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.

Say Hello to Your Life

Last night, I did it. I finally did it. I caked shit tons of make up on my face, pulled my leg warmers up over my neon leggings, and ventured out the safety of my home for a night out with friends. And yes, the lovely attire I donned was for an 80's themed party.

In addition to discovering how much I freaking love leg warmers, I rediscovered how great it can be to be around other people. These past couple of months, it has become increasingly easier to stay cooped up, seeing no one but Boyfriend and texting no one but a few close friends who know the embarrassing ins and outs of what I've been dealing with. But last night, I got to see them all at once, in person, and in a living room other than my own.

As awesome as it was, I can't say that it healed me or made me forget that I'm crazy. There were still points during the party where my mind would draw a blank, forgetting what were we doing and why. I had a few silent moments of panic when I couldn't figure out whose voices were coming from which direction. Unless I made a serious effort to stay connected, I would get lost.

That being said, it was important for my recovery knowing that it is possible for me to be social, have a genuinely good time doing so, and not be judged (or possibly even noticed) when my madness tries to introduce herself to the other guests. For the most part, I still had control.

Going to a party may be a different experience for me than it would be for someone else who doesn't have mental illness issues to deal with, but it is definitely an experience that I want to continue to have. Maybe alongside a bit of overdue treatment.

Drugs! Drugs! Drugs!

My Personal Pill Collection

100 mg x 8 pills = 800 mg Zoloft
50 mg x 44.5 pills = 2,225 mg Zoloft
25 mg x 5 pills = 125 mg Zoloft
TOTAL = 3,150 mg ZOLOFT


300 mg x 142 pills = 42,600 mg Lithium
600 mg x 14 pills = 8,400 mg Lithium
TOTAL = 51,000 mg LITHIUM


0.5 mg x 60 pills = 30 mg Lorazepam
25 mg x 60 pills = 1,500 mg Lamictal
25 mg x 15 pills = 375 Seroquel



After coming home with yet another goody bag of pills, I decided to do a little bit of morbid math. Here were my findings:

• If I took all of the Zoloft I have right now, I could cause some serious, potentially irreversible damage to my internal organs. If I mixed those pills with a decent amount of alcohol, I could probably kill myself.
• I could probably kill myself twice with all the Lithium I have in stock. Again, let's factor in the variable of some alcohol. Then, I could certainly kill myself twice.
• The Lorazepam could possibly kill me if I took it all with a bunch of alcohol. Respiratory depression would be the cause of death if I wasn't found in time.
• Taking all my Lamictal and Seroquel wouldn't kill me, even if I did mix them into a few cocktails, but they would probably require an ambulance, an IV or two, and some serious hospital time.
• If I took all the pills, I would be dead.

How did I acquire such an arsenal of mood stabilizers, anti-depressants, narcotics, and sedatives in the 4 months that I have been seeking help, you ask? Let me show you my secret:

Doctor: Have you ever been on medication?

Me: Yes. I hated it. I don't want to just numb my feelings; I want to figure it out what's wrong and fix it.

Doctor: Have you ever tried (insert drug)?

Me: No, but I don't want more drugs thrown at me yet. 

Doctor: (Drug) has been found to be very helpful in many cases like yours.

Me: How do you know my... Uh... We just met 3 minutes ago... *befuddled head tilt*... You can't...know...

Doctor: You may experience nausea, insomnia, tremors, forgetfulness, skin rash, dizziness, fatigue, etc. But just keep taking them twice a day until I can see you again in a month. ItwasgreatseeingyouMary.TakeCare.Don'thesitatetocallmedirectlyifthereareanyproblems.Bye!*slam*

Me: But... you didn't give me your number...

I have gone into every appointment very clearly voicing my dissatisfaction with the meds I've been put on and my extreme desire to find a more natural route. But when we are allotted 15 minutes for me to explain my struggles in the past and fears for the future with time to spare for the doctor to fill out paperwork, complete their notes, and write prescriptions. That leaves about 5 minutes for me to voice what I really need to keep from freaking the fuck out on a daily basis. 

Four months later, I'm still freaking the fuck out on almost a daily basis.

I am just totally, utterly, and thoroughly appalled, disheartened, and riled that they are handing that many drugs to someone who openly admits that death sometimes seems like a better option. I am still alive because of my own strength and the love I am lucky enough to have in my life. Not because of any help I have received from these governmentally-funded drug pushers.

I want options.

I want someone who listens.

I want more than 15 minutes.

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.

30 Days of Self Harm Challenge

Anyone who has ever found themselves on Facebook has seen those stupid "30 Days of Whatever" challenges. 30 Days of Friends. 30 Days of Music. 30 Days of Wardrobe. Well, I stumbled across a new one the day when I was doing some research. 30 Days of Self Harm.

At first, I was all, "WhatTheFuck?! Who challenges someone to hurt themselves for 30 days?! What, does it dare people to try it on different body parts? Different locations? Different methods? Fucking shit, people are sick as fuck! Where do I report this?!?!"

