Monday 4/27/20 Therapy and Work

This is one of those times where I want to write, need to write, but I don't know what to say. My brain is completely jumbled right now - it's a mess. So many thoughts. Most of them don't even make any sense. But I'm going to try and write a coherent post.

I had therapy today. Actually, I just got home from therapy. Almost the entire session centered on my depression and anxiety. Mostly my depression though. I've been getting progressively more and more depressed. More and more empty. More and more lost. I focused on Saturday as an example.

I worked Saturday. When I got up that morning to shower I could just feel it was going to be a difficult day. I already felt terribly down and empty. I tried talking up the day, knowing there were only 2 inductions, it's a Saturday - it shouldn't be busy, it'll be a good day!

I almost had myself convinced.

I went out to my truck to leave for work and there was a light layer of frost on my windshield. I almost lost it. My eyes welled up with tears and I nearly sat down in the driveway and cried. Over frost. Instead, I sucked it up, scraped my windshield and drove to work. Little did I know that would be my theme of the day.

I started off the day with a c-section - not how I like to start off my mornings, but hey, it is what it is. I felt that familiar feeling of needing to cry and shook it off. I did the c-section, admit, and charted, the whole time feeling like I was going to lose it. Spoiler alert - I didn't.

I had lunch and did another delivery when I felt something else, something different. The need to cut. When I feel empty and devoid of real feelings I get the desire to cut. Because when I cut I can at least feel something - even if that something is pain. It gives me a fleeting sense of belonging almost. I don't know how to describe it. I wanted to cut, badly.

So I texted my hubby and let him know what was going on. He talked with me for a bit and suggested I draw on myself, particularly butterflies (because of the Butterfly Project - a movement for those who self harm to draw butterflies on themselves instead of cutting). I had heard of it before but never put much clout into it.

Well, I tried it. And it helped. Briefly. But briefly was all I needed in the moment to keep from cutting. I ended up with four butterflies on my arm. Now, I still wanted to cut, I was just able to not do it. So I'll count that as a win.

The day went on and I continued to feel empty and hopeless and depressed. I put on a facade for those around me, which was difficult to do. But I did it anyway. By the time I left work I was exhausted. Not because it was busy - I only did 3 deliveries - but because of my flailing mental health.

Feeling like I'm going to constantly break down has been my MO as of late. I feel like this every day, coupled with the emptiness, hopelessness, and exhaustion. In therapy we discussed coping mechanisms and what I've done that has and hasn't helped. The only thing I can do is power through - it's all I know how to do.

Today I'll be helping my hubby build a shed. Not what I want to do today but it needs to be done. And it'll give me time with him and time out in the sun doing manual labor and that's good for the soul, right? At least that's what I'm telling myself. In all honestly I'd like to go back to bed.

Monday 4/6/20

I just finished my tele therapy session with M. Tele therapy, you ask? Face time on the computer basically. So yes, I just finished my session. Therapy is always helpful - seriously, always - but sometimes I don't quite say everything I mean to.

Like today.

See, I don't want to sound like a broken record. I don't want to sound stupid or naive. I don't want to be judged (although I know M would never judge me). And sometimes, sometimes I'm too scared to put myself out there.

I think all of these things were holding me back today. I couldn't speak up, I couldn't say what was truly on my mind.

And what was on my mind?

My depression. My depression was on my mind. I'm not "fully" depressed. I'm not suicidal. I'm functional. I can smile. I can even laugh. But I'm dead inside. I'm so empty. I'm hollow - there's nothing there. In a world full of color, everything is grey for me.

I feel as though everything is pointless. Everything is stupid - why do any of it?

I feel flat. I'm not feeling real emotions. I'm faking them for the sake of others. I can smile, though I'm not quick to do so. I can laugh, though it's mostly a facade. I can get angry, though it's short lived (that's a good thing I guess). My emotions are muted. It's as if they aren't even there. Even when I feel worse than empty I can't cry. There's not enough emotion behind it.

