Life’s a Bitch and Then You Die: The Struggle for Hope

I have really enjoyed writing this blog. I’m not going to lie, it’s been a complicated experience. Over the past few months, I’ve had to take breaks from both writing and reading. As much as I learn about myself and others as I read and write, it can get pretty intense and pull me down.

What I wasn’t expecting is that I’d miss it. Not only reading all of the intelligent, thoughtful, and real posts from all of you, but writing my own posts. I’ve had a rough couple of weeks and haven’t had time to sit down and think, let alone write. My meds have not been cooperating  so I’ve had some issues with kinesthesia, then we had to put my dog to sleep, and we had a family emergency and I was pulled from my daily routine to come and help out.

But interestingly enough, I’ve learned a lot from all this chaotic shit.

  • My family is amazing and I am so fortunate to have their support. Without their love, I’d have had a complete meltdown weeks ago.
  • Helping others can overwhelm my empathetic emotions and wear me down.
  • Helping others gives me strength, energy, and purpose, and helps keep the blues away. (Yes, I see the irony of those two statements).
  • If you love someone, set them free. (Ugh, I fucking hate cheesy analogies.)
  • Schedule, sleep, stress, change, and chaos can really mess with your illness.

In the past few weeks, my dog had slowly been getting sick: unable to keep food down; walk very well or far; and I was giving her pills and subcutaneous liquid injections daily while she vomited and shook. You could tell she was miserable though there were moments where I saw her personality pop up. I wanted her to get better, but each week, her test results would come back and she was getting worse, and honestly, you could tell she felt shitty.

I struggled to make the decision of when her life should end, but the doctor and my family (I was alone at the time so it was mostly by phone) was kind and helped let me know it was the right decision. This dog was my personal anti-depressant who helped me leave the house to run errands or take a walk when I was terrified to leave my bed. This horrible process made me realize that sometimes true love means letting go. I recognized that I was being selfish because I didn’t want to lose her even if it was the right thing to do. I also will be forever grateful that a family member agreed to take her and others listened as I sobbed on the phone for about two days straight before she was put to sleep.

At the same time, a family member down state became ill and I flew down to help out. Being here this past week has got me thinking – when I help others I feel a purpose to my life, while sometimes at home, I feel so lost, like I’m just taking up space. At the same time, it’s been difficult being here. There is obviously a lot of stress as we don’t know how ill my family member has become. We do know that she is suffering from memory loss.

You would think as someone who has been through ECT and major depressive episodes that have led me to lose two years of memories would make me more sympathetic and patient, but it can be frustrating to have the same conversation three times in a row. It’s also hard to help someone whose pride holds them back from accepting real help. And then I think of the similarities: I’ve had a difficult time letting people help me; I’ve been a bitch to them in an attempt to push them away; I was defiant in my unhealthy lifestyle that was slowly killing me; and I’m sure I asked the same question more than once in a 15 minute period.

As an empathetic person, I find myself feeling such sadness for her and also frustration because she’s not willing to fight or push herself to get better. And yet, it hits me that this is part of the disease. While no one has diagnosed her with depression (like she would ever admit it anyway,) when you turn society and people who love you away, when you live alone and spend days at a time without human interaction, you lose hope and social skills.

I don’t know what’s going to happen. We are taking things day by day and I try to be as helpful as possible from cleaning and cooking to filing papers and cutting her hair. And I wish I could do more. And yet I know that every day it’s also weighing on my own personal health. And I go back and forth between feeling selfish and knowing I can’t be as helpful unless I’m taking care of myself.

She keeps telling me “life’s a bitch and then you die” as if that’s a philosophy of life. And it’s tempting to agree but I know that I’ve worked too hard to accept that. It may be true that “it is what it is” but I can’t believe I am working this hard to keep my head above water, struggling to survive, for naught. Having my dog die has made me realize that many I love will leave me, no matter how much I need them. And I get it: life is a bitch, and I will die. But I have to believe that the love of others and the fight to put that bitch in a corner from time to time, makes it all worth it.

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