The Calm After the Storm

Well, I'm glad that's over. I made it out of my depressive episode with my wrists in tact and my sanity restored. But it has been one hell of a week.

I gave you a little insight into what I was feeling earlier this week. The inevitable backslide that I wrote about on Tuesday. The inadequacy. The self-doubt. The resentment and fear. All those individual antagonists teamed together as allied forces to take me down. No one negative was responsible for my plummet, but instead they all fed off one another to grow in power and strength. To charge in at 9:30 Friday morning to destabilize me in one pinnacle moment.

The shower. 

I should know better than to take a shower when I am feeling so low. Each time, I take a breather and think, "Oh, if I just get cleaned up, throw on some make-up, and look like I'm ok, I will be ok." Problem solved! That's not quite what happens. Ever. Instead, I get in there, I'm stuck in a small room with the white noise of the water which amplifies the thoughts the monsters are putting in my head. And I'm exposed and vulnerable to boot. So rather than thinking, "I suck at everything," the monsters take this opportunity to scream, "YOU SUCK AT YOUR JOB! BOYFRIEND WOULD BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT YOU! YOU CAN'T EVEN KEEP THE HOUSE CLEAN, FUCK UP!" Then I give up, get out of the shower, and take a passing look in the mirror to see the gargantuan figure that seems to get larger each second my self esteem gets smaller. And, in my precarious state, it's enough.

So in about 10 minutes, I've gone from melancholy to suicidal. And since I am severely lacking in the coping skills department, all I could think of to do to alleviate my pain and eliminate the risk of suicide were swallowing a couple Ambien to knock myself out until Boyfriend got home or cutting myself to show the monsters who's in charge. Maybe I am getting a little bit better at managing myself, because even in my disjointed state, I still knew that those options would only lead to more negative repercussions once I'm discovered. Which means the next 4 or 5 hours were spent in hysterical tears, trying to chase away thoughts of annihilation. 

And then, just as quickly as it started, it was over. Boyfriend came home, I had another rough couple of hours, and then, after hashing it out a bit, the monsters went back to their cave in Hell or wherever they come from. Boyfriend admitted how hard it is to deal with me. I tried to make sure he understands that this is not the last time it will happen. And we both agreed to get back into therapy. And then we ate cheese, played cards, and went back to living happily ever after.

This past week has reminded me that, yes, I do have a mental illness. It was kind of a perfect storm of forgetting my pills one day, receiving an extremely triggering letter, and the stress of starting a new job. But my monsters that come out when triggered are equivalent to someone else catching the flu when exposed to a certain virus. The virus lives on a doorknob. A person grabs that knob before the virus dies. A speck of dust tickles their nose, and BAM! Infected. 

That's what happened to me. I got sick this week. It may not be from a virus, and it cannot be treated with antibiotics, but it came from something real. It has physical implications. It deserves treatment. And that is where I need to put my focus from now on. Getting back into treatment.

But it's Saturday. So right now, I am going to focus on digesting the grilled food I just ate and prepare for a bonfire tonight. Life is good and I want to enjoy as much of it as possible. Before the monsters make me sick again.

Oh, Monsters. There you are.

Joan Jett has nothing to do with this post,
but I liked the picture.

I feel like shit. And it really shouldn't surprise me. I start my new job tomorrow, so of course my monsters were like, "Oh, something important is coming up. Time to fuck with Mary again!" So they jump out of hiding to bitchslap me with a depressive episode.

Just this past Sunday night, I was sitting at home with Boyfriend feeling nothing but pure bliss. There on my meditation pillow, I was able to look around and see shelves of my favorite books, meaningful art that I created, a life that Boyfriend, the love of my life, and I have built together this past year and a half, and the hope for a future that radiates promise and passion. All while listening to a relaxing yoga station on Pandora, sipping some bourbon, and reading a motivational memoir. I was totally submerged in the happiness I didn't think existed when I was at my worst at the beginning of this year.

Fast forward two days, and it feels like January all over again.

I feel like I'm letting Boyfriend down.
I regret my job for not being more lucrative.
I wonder why I have been given the responsibility to help other people through their struggles when my own keep me bedridden for an extra two hours in the morning.
I loathe the mirror and these extra "healthy" pounds.
I am embarrassed that I ever entertained the notion that I could be a successful writer.
I regret my stay at the hospital and despise it for costing as much as it did.
I exhume bitterness and bury courtesy for the family I wish I had.
I idealize surrendering.

The inevitable backslide. I think, deep down, I knew this was going to happen, but another part of me thought that with all the drugs they have me on, I should be able to handle anything that comes my way. Or I should just be numbed to all the triggers that send me sinking. I guess this is what I get for being cocky, for thinking I had this shit figured out. For thinking that I was stronger than my mental illness.

No, I am not ending it like this. One thing that I have confidently learned over these past many months is that I leave the table with the last feeling I wrote stuck in my head. That is why I always end my journal entries (not so much my blog entries) on a positive note. Even if it is just forced bullshit that doesn't actually help, at least I can convince myself that I didn't raise the white flag without first raising a middle finger to the monsters.

PEP TALK: Get it together, Girlfriend. It's not even 11:00. You still have plenty of time to at least clean the house, and maybe even get a little writing work done. Hell, you can even make dinner tonight and show Boyfriend that you are useful. If you don't finish everything you have on that massive list of yours, at least you can make a dent and feel better going into tomorrow. You don't have to be perfect. Repeat that aloud. You don't have to be perfect! No one is. Now post this shit, center yourself with some meditation, and start the day over. It's not too late.

And go.

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.