing in my head, I don't answer my phone. I don't open my door. I don't go to the store out of fear of running into someone who might be able to read my eyes. I hide under the covers and pray that I will magically not wake up.

There you have it. A drunk mouth speaks a sober mind. Or something like that. 

To Whom it May Concern

Eight years ago, you told me to stop writing. You told me that putting my true feelings to paper could only get me in trouble. You told me that once it is written, I could never take it back. But you didn't consider that I didn't want to take it back, that maybe I had no other way of expressing myself. You chose to ignore the desperate cries for help that were written in those journals. Fuck, you ignored the cries for help etched into my wrist. Instead, you tried to shut me up.

Now, for the first time in my life, I am writing exactly what I feel. And I don't give a damn who reads it. But you don't get to jump in to save the day on your terms. I'm sure you have been following this blog all along and maybe mocking me for my insane behavior or congratulating yourself on being right about what a fuck up I am. Shaking your head, shrugging your shoulders, telling your friends and family, "We tried." Don't think it isn't transparent that you only reach out to me the one day I post about losing hope.

What's really fucked up is that I am more concerned about your thoughts and feelings than my own right now. I want to put on a fake smile, tell you everything will be ok, and shut down this blog. Shut down my one outlet. Again. So that you can feel better, put yourself up on your moral high horse, and take pride in thinking that I can't survive without your compass. But for my sake, I can't do that. I need to keep you at a distance until I can sort out who I can trust and who is a trigger for my insanity.

I'm sorry I don't fit into your vision of a perfect family.
I'm sorry I can't pretend the past didn't happen.
I'm sorry I have mental illnesses I don't know how to control.
I'm sorry you didn't realize this a decade ago.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you how bad it was a decade ago.

I'll probably be sorry I posted this.

A Scar and A Story

***MAY BE TRIGGERING***

***SELF-INJURY DISCUSSED***

"You had a suicide attempt?!"

After two hours of going into great detail about our mental illnesses and joking about the crazy episodes we have each had, hearing that I had a pretty decent scar on my wrist was what made him abandon the easy-going attitude.

"Umm, not really. I mean, kinda? It could have been. I don't really remember."

As we talked about the stigma that comes along with the labels and media hype, I casually mentioned that it is my wrist that makes me feel the most vulnerable. It's the one piece of my illness that it is tangible. And I'm fuzzy on how it got there. I spent this morning staring at, as though it's going to suddenly take a dignified pose and voice to ask for a glass of wine before beginning our chat. Oh, Silly Scar, you know we can't have alcohol anymore.

It happened sometime after my ER visit and before I was diagnosed with bipolar. They threw some Zoloft at me, like they do to everyone who walks through those doors, and told Boyfriend not to let me kill myself. Thanks, Doc. Hadn't thought of trying that. Lucky for us, the next month was pretty boring. I had nauseating side effects. I felt like a zombie. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

*****

Hell yeah, the depression had lifted! I didn't cry at all anymore. I had an abundance of energy that I hadn't felt in months. Years. EVER! This was amazing for my freelance writing work. I could write one article while mentally planning the next and planning what was for dinner and creating a cleaning schedule so nothing was out of place to distract me from the work that needed to be done.

One day was particularly bad though. I was a squirrel on crack with nothing to put my energy into. Since I didn't have the focus to write, I got frustrated. "Frustrated" doesn't do it justice. I was filled with more raw, uncontrolled emotion than the day I got taken into the ER for my safety.

The pacing began. I thought maybe I could cry it out, exhaust myself so my mind had to follow. I tried, but I started to lose my other senses before I even got winded. I couldn't hear myself crying, and the whole world was blurry. I could only see my hands. I couldn't even feel the ground beneath me.

The next part is what really scares me. Since I am not allowed to have razors for obvious reasons, I decided to drive to get some. Granted, I only had to drive for a total of maybe three minutes, but I couldn't see, feel, or hear what was happening around me. And why would anyone sell razors to someone who was shaking, crying, and confused?!

Next thing I know, I'm home and frantically pulling the blade out of the knock off Bic. I'm slicing the tips of my fingers in the process, but I don't feel it or even see the blood. When it finally pulled free, I didn't hesitate to drag it across my skin. I see a fuzzy haze of red beginning to fill my vision, but my arm is just a tingling, numb thing that I deemed useful for only one purpose. And it was failing. I tried again. Over and over but nothing.

Minutes or an hour later, I am finally exhausted. I clean up the blood, throw away my tank top, and take a nap.

The End.

*****

But not really the end at all. Here I am, months later, trying to figure out what happened that day. I don't think my goal was to kill myself, which is why I couldn't really say that it was a suicide attempt. But I do think that I was willing to do anything to get the crazy fast thoughts to shut up for a goddamn minute. Even if that meant risking death.

Because my whole world was blurry and I couldn't hear well, I felt incredibly disconnected from anything physical and time wasn't really a thing anymore. I couldn't be certain that my material possessions were how I left them. I couldn't see past my arms. I felt like I was losing all control and literally slipping out of existence in a way that allowed me to be with the people and things that kept me safe.

When I couldn't feel the pain that I was inflicting on myself, I got nervous. Like maybe I had gone bat shit insane and I was going to get taken away. I think for a while I was doing it because I thought I needed to check to see if I was capable of killing myself. That's not something you should just check from time to time.

As awful as it is to say, my plan did kind of work in the end. After cutting myself, I was able to finally get the thoughts to calm down enough so I could sleep. It was definitely not worth it. It was incredibly dangerous, and I get sick to my stomach when I picture it even though I didn't flinch when I did it. Cutting myself was a desperate measure that I took during a desperate time before being diagnosed, before understanding that this "crazy" I felt was a chemical imbalance in my brain.

Somehow, cutting myself apart was my effort to make me feel whole again. It was a last ditch effort to bring back all the senses, connect my body and mind, and remind my monsters that I'm still in control. When an initial cut didn't do the trick, I tried again and deeper. For whatever reason, be it defeat or glimpse of sanity, I stopped short of causing any real damage. I just got a scar and a story.