I feel trapped by this. I want to feel. I want my emotions. And I don't know how to get out of this. I don't know what to do.

I have TMS this Wednesday, the 8th. I'm hoping this helps. I had spoken to my psychiatrist a couple weeks ago and he had nothing to offer med wise. He brought up trying ECT again which I won't do. Especially when I have TMS as an option.

I've been so non-feeling that I've had the urge to cut again. Because if I'm feeling pain, at least it's something. I hate this about myself. I thought I was over this.

But this grey . . . it's unrelenting. It's all encompassing. And it's a pain in the ass. Truly. 

6/10/19

Well. I had therapy today. And I talked about my depression and my light headedness and tremors and work. And maybe it helped a little? I'm not sure. The fact still remains though that I'm depressed.

I have no motivation to do anything. I got home from therapy and wanted to go to bed. I didn't. I went downstairs and did a couple of sketches. I drew a sparrow and some flowers. Go me. All trying to not go to bed. I had lunch. I put dinner in the crockpot.

I want to go to bed. Just sleep. Sleep for eternity.

So I'm writing. I'm trying to distract myself, kill time. Not sleep.

But we all know what's going to happen, don't we? When I'm done with this I'm going to go lay down. Because I can't. I just can't. I can't deal with this unrelenting emptiness. I wish I could cry. I think I'd feel better if I could cry. But I can't. There's no emotion there. It's gone. I'm just so empty. Void. Blank. Numb. There's nothing there.

I can't fucking FEEL.

And it makes me so tired. It's hard to keep up the facade that I'm okay. Even that I'm marginally okay witch is what I've been doing.

I can't do this.

I see Dr. M on the 17th. I know he's going to suggest ECT, which I can't do. I can't. My memory is jacked enough. Maybe ketamine. I don't know. I'll find out I guess.

Anyway, it's time to go lay down. /end rant 

5/19/18

So you know, I've been pretty stable over the last month, except when I haven't been. I've been mostly stable, with a couple little blips here and there.

Damn you know what? This is completely off subject but I'm sitting here on my couch and the heat just kicked on and it smells like my damn dog. Like my icky dog's scent is coming out of the vents. How gross is that? Now the whole house smells like my dog. Ugh.

Anyway, back to these blips.

I had one dysphoric hypomanic blip that only lasted a day. Thank goodness, cause I'm a real bitch when I'm like that. Then, last Saturday night I apparently forgot to take my pills. No big deal, right?

Wrong.

I worked on Sunday, Mother's Day, and I was horribly depressed. Like hiding, sobbing uncontrollably, cutting myself, suicidal thoughts . . . it was bad. All for forgetting to take my pills one freaking night. This whole past week I've been recovering from that little episode. And it's been harder than I thought. But I'm doing it, slowly but surely.

On a plus note, I've taken care of some really awesome patients. I'm thinking I'm going to start writing about them. We'll see how that goes.

1/23/18

Things have been weird lately. All around strange and I don't really know what to make of it. See, I've been stable now for 78 days. Can you believe that?? Seventy eight days with no depression or mania. My mood has been even. Normal. I've been normal.

And I don't know what to do with myself.

No really. I don't really know how to be normal anymore. I've been depressed or rapid cycling for so long that normalcy is foreign to me. Yes, even though it's almost been 3 full months.

I feel lost. I feel awkward. I feel like I'm learning how to interact with people all over again. And this is difficult because I'm still withdrawn. I'm trying not to be. I'm trying to put myself out there, chat with coworkers, ask questions, actively listen . . . but I still find myself being withdrawn, stumbling over my words, and feeling like a buffoon.

Large gatherings of people (more than, say,  4-5) make me uncomfortable and make me withdraw more. I feel like curling up in a ball and disappearing. It's hard for me to open up and interact in situations like this.

