Therapy Drop Out

I heard it for years. "You need therapy." "You should talk to someone." "You're finally in therapy? Thank god!"

And I gave the same responses. "Eh, it's not for me." "I'm not good at the whole 'talking' thing." "Yeah, but I think I'm doing it wrong."

This Tuesday, I got confirmation that I was right all along.

I have to admit, I've been doing a bang up job with this whole recovery thing. I've been meditating, going to my class, writing in my journal, reading books about recovery, being totally compliant with every damn intake I've had to do to get into my programs, taking my meds at exactly the same time every day, (I'm bragging a bit,), getting myself to all my appointments, exercising. And therapy. The life-saving, years overdue, "Mary, you need this," answer to all the world's mental health problems, one-on-one, talking to a stranger therapy.

Tuesday, I met with my therapist for the first time since coming home from the hospital. I walked in there totally hopeful, even toying with the idea of bumping therapy up to twice a week. Because, according to everyone who's ever told me I needed help, this was the key to full recovery. I got there early, sorted out my thoughts in my journal, and walked in with my head high, ready to embrace this form of healing. Ready to let go of my checkered past with therapy.

And I walked out of there feeling like shit. Two days later, I still felt like shit. Three days later, I'm canceling all future appointments.

I don't see the point. Having trust issues and being conversationally challenged aside, I don't see how bringing horrible issues just to the surface and sending me on my way can help. I leave with more questions than answers. I leave with different problems and the same coping mechanisms. I leave with my head down and hours of unguided, unproductive, intrusive contemplation ahead of me.

Maybe therapy shouldn't be just one hour once or twice a week. It should be 5 hours. Enough time to get through the idle chit-chat, break me out of the mask, throw the shit on the table, and figure out how to approach it going forward. Brain-storming, problem solving, crying, drying, and conclusion. If nothing else, after 5 hours, I will be too exhausted to continue the contemplation when I leave. And then it may not ruin the next three days.

So, that's my confession. I'm weird. Therapy is a giant step backwards in my recovery, and I quit. I'm not going to apologize, and I'm not going to stress myself out finding a therapist that is as weird as me.

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.

"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.

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.