Reasons Not to Go

A few short hours ago, I had the brilliant idea that going to a free meditation class could be my first step to recovering by myself from whatever it is that's killing me. And then I remembered that going down the street to pop into CVS real quick is terrifying enough for me to convince myself to abandon my need for whatever drug store item I was considering.

I was an idiot for thinking I was capable of this.

Here's a list of what weaseled its way into my head during the 10 minute shower I took to prepare for the adventure out:

1. It's focus is on using meditation to break out of addiction thoughts. I'm not an addict, per say.
2. The first time I should go should be to attend a "normal" class so I can get used to it.
3. I took a pill. I may not be safe to drive later.
4. Driving scares the fuck out of me, so I would have to take another pill to calm me down again, but then I wouldn't be able to drive anyways. Vicious circle.
5. Driving is even worse at night.
6. That feeling of hopefulness I had earlier has faded. 
7. Again, my hopelessness is even worse at night.
8. It is too freaking cold to leave the house.
9. The place is relatively far away
10. I would have to get gas. I loathe getting gas.
11. I will feel guilty spending money on that gas because I make so little.
12. What do you wear to meditate?
13. Maybe this will be the night that I actually do something fun or for myself.
14. Since this is my last night by myself, I will probably be put into some sort of treatment by Monday. I should try to enjoy my freedom or remind myself why I need the help I will be getting.
15. I can meditate at home. I won't, but I could if I wanted to.

Found a Vein of Hope

My reasons for writing are two-fold.

1.  I promised I would come here when I had a little bit of hope.

2.  That hope is making me think I'm Superman; writing grounds me.

I have the downstairs clean enough that I don't feel like I am reminded of all my failures every time I turn my head. That being said, I can see every speck of dust I missed, see every hidden space that I know is just a cornucopia of disgust, and feel the overwhelming need to fix it all at once. While doing something for myself to relax. And writing a book. All before lunch.

Maybe this isn't hope. Maybe it's a manic delusion. But if it were a delusion, wouldn't I not be aware of the fact that I'm in a delusional state? For the sake of my sanity, let's call it hope. I digress.

On top of the downstairs being clean enough to not need to escape to the safety of under the blanket, I may have actually stumbled across something that could help. This awesome place offers free classes in yoga, meditation, and more. For free! I know I said "free" twice. It's super important. 

If I can keep up this momentum, not paralyzed by my own depression or detonating under the pressure of my racing head, I might be able to make it tonight. 9 hours until Buddha has a chance to work his magic.

It's a Tornado

Boyfriend and I call it "going wild." We speak of it in almost an affectionate way, kind of like you would a puppy who is lovable but needs to be watched closely. I get far too excited. My pulse pounds. My hands sweat. My breath quickens. I can't stop moving. My mind and body are in a race to reach a finish line that doesn't exist. There are no winners, there can't be. But they still go faster.

This is nothing like a puppy at all. It's a storm. When the ominous clouds roll in, I run outside to greet them. I am captivated by their power and in awe of their majestic size. I expose myself, arms outstretched, breathing in the silence before the storm, welcoming the flutter that is entering my chest. No matter how many times this storm comes, no matter how many times I find myself in the aftermath, I keep thinking that it will be a great time. It's fabulous. It's wonderful. It is not a shit storm.

When the rain pours over my head, it is refreshing. It is a baptism that cleanses me of the sickness and promises to make me better. I am capable of anything. I toss my umbrella. I shed my raincoat and heavy boots. I splash in the puddles and laugh louder than I should. Every idea I have is brilliant, and every moment is a gift. The people inside the bright, dry houses gawk at me as I radiate in the dark, wet chaos. And maybe they warn me. I don't listen. I keep jumping in the puddles.

Eventually, those puddles get deeper and deeper. I'm still trying to jump, but I'm done laughing. In the middle of everything I thought was wonderful, I find myself irritated by how wet my socks are and how my hair is ruined and how the puddles are not as uniformly deep as I want them to be. I suddenly remember. There is a tornado coming for me.

I haul ass trying to prepare for this storm the way my neighbors did hours ago, the way they asked me to when I was busy jumping in puddles. I drag my heavy patio furniture into the garage while everyone watches. I close the windows and lock the door. I grab my kitty, a blanket, and a few cans of whatever, and run to the corner of my crumbling basement. My pulse still pounds. My hands still sweat. My breath still quickens. I'm crying.