New situations confuse, frighten, and overwhelm me. I have the opportunity to go to a conference for free - I just have to volunteer some of my time. The thought of volunteering terrifies me. So much so that I'm not going.

I feel that through the course of my illness I've fundamentally changed. I'm not who I used to be. And I hate that.

And even though I'm stable there are still some, I don't know what to call them, bad things happening? I still hallucinate every day. Sometimes a lot, sometimes a little, but always every day. I'm still having suicidal thoughts most days that I have to fight and counter. I still want to cut and I have.

But who knows. Maybe this is just how I am now when I'm stable. A withdrawn, frightened, overwhelmed girl who hallucinates, cuts, and contemplates her own death.

I'll be honest, I'm not sure this is who I want to be. But I'm not really sure how to change. it. 

11/15/17

It's been awhile and there's been a pretty big change. Last week, on Monday the 6th I had ECT and therapy. Then on Tuesday the 7th I had an appointment with Dr. M and he changed up my meds. I'm weaning off of my Latuda (tonight will be my last night of it) and he started me on a new medication called Vraylar. And let me tell you, there's been a change in how I'm feeling. I mostly feel normal, good, fine. I've had some hypomania and some anger and anxiety, but for the most part I'm normal. No depression.

Now that I've gotten that out, I want to talk about what's also been going on. Namely, a ridiculous increase in hallucinations and a resurgence of delusions. So much fun. And wanting to smoke and cut. There's that too. (and I have cut)

Hallucinations! I see shadow figures almost everywhere, in my bedroom, in my bathroom, out and about. These include humanoid shadows and also animal shadows (mostly canid or bear). I've seen Cliff (old man), though not frequently. I saw a hovering car, bugs crawling all over the mirror and computer screen, and a large mouse which poof! Vanished. I know these are hallucinations and for the most part they aren't bothersome.

Delusions! The delusions are another story. And still, I know they're delusions but they often scare me. I'm convinced that there is going to be a man standing outside my truck door when I get home at night and he is going to grab me. I'm so anxious to leave my truck at night. I am convinced that something is going to grab me as I'm getting into bed the first time at night. I literally jump into bed to avoid being grabbed. And if I get up to pee? I'm fine. Nothing will grab me. It's only that first time getting into bed. When I shower in the morning and I wash my face I close my eyes to rinse off so soap and water doesn't get in them. Now I have to rinse as fast as I can and I actually scream and flail my arms around as I'm convinced there's someone there and they're going to grab me. I know that there's no one there, but my brain has convinced me otherwise. This is very much not fun.

And then wanting to cut and wanting to smoke . . . good God, seriously? I want to carve up my arm. I want to cut my wrist and see how much I bleed. This is not normal. And I want to smoke. I smoked 20 years ago but I'm craving it again. Even if it's just an E-cigarette. Weird.

I'm guessing I just need to give this med change more time, see how things go. I have ECT again Dec. 4th and see Dr. M in office again on Dec. 11th.

9/19/17

Well, here we are again. I was hoping to be writing happy things after having ECT a week ago but sadly that isn't the case. I've gotten worse. Exponentially worse.

Let's start with ECT. I talked with Dr. M both at ECT and at my appointment with him that evening (Monday the 11th). He thinks I went too long between sessions (5 weeks) and that I'm also naturally cycling. Wait it out. Okay. You'll get better. And then, last Tuesday and Wednesday I did feel a little better. A little less down and withdrawn. Yay!

Except it wasn't yay. Not really. Friday morning I woke up knowing something was wrong. I was moving more slowly . . . feeling just . . . not right. I went to work and my mood went downhill. I was terribly withdrawn and depressed and dark. I sat in the nurses station staring at my arm, tracing a line where I was going to cut. Instead of cutting I told a coworker, who told the charge nurse (my best friend) and she had me call my husband. I went home early.

My friend told me that it appeared that I had been rapid cycling the past few weeks and that it was becoming more noticeable. Not only to her.

