Fuck you Ted

I woke up this morning feeling depressed again. Feeling an overwhelming desire to not exist. I feel depressed . . . but I feel numb. I need to cry but I can't.

I don't know if I can accurately describe what I'm feeling.

I've been depressed for the last 3 weeks. Hopeless. Despair. Secretly wanting to die. I had ECT on Monday and was doing a little better on Monday and Tuesday. Then I had therapy on Wednesday and I was a little hypomanic, which, of course, my therapist picked up on right away. Even threatened me with hospitalization (both for the mania and previous depression). I wasn't happy, fun, euphoric hypomanic - no. I was irritable, agitated, anxious hypomanic. I was fidgety and a little snippy. Shaky and breathing rapidly. I was uncomfortable and wanted to curl in a ball. M is good though and was able to get me to laugh.

I worked yesterday and I was rapid cycling. Up, down, up, down all day long. Not to the far extremes - thank God - but up and down constantly none the less. The downs were more pronounced, the ups were short lived, and there was no in between. I'm a nurse, I work in a busy birth center, and I struggled all day to keep myself in check, to not be inappropriate, and to just make it through the fucking day.

And then today, because things can't possibly be easy, I wake up feeling depressed. I wake up with no motivation to do anything. I don't want to be out of bed, I don't want to be awake. I want to cut. I don't want to exist. I don't see why I should. I'm constantly dealing with this, I'm constantly in pain from the bipolar. . . I can't ever seem to just be okay. I can't ever just seem to be happy. So what's the point? I'll be dealing with this the rest of my life. I try not to think about that because that is overwhelming and daunting and depressive in and of itself.

Part of me doesn't want to do this anymore.

But I think of my hubby and son and know that I can't give up. I have to keep going for them. Even though today I want to go back to bed and not wake up.

Fuck this shit.



(Ted is what I named my depression, btw)

Cutting

Trigger Warning

This is a candid post about cutting. For some people, reading about cutting can be a trigger. 


Have I mentioned that I'm a cutter? I'm not sure that I have (and I'm too lazy to go back through my old posts right now). So anyway, I'm a cutter. I'm not nearly as bad as I could be - I only cut my left forearm and my thighs - and I don't cut all that often (until lately). But I'm a cutter.

Cutting has never really made any sense to me. I mean, why the fuck would you cut up your own flesh? What the fuck does that accomplish? I do it, and I'm still at a loss. Well, not entirely. I've been doing it long enough that I know what it does for me. But it's still a very strange thing, to take a blade to your own arm or leg, and it's something I've been thinking about a lot recently. Why have I been thinking about it? Because something has changed. I'm no longer cutting only for the relief it brings. Oh no. I'm cutting for the scars.

Yes, the scars.

This is what makes no sense to me. In the past when I've cut, it's been for the cut. It's been to feel the sting, the pain, to see the blood. That temporary rush would remind me I was alive or let me feel something when I felt nothing. It helped me cope with negative emotions. Afterwards there would be a little guilt (a very small amount) and I would do my best to hide the bandage - I didn't want people to know.

But not now. Now it's the opposite. Now I want people to notice. I want them to see my scars, my fresh wounds. I want them to know. And when I cut? I make sure it's deep enough to leave a scar. There's no more being careful. That's what I'm trying to figure out. Why this change. Because I'm almost becoming obsessed with it, wanting to cut more and more, and getting upset if a cut doesn't leave a noticeable enough scar (or no scar at all).

What I've come up with (really the only thing I've come up with), is this: cuts and scars on my arm are the only real visual representation of how much I struggle or am struggling. People can look at my arm and go 'wow, she must be having a rough time right now'. People seem to get that. And especially since I have been having a rough go of things right now (I've had suicidal thoughts more days than not over the past 3 weeks). But then I think, why does everyone need to know that? They don't. Is this just attention seeking behavior on my part? Look at me! I'm bipolar and depressed! Pay attention to me! I don't want that. I don't want to be that person. See, the people who I truly want to know how I'm doing, well, I tell them. They are good friends, my hubby, and coworkers I trust and whom I know I can rely on for the support I need. Joe Shmo at the 7-11 who sees my arm isn't going to support me or offer me anything of value (unless it compels him to give me my coffee and KitKat for free but I doubt it). So then what's the point?

Actually, I guess I lied. I have come up with something else: the scars are for me. A reminder of difficult times, of what I've gone through. Proof that I was strong enough not to put the blade to my wrist. I'm a fighter and these scars are my battle wounds. I do look at them. I run my fingers over them. And I'm not ashamed of them. But are they necessary? I know the shit I've gone through - do I really need a visual reminder of that? A visual reminder that other people are going to judge me for?

