I'm sitting on my bed in my bedroom, headphones in, listening to Guster to drown out the sounds of Shark Week emanating from the living room (my son is watching Shark Week and is all excited about it). I'm depressed - but what's new? Aren't I always fucking depressed? It definitely seems that way.
But no, as it turns out, I had a few days over the weekend where I was hypomanic. I worked on Saturday (I'm an RN, remember) and I did something rather embarrassing: at lunchtime there were 6 or 7 of us in the break room. I proceeded to try and convince everyone to eat my ashes after I'm cremated when I die. I was going on and on. Everyone was laughing but looking a little uncomfortable. So I told them they could eat my corpse instead if that was better.
Uhhhhh, no.
Luckily I kept myself under control around my patients. I was only weird with coworkers.
Anyway, today I had therapy and I had to convince M that I didn't need to go to the hospital because of my suicidal thoughts. We revamped my safety plan, but I think he was feeling quite leery. He told me he'd beat me up if I killed myself. Buddy, you ain't the only one!
I'm not sure what the hospital would do for me other than keep me safe. So if I can keep myself safe at home, well . . .
And I am keeping myself safe. If I can get past the crisis point then I'm okay, I'll be okay, I'll live another day. And that's what I've been doing, day in, day out.
It's fucking tiring. And at times seems pointless.
Let's be honest, the only reason I'm still around is my hubby and son. If not for them . . .
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