Great.

I went home and laid down, contemplating going to the hospital as my desire to hurt myself was so strong. My husband stayed with me and we opted to stay home. I called in sick on Sunday and we went to the mountains to try and beat the depression. Saturday? Depressed. Monday? Depressed. And today? Depressed.

This is the can't-get-out-of-bed-in-the-morning depressed. The is the not wanting to exist anymore depressed. This is the sobbing uncotrollably because I feel so shitty depressed. I don't know what to do. I'm doing everything I know to do. And I just don't know. I'm worried that I'm going to hurt myself.

There's so much I want to write, so much I wish I could convey, but I don't have the motivation to get it out. It's been ridiculously hard to write what I've already go written. I'm going to go lay down until I have to pick up my son from school. At least if I sleep I don't have to feel - it's like death but without the commitment.

I'm Depressed Y'all

Well. It's been almost a full 2 months since I've written anything. I've had things to say, I just haven't said them. I haven't been inspired to write. But today I want to focus on what's bothering me now. And that's depression.

I'm in a trough right now, a deep depression. I don't even really know where to start. So here goes:

It started about 3-3.5 weeks ago, before my last ECT treatment. I started having symptoms of depression. They started out mild and then got worse after ECT (aren't they supposed to get better after ECT? Yeah, I thought so . . .). I kept downplaying them, ignoring them, hiding them. I was alright, this was no big thing. But they were so damn persistent. The negative thoughts became all encompassing, they started to take over. Suicidal thoughts crept in, vying for attention, slowly taking over. I let my hubby know, I let a couple of friends know. Just as a safeguard. Nothing serious, but this is going on, thought you should know. I continued to downplay it. I'd make it through.

Then last Saturday (the 25th) I was at work. And I was really struggling. I was so depressed. I was so empty and lost and withdrawn. My mind was complete chaos - negative thoughts, suicidal thoughts all crashing around, making it hard to concentrate, making it hard to breathe. I tried to keep up the facade. I tried interacting with patients, coworkers. I tried joking around. I tried. And then I lost it. I started crying. I started sobbing really. A coworker saw me and came over to help. She asked what was wrong. "I don't know if you know this," I said. "But I'm bipolar and I'm in a depressive episode and I'm having suicidal thoughts and I want to cut and I don't know what to do." She hugged me and told me to hold on. She went and told the charge nurse who called our manager. The charge nurse came up to me and hugged me and got me to calm down and suggested that I go home for the rest of the day. Even at my worst I've never been sent home. This was a first for me.

My hubby stayed with me the rest of the day. He stayed with me all day Sunday. Monday, I worked again. I wanted to go, I wanted to try. I made it through the day but it was difficult and tiring. I spoke with my manager and let her know what was going on. Tuesday I was home and I didn't get much accomplished. Wednesday I had a mandatory meeting at work which was difficult to sit through. I kept thinking about cutting and dying.

On Thursday I had therapy and I told my therapist everything. All about my suicidal thoughts, my plan, cutting, being sent home, everything. And I narrowly avoided being sent to the hospital for an inpatient psychiatric stay. How did I avoid it you ask? I have an amazing relationship with my therapist and we trust each other. I called my hubby and the 3 of us came up with a safety plan. I also called my psychiatrist's office and sadly learned that he is out of the country until the 11th. So no help there. I see my therapist again on Monday.

Here's the thing: My therapist said it and I'm positive my psychiatrist would say it too. I'm in a bipolar trough. The purpose of my meds and the ECT is to keep me as stable as possible for as long as possible but this is part of the natural ebb and flow of bipolar disorder. I'm going to have ups and downs and hopefully the meds will keep those ups and downs more mild and shorter lasting.