No. No I don't.

There's something else though. Something that I don't even want to admit to myself. Something that I actually haven't told anyone. Part of the reason why I cut is that I don't think people will believe I'm sick if I don't have something physical. I think people will blow me off if they don't also see the cuts. I could be telling them that I'm suicidal and need help but all that means nothing if they don't also see I'm self harming. I need the validation. And I guess part of me also wants something else: people to know I'm bipolar, see that I self harm, but say, 'see her? She's gone through all that but she's still working, still functioning. That's amazing.' Validation.

I fucking hate that about me.

I need to stop cutting, I just don't know if I can.

. . .

I told hubby last night how I was feeling. How he and the boy are the only reasons I haven't killed myself. How I'm so fucking tired. How it's tiring and draining and just fucking stupid that I have to try so hard and struggle so much to be okay. Just to be okay. And most of the time? I'm not even okay. I told him how I don't know what to do anymore because I've done everything. Meds (23 different ones), traditional therapy, DBT, equine therapy, Al-Anon, different psychiatrists, referrals to experts, hospitalizations, time off from work, volunteer work (which I enjoy), still working with horses, ECT, karate, and now my butt is back in the gym. (Oh, and I've tried going the spiritual route. I have my own belief system. Reading the Bible annoys me. Going to church pisses me off. I have no desire to learn about religion.)

I'm sick of feeling how I do. I'm sick of feeling hopeless and helpless and like everything is pointless. I'm tired of constantly wanting to cut, of constantly thinking about suicide (against my will - I do everything I can to push those thoughts from my mind). I'm tired of feeling like a burden to my family.

I'm just really fucking tired. I just want to be okay without struggling so much. I want to enjoy life and my family.

Golly it's Been Awhile . . .

Well fuck. It's been quite awhile since I last wrote. This can be chalked up to one major reason: lack of motivation.

Let me give you some background.

I am, now, officially considered stable. I don't know for how long. 6, 10 weeks? Longer? Shorter? I'm not really sure. But see, my stable is different. My stable isn't what most people would necessarily consider stable. Why? Because I still cycle. I still have mood episodes. The catch is that they tend to be much shorter - hours to a day or two - and therefor more manageable. And this, according to my psychiatrist and therapist, is my normal. That I'm as stable as I'm going to be.

And what's gotten me stable? Med wise, lithium, Prestiq, and Latuda. But then the big guns, ECT (electroconvulsive therapy - shock treatments). The ECT is doing most of the work and I get zapped every other week (just got zapped yesterday in fact). My psychiatrist thinks I'll need ECT indefinitely. Do we know that for sure? Of course not. But that's how it's looking. And I'm okay with that, as long as it continues to work. Because it is allowing me to have some semblance of a life.

With all that being said, my short mood episodes can still be extreme. I've cut in the last month, felt dangerously suicidal, and have had anger so intense I was close to destroying a display in a store and hitting someone (irritable hypomania). And these episodes can happen at any time, for any reason.

But here's the annoying bit: this perpetual lack of motivation. It's not just for writing, oh no, it goes for my artwork, working out, cleaning the house. . . . It's pretty all consuming. As the last few weeks have gone by, I think the reason has become more apparent - underlying low grade depression. This has especially become apparent over the last week. I'm the queen of low grade depression. I've dealt with it my entire life - at least since 4th or 5th grade (I started cutting in 6th). So I know what I'm feeling.

And what I'm feeling is no bueno.

I wake up in the morning wanting to stay in bed, go back to sleep, because the day is too much for me to face. I shower, but I don't care if I do my hair or put on makeup. The motivation isn't there and I see no point to it (because there's no point to anything). On my days off I don't want to do anything (except maybe nap so I can wake up and feel better, which never happens). I try. I try and paint or clean or read. But it's so fucking hard because I just don't care. On days I work I don't want to talk, don't want to interact. I want to do my job and be left alone. But I force myself to talk, to joke, to act like myself. My close friends point out that they know something is off. But at least I try.

However, with the low grade depression I still can joke and interact and do my job well. I still can genuinely enjoy my hubby and son's company. And I'm typically not suicidal and don't get the urge to cut as much. So it's better than it could be. But it still fucking sucks. Because depression, no motivation, potential to get worse.

So anyway, I think that's all for now. It's been an obnoxious morning but I got a workout in (even though I almost broke down crying in the gym - thanks depression). There might have been more I was going to write, but I've lost it for now. I'll try and write more frequently.

Toodles.