I was wrong. It is actually a list of 30 questions that force those who take the challenge to examine themselves and honestly open up about this dangerous coping mechanism. On the one hand, I think it could be useful tool in stopping to think about why we do this. On the other hand, I feel like it has the potential to be extremely triggering.

What do you guys think? Is this something that should be done privately or publicly?

Here is the challenge:

30 Days of Self Harm Challenge

1. How long have you been self harming? Discuss why you started.
2. What part of your body is most affected by it?
3. What is your motivation to recover?
4. Do you consider yourself “addicted”? why or why not?
5. What part of self harm do you dislike the most?
6. What about it do you enjoy?
7. list 10 activities that help you calm down.
8. What the most supportive thing anyone has said to you about self harm?
9. Have you ever taken pictures of your wounds? Discuss.
10. How do you feel about your scars?
11. Strangest place (school, park, etc) you’ve ever injured yourself?
12. Where do you keep your ‘tools’? (Your room, in a box, disposed of them?)
13. What is the biggest realization about self harm you’ve had?
14. Is there anyone you consider to be an inspiration in your recovery?
15. Do you visit any websites about self harm? If so, what are they?
16. What advice would you give to someone about self harm?
17. Do you know anyone else who injures themselves? 
18. Write a letter to the future (recovered) you.
19. List 5 reasons that recovery is worth it.
20. What is the most vivid memory you have of self harm.
21. Have you tried to stop in the past? What are you doing differently this time?
22. Where do you feel the most calm?
23. What is your favorite inspirational quote?
24. What are some of your main triggers? Why?
25. Do you know any statistics about self harm?
26. What is something that makes you the most happy?
27. Discuss any and all progress you have made.
28. What short-term goals do you have?
29. Do you follow any self-harm blogs?
30. Post your favorite picture of yourself and write a positive message to look back on

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. 

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.

"I'm still alive, but I'm barely breathing."

I've been sitting here with a blank page in front of me for hours. I desperately want to let out all the destructive emotions and fears that are crippling me mentally and physically. But I can't. Maybe I'm finally afraid of people seeing what a mess I am through this blog. This was supposed to be an outlet for me to express myself while simultaneously assisting others in their journey through mental illness. I failed. Zoloft and Coffee has been nothing but a display of my weakness. 

I am more lost than I have ever been. Here's the cliff note version my day: 

"Healthy breakfast. Coffee! I'm going to learn yoga and meditation to reach inner peace. Master it now. Click off TV. Volume up on racing thoughts. Fuck, blood? Ok, that happened. At least now my head's clear. Back to the computer for answers. Why am I lying down? Cry. Cry. Throw something. Cry. I hate myself. 'Girlfriend, take one of your pills.' Shit, I slept all afternoon. I'm so fucking fat. But I'm calm. Computer for answers! There are no answers. There are no words. Sleep or wine?"

People keep telling me to chill out, get over it, that it gets better. Bullshit like that. Half the time I cling to those lies out of necessity to keep myself out of the mental hospital and in the world. The other half, I sober up enough to see the ominous reality that this isn't something I can snap out of. I need more help than this computer can give me, more than I am willing to branch out to seek.

Next time I have a little bit of hope mixed with a manic explosion, I'm coming here. Instead of heading to Google, WebMD, HealthyPlace, and AltMedWorld only to be disappointed in the fact no one says that I can get better without leaving my home or taking pills, I will write. I know I can't solve this myself, but bare minimum, I should be able to breath.

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.

Fucked up Welcome Back Free Write

Where do I pick up after abandoning my blog for almost 2 weeks? Has it been two weeks? Honestly, I don't know even what day it is. I spent the majority if the day thinking it was Friday and even when I learned it was Tuesday, I continued on as though it were Friday. 

Something is seriously wrong with me at the moment. I can't really say "at the moment" considering this has been going on for the past several weeks, and years, before that. So I am going to free-write my scattered, fucked up, horrible thoughts here until the Lorazopam I popped kicks in and I can finally get a brief moment of peace before I crumble under the weight of myself.

If I had to sum it up in just a few words, those words would be "The monsters are winning." Yup, they are back full force, taking control over every mechanism that makes me me. They decide when I am fast, physically and mentally. Like today, my monsters thought it was fucking hilarious to watch me run around the house gathering up every piece of fabric for the laundry, rearranging the bathroom so it's more pleasant for the cat, and crawling on my hands and knees picking up lint so that the house would look perfect. Because a perfect looking house means that I'm not crazy. Haha, thanks, guys, but everyone knows damn well that fucked up. All this while making a list of things I don't have time to do today but can work on tomorrow. Like scrub the walls and paint the bookshelves and create some wall art for the bedroom with no money.

That was today, but most days the monsters shut me down. I spend way too much time crying under a blanket hating myself so much that it physically hurts. I dwell over the fact that I am ruining Boyfriend's life and he won't admit it. I beat myself up over everyone that I have left in the wake of my destruction. I hate the evil parts of the world that I am too incapicated to fix when I am depressed and only contribute to its downfall when I'm not. But what really makes me break down, really makes the tears flow and the hyperventilating to the point of passing is the fact that the little girls I nanny for, the little girls I love so fucking much it isn't even possible, won't remember who I am. If the monsters kill me, everyone else will mourn for the appropriate time, move on with their lives, and occasionally look back at the sordid part of their past that included me. Those girls won't. I still can't decide whether that is motivating to get better or pushing me further into the depression.