And I get that. I do. But I still call bullshit. It's easy to sit back and say that when you're not the one going through it. But when you're sitting on the floor sobbing, wishing your life would end, you don't care if this is the natural rhythm of your disorder. You just want to feel better. And that's where I'm at. I just want to fucking feel better. I don't want to "ride this out". It's been 3 weeks already. It might be another 3 weeks. Or longer. People keep telling me I'm strong for pulling through this. I don't feel strong. I feel weak. I feel like giving up. I have to deal with this for the rest of my life. And I'm not sure I can do that.

Mad World . . .

. . . and I find it kinda funny
I find it kinda sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had . . .

When you have bipolar disorder, and you're stable, you can be going along just fine, everything going well, and then out of the blue for no reason what-so-ever BOOM you're depressed again. Maybe the feeling goes away in a couple hours, or a couple of days . . . or maybe it hangs out for a few weeks. Who knows. But then you're stable again and everything is right as rain. And then maybe the same thing happens with mania. And again, maybe it only lasts a few hours, or a few days, or maybe it's a bitch and hangs out for a few weeks. The thing to remember is that bipolar disorder is unpredictable and a mood change can happen at any time for any reason, regardless of how stable you think you are.

This is something I seem to be forgetting. Forgetting and not accepting. See, I've been in a funk the past few weeks. Fuck it, lets call it what it is: I've been mildly depressed for the past few weeks. I had been stable - what I've been calling "normal" (yes, with the quotes) - for almost 3 months before this hit. It started subtle enough, some lack of motivation, feelings of emptiness, feeling down. And then it progressed. I became more withdrawn, more quick to anger, and my motivation completely left me. Fast forward to me today: feelings of depression, emptiness, worthlessness, sadness, hopelessness. Anger and annoyance escalating to rage with little to no provocation. No motivation, ridiculously withdrawn, and stupidly exhausted. I want to sleep to escape. I want to cut and I have. And I've had generalized suicidal thoughts (nothing serious and nothing specific).

I guess I should point something out - something important. I'm nowhere near as depressed as I was before this period of stability. I'm not. And I thank my lucky stars for that because I don't know if I could survive depression that deep again. No, this is more mild. I can get through my day. I can talk with people, joke with people even. I can still muster up a genuine smile. The thing is, everything is work. I have to force it.  At work, I don't want to talk to people. I don't want to take part in conversations. I want to hide away and be ignored. But I talk to people. I engage myself, I don't let myself hide. And it's so hard. It's tiring. But I do it.

See, I'm doing everything I've learned through CBT and DBT. I'm interacting, I'm writing, I'm drawing and painting (even though I mostly don't want to), I'm working out, I'm trying to eat healthy, I'm still doing things (even small things like jumping in a leaf pile because that's always fun). I'm doing everything I can to try and keep this depression from getting worse. I'm doing everything I can to try and end this depression. And to say I'm frustrated is an understatement. I'll be honest: I'm tired of dealing with bipolar disorder. I know I have to for the rest of my life and that's a bunch of bullshit.

Day 61

Would you look at that. We're up to day 61 of me being actually, legitimately stable. It's pretty amazing, really, when you consider I've spent the last 5 years either depressed or manic and not really anywhere in between. (It's been mostly depressed, by the way)

So anyway, I wasn't really sure how I wanted to start this, or if I even wanted to write it. I decided though that it's a part of me and writing it may help me along my journey of wellness. So yeah. Here goes.

Have you ever been on the website Tumblr? It's kind of a combination between a blog and twitter. Think of it as short, fast moving blogs that you scroll through. It can be a fun site. One thing that I didn't like was that there were people - quite a few of them - who were romanticizing mental illness. Not just mental illness, but every aspect of it - especially self harm and suicide. It was all made out to be beautiful, romantic, and tragic. Not informing the reader to seek help, but instead to shun those who don't see the beauty in your scars (what kind of bull crap is that??). I hated it.

Until I realized I'm kind of doing that myself.