It's too late. The tornado easily breaks down the shattered structure I placed myself in. The walls, weakened by years of shrugging at cracks and putting pictures over holes, are torn down by the tornado. As I sit there, still wet from prancing in the puddles, I beg him to leave and ask him why he hunts me down. He spins around my head for hours. He forces me to curl up and hold on to nothing for dear life. If only I had gone inside earlier. If only I had patched up my safe place my head wouldn't be at the mercy of this disturbance.

Hours later, the tornado disappears. I am mentally and physically exhausted by the whole ordeal, but I pick myself up to rebuild my wall for next time. I stack rocks and jagged pieces of concrete on top of each other until I can't reach any higher. It's not sturdy. I am afraid it will fall over on me at any time. There are more cracks, more holes than before.

It's time I asked for professional help in the rebuilding process.

Best Therapist I Ever Had

Therapy has always scared me. It's hard for me to get to that point where I can openly talk about the things I would rather hide forever with someone I barely know. (Talking is way different than writing). Naturally, I tend to lie to the therapist. I'd have tears running from my bloodshot eyes, but I'd still smile and say I'm fine. I'd drag my 90 pound self to the office, pass out on the couch, and claim to be eating.

But there was one therapist, one out of about a half a dozen, that I actually connected with. Michelle. After maybe 2 sessions, I was flung open. I shared everything from my mom's suicide to my cat's favorite toy. Michelle knew the ins and outs of my anorexia, its possible causes, triggers, and goals. She cried with me, encouraged me to write, and made me believe that maybe I could get better for real this time.

I was explaining to Michelle what I now recognize as a possible manic episode. Every time I left the house, every time I was around people, every time I wasn't making an incredible effort to shut down my brain all the whirling ideas, plans, musings, dreams, monologues, and fears rushing through my head at once would frustrate me to the point of tears. I wanted to slow down. I wanted one thought at a time.

Michelle looked at me very seriously. She put down her pen and pad and told me that she thinks she knows what is happening. My heart was racing. She begins to explain: I had spent a long time numbing myself by not eating. Now that I was up to almost 800 calories per day, the parts of me that had been in hibernation were being reawakened.

"Mary, I think you might be psychic."

Michelle believed that I was able to feel the emotions of people around me, which is why crowded areas freaked me out. It also explained why I had so many conflicting thoughts at the same time. It could even explain I started starving myself to become numb in the first place.

She handed me several books on honing my psychic ability and keeping it under control on a regular basis. We hugged, awkwardly, as my arms were filled with strange books, and a moment later, I was alone in the hallway.

"What the fuck?" I didn't believe it. But when you throw a bunch of books at someone who is manic, she will read them. And find more. And research the hell out of it, whether it is important or not. Or at least, that's what I did. Michelle gave me an outlet to pour my extra energy into.

I'm not a skeptic. Boyfriend will vouch that I believe in some weird shit. But I did not believe I was psychic. What I did believe was that Michelle was kind of crazy. And that made sense. Of course I would connect with the only crazy therapist I've had.

I continued to see Michelle twice a week for another couple of months. Most of the sessions were spent practicing breathing techniques and meditation exercises that were meant to keep my psychic ability in check. I think she saw me as some sort of project or discovery. Her techniques did work to keep my mind calm at times, but I eventually quit therapy again and quit eating again. At that time, that was the only thing that really worked to calm my crazy.

Most would not call that a successful story, but how many people can say they have been called a psychic by a mental health professional?

It's happening again.

I thought I was done feeling like this. With all the drugs I take throughout the day to keep me sane, I thought my days of waking up with tears in my eyes were gone. The part that is really f-ed up is that I think I woke up crying because I miss my crazy.

I miss being able to spring out of bed after 4 hours of bad sleep.
I miss not having to stop for breaks throughout the day.
I miss feeling invincible.

Deep down, I know that the manic part of my disorder is just as bad as the depressive part of it. But I don't care. It's hard to care when I still vividly remember how great some of my manic days were. All the work I got done. All the money I made. All the creative ideas that jumped out at me faster than I could write them down. Knowing that I could have that again even after a night of shitty sleep makes it hard to take my lithium in the morning.

How am I supposed to accomplish all the lofty goals I have for myself when my medication makes me too slow to carry out even normal tasks? But how am I supposed to justify dropping my meds when I damn near killed myself without them?