If the depression and the wild weren't enough, I'm also having some pretty fuck-tastic dissociation episodes. I don't know if that is the right way to describe it. The doctor I saw about it won't tell me. In a nutshell, the world around me disappears. I am trapped in a bubble of just me until my head and body start to separate. Then I am left with two options. I can either sit there and bawl like a baby in terror for hours until miraculously the world is in focus again. Or I can speed up the process and cut myself. I know, totally fucked up. Or maybe not. The doctor didn't think it was important enough to talk about.

I suppose it is worth mentioning that I'm off all my meds. They were numbing me. They were making it harder and harder for me to write, the one and only thing that I took any pride in before this whole ordeal. I believe that they were prescribed to me by doctors who really didn't give a shit about my well-being. They just wanted me to talk slower and sit still. So fuck em. Fuck the doctors who wouldn't give me more than 5 minutes to explain what was wrong. And fuck the meds they gave me to shut me up.

I came to this lovely conclusion after spending a bit of time at a temporarily unnamed mental facility. (When I reveal where this care came from, I want to do so in a more level-headed manner.) I admitted myself with great support from Boyfriend and Dad with the hope that I was finally going to get real help. That maybe someone would be able to explain to me what I was saying to them in confusion. Nope. I got in a fight with Dr. Narcissist and was discharged against medical advice. But more on that later.

So here I am. Free from Lithium. Free from Zoloft. Starting the cycle over again. Taking on the monsters that are stronger than ever with my bare fists and losing. Apparently there is never a good time to bow out graciously, or at least that is what I'm told. So I have to keep fighting for something I don't even believe in anymore. Hope is gone. Or I was naive to think it was ever there to begin with.

The Lorazopam has kicked in finally. I'm probably going to regret posting this later, but whatever. For now, maybe I can maybe enjoy a few moments of the day. 

When did getting dressed become a victory?

I promised Boyfriend two things before he left for work this morning:

1.   That I would get dressed.
2.   That I would leave the house.

I am cheating just a little. Yes, I'm out of the apartment, but I haven't exactly left the building. I'm hanging out in the unused party room upstairs to get distance from the safety of my bed as I write. That's right, I broke into a party room to ponder the depression that has taken hold of me. Ironic? Funny? Pathetic? All of the above.

I think it started three or four days ago. The immobilizing thoughts, the realistic nightmares, and the ill-timed fits of teary panic have consumed me again. The last time I felt this bad, it held tight for months until it finally let loose with a trip to the ER. Now, it has me thinking that maybe this won't be the year I stay out of the hospital or the year I don't drop below 100 pounds or the year I don't scare away someone I love to death.

Boyfriend's calling bullshit. I feel incapable of everything, but he's seen my strength. I want to cry in bed just one more day. He knows the procrastination will make me hate myself more at night. I say I'm worthless, but he sees something I can't. He is the most supportive and loving person I could possibly have by my side at a dark time like this, but he is also not going to let me fuck up my new job, my writing, or all my progress that I have made since my last depressive episode. He's bringing out a bit of tough love.

So here I am. A zombie. A zombie with a pen trying to explain what depression feels like despite zero energy or creative drive. Pushing through depression is more than holding back some tears. My body physically hurts. There is a flu-like ache over my skin and muscles that makes a shower seem too taxing. I can't remember how to do tasks that I've done a million times, like holding this damn pen.

I get this totally disconnected feeling, this feeling that I am passing control to one of my monsters while I try to hide, coming out for brief moments to check the day and figure out where I am. How the fuck am I supposed to hide when they are inside of me?! The best I can do is hide them from everyone else. In my apartment, under the covers, locked in a bathroom. 

Time means nothing. I can lie in bed crying for hours, and not be sure whether it was a moment that passed or a week. Hell, I had the same feeling follow me when I attempted to do dishes this morning. Suddenly, I couldn't remember if I just started scrubbing that pan or if I have been scrubbing a clean pan for hours. It is these kind of thought processes that creep into "normal" things when I am depressed making it feel like I can't function. The monsters don't care if I am with a friend or driving my car. They transport me out of my body, out of time, and into my head to spend some quality alone time with them.

Boyfriend forcing me emphatically urging me to carry on with my life makes me recognize the disconnect and desire to hide in a very uncomfortable way. I'd rather not accept that my reality does not mesh with everyone else's. I wish my biggest battle I had to fight was to get a promotion at work or figure out how to pay for Spring Break. But I guess I'm just one of the lucky ones who gets a messed up head.

As much as I hate to admit it, getting out of bed helps. It's not a cure, by any means. I still feel like shit and want to crawl back to my safe zone, but there may be a little more strength in me that I didn't have when I woke up.