Not shunning people, I'm not doing that. But maybe romanticizing my illness just a little. Maybe romanticizing suicide a little. See, normal is boring. It's meh. And I'm still learning how to navigate through being normal (I'm so used to depression). I've written before about feeling as though I'm missing something . . . I think what I'm missing is my extremes of moods. When I'm in an extreme mood, people pay attention to me. Definitely not everyone, and maybe not that many, but people do. It makes one feel important. So that even though you may be dead inside, you matter.

I don't know if that makes any sense. My therapist has asked me on at least two occasions if I was grieving the loss of my instability. Grieving the loss of my mood episode, essentially. I told him I don't know. I think part of me is. Not because I want to feel like shit. Fuck no, people! My depressions are horrible and life draining and I thank God daily that I don't feel like that anymore. But because I'm no longer receiving that attention. I'm no longer "special". I'm just another ordinary person. My bipolar makes me unique.

Does this make any sense? I don't want to be depressed, I don't want to feel like shit or get in trouble for my moods, but I want to be special. I want to be unique.

But the scary bit revolves around suicide. See, as of right now I see suicide as a viable way out. Not now, not right now, but later. I keep thinking, well, if I get depressed again in 5 or 10 or whatever years, I can just kill myself. I've had a couple of depression relapse scares during this current recovery and my mind immediately turned to suicide and I was worried that if I got worse I would actually attempt. I can't. One: I don't want to die, two: I have my husband and son to think about. Mainly #2 is what worries me and pains me the most. But I can't seem to stop these thoughts, no matter what I do.

I'm having a hard time organizing my thoughts about all of this. And my brain won't shut up either. Fuck.

Day 61

I'm feeling awfully lost right now.

I had to take a break after typing that first sentence to cry. I'm so fucking empty and I feel like my pain is consuming me. It's overwhelming me. I don't feel like I'm in control right now. If I had something I could take right now . . . like my lithium . . . I would. Not enough to kill me - I don't think - but enough to make me out of it for a few days. I don't want to deal with how I'm feeling anymore. I'm trying. I'm trying everything. Fuck - I even went to karate tonight!

I want to write, but I don't know what to write. I worked today, from 7-1, it was my call shift. I was on the L&D side caring for post partum patients. The two patients I had were wonderful. Sweet, appreciative, and just nice people. I had good coworkers working. And still I was lost and empty. Still I struggled. Still I felt like breaking down. I came home at 1:30 to my son and we had lunch together. Then I went to lay down for a bit - nap - and escape my thoughts. Then came karate and then I made dinner.

And now crying. Oh, and I cut myself too. Three weeks without a cut and I fucking cut myself tonight. It was either that or put my fists through the wall. Which I still want to do.

I'm so frustrated. If I could just have more good days than bad. Is that too much to fucking ask? Just more good than bad? Apparently it is, considering how it doesn't happen.

I see Dr. M on Tuesday and I'm very curious to hear what he'll have to say about all of this. I'm worried he'll do nothing. Or say there's nothing he can do. Because truth is, I can't keep going on like this. I can't. It's too hard.

But you know what? Tomorrow is a new day, right? It'll be better. It has to be better. I'm going to bed.

Day 37

Well. Today is day 37 "stable". "Stable". What a joke. I hate my version of "stable". Where I still struggle. Where I still have thoughts of suicide . . .

. . . which I did this morning. I was thinking about slitting my wrists, since I don't have access to any of my meds (hubby keeps them locked up). Rather than act on it I immediately told hubby what I was thinking and we talked about it.

I still want to cut though. God damn I want to cut.

Today, yesterday, and Friday have all been very difficult. They have been very rough. My mood has been, well, bad. And not just bad - I've been depressed, I've been irrationally angry, I've been lost. It is, quite frankly, not fucking fair.

On Friday I worked and I was irrationally angry (and then, of course, we were crazy busy to boot). I was doing a lot of counting in my head so that I wouldn't say something inappropriate (although several times I slipped and I did). At one point a pulse ox wasn't working right so I threw it on the ground and stomped on it while cussing loudly. I was snippy and rude to most everyone and I didn't enjoy any aspect of my job (delivering babies, in case you forgot).

