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.