On Saturday I woke up and knew it was going to be a bad day. I cried in the morning and wanted to give up right then and there. But I'm stubborn, you know, so I worked out and then hubby and I took our son to the penny arcade and out to eat. But I was snippy and quick to anger and overall just a big 'ol bitch. But I made it through the day.

Today has been more of the same. And I'm done with it. I'm really just so. Fucking. Tired of it all.

There's my rant for the day. Fuck I want to cut.

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.

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.

Okay. So . . . well. . .

I've had another hiccup, another bump in the road. I've had a depressive downswing that's lasted more than a day or two. Which is really fucking frustrating.

I had ECT last Monday (a week ago) and Tuesday I started feeling pretty down. Quick to anger. Overwhelmed. I didn't think much of it until Wednesday when at work I wanted to cut and kept having suicidal thoughts. The urge to cut (I never did cut) and suicidal thoughts continued throughout Friday. And they were strong y'all. What a horrible feeling. If you've never had to deal with suicidal thoughts, you're lucky. They suck. Literally. They suck the life out of you. Leave you feeling empty and hollow and drained, devoid of meaning and hope.

Wednesday and Friday my friend L (who I happened to be working with) talked me out of cutting (which was nice so that I wouldn't have to bother my hubby and make him worry - not that he'd mind, but I always feel a little guilty about that). I don't even remember Thursday without looking back through my mood journal (thanks, ECT). Saturday was a little better in that I had no suicidal thoughts, and Sunday better still (no suicidal thoughts and I had sex both Saturday and Sunday - and I can orgasm! That would help anyone's mood!).

I really struggled with this downswing and I've been trying to figure out why. Because here's the thing, here's the damned truth: this is how my bipolar is. Even when I'm stable I'm going to have these downswings for no reason. I get to struggle for absolutely no. Fucking. Reason. I've been trying to find a reason, find a cause to this and you know what?

There is none.

Nope. No reason. No pattern, no trigger. It just happened. It just is. And I need to just deal with it. And you know what? I can cope with that when I'm feeling a little better. I can cope with that when my head isn't filled with demons. But last week? When I felt like shit? I didn't know how I was possibly going to make it through.

But I did. I made it though. And I need to remember that I'm a bad ass motherfucker. And I can do this.

Seriously, fuck bipolar disorder.

An Introduction of Sorts

I guess my first post on this blog should be some sort of an introduction, right? Yes? No? Maybe so? Well, that's what it's going to be, so deal with it.

Alright. So I'm Lynn and I have Bipolar Disorder. But that's really not the main thing. I'm an RN, and an artist, I'm married to the most amazing, wonderful, understanding man and we have an adorable 8 year old son who is probably the best kid EVER. Hands down. I work with horses (helping train a couple, including a feisty colt), and volunteer at therapeutic riding center.

But about that bipolar . . . I was officially diagnosed 4 years ago (by a psychiatrist - my family practice doc suspected 2 years before that that I was bipolar - I just refused treatment because I didn't want the diagnosis). I've been diagnosed both bipolar 1 and bipolar 2, though I believe I more closely fit bipolar 1 as I HAVE had a full blown manic episode and I also have delusions and hallucinations (yay psychosis!). I am a cutter, I have overdosed 3 times, have been hospitalized 4 times, and have been undergoing ECT (electroconvulsive therapy - shock treatments) for the last 6 months (22 treatments under my belt). I struggle mostly with the depressive side of bipolar, my mania tends to come out in mixed states.

How's that for a down and dirty?? This blog is more for my own personal use and I don't really expect to get many readers. That's fine. I'm not necessarily here to entertain you - I'm here to write about my own shit.

Oh - I also cuss. Like, a LOT. "Fuck" is like the word "the" to me. I use it all the time. Fucking get used to it.