One Decision; Five Minutes in my Mind

Precursor: Why I’m Not Sure You’ll Ever Really Understand (to my friends who do not have a mental illness)

When you feel sad or uncomfortable, your first thought is: what can I do to alleviate this pain. That is my initial thought that gets quickly eaten by this Pac-Man thought of “You can’t fix this. You deserve this. You should feel worse. You will never fix this. If anything, you should feel worse.

I know that voice is wrong. I know it’s ineffective, hurtful to myself and others, perpetuating a whole host of problems that continue to get worse.

You’ve got to nip it early. When you first start to feel bad, that’s when you have to get out, do something, don’t let it hold you.

Sometimes at night, when the day’s over, and most likely ruined with disappointments of things I should or could have done, I think about the next day. How I can do things differently? How I can wake up and leave the house first thing just to get outside and breathe the fresh air? How I can without doing anything else, just put on my gym clothes and walk my half-awake self over and know whatever comes out of it, it’s better than nothing at all.

I can’t describe the frustration, the anger of wanting to hit myself, scratch my face, slap myself at the simplicity of knowing this to be true. Every time I read yet another article about how exercise could actually make my depression lessen, it seems so simple. “So your problem is you don’t exercise. You just need to move. You can do yoga inside. You can take a walk around the neighborhood. You can dance in your apartment. It’s as simple as that.”

And so this morning, I woke up with the intention of going to the gym. This is what went through my head. Don’t know if you relate, but this is just my thought process in deciding whether to leave the house this morning.

I said I’d go to the gym this morning and instead I slept in and now I’ve been at the computer for hours. I should go. I feel awful. My limbs ache, my neck hurts from sitting, my back hurt from arching. I can feel the energy in my body, vibrating, wanting to be set free. All I have to do is put on a bra and a pair of shoes, maybe a hat, oh and some water, and maybe a snack because I might go farther than I expect, and my wallet because what if I need to buy something or there is an emergency and I get hit, and a book if I decide to sit and read, and my phone and headphones, and of course an extra sweater and my keys and my headphones and probably a hat. I should probably put on sunscreen because even when it’s foggy out I can get those rays and they’ll just make me look older and less desirable.

Where am I going to walk? What if there are other people out there? What if they see me and I look disgusting. Maybe I should wash my face and put on moisturizer and brush my teeth because well, it’s kind of gross. Well maybe I should eat breakfast first – ugh, I feel so fat and yet I’m still hungry. Oh, I have to go to the bathroom, I have the worst cramps from overeating last night. I have no self-control. Why am I trying to punish myself? And I eat, I don’t need to, and then I hate myself. And I was just sitting there all night. I could have done homework, or taken a walk. I could have done art or called someone. I could have been effective.

What is this self-compassion thing anyway? An excuse to not do things that could make me feel better than just watching TV and wishing my life was different. I suppose it was fine to eat that first piece of bread but then I was so disappointed, for just failing yet another night. Why did I have to eat the other piece? And then at that point, I was so sad and angry and nervous about this lack of control, this fat beast with no self-control that will never look good enough and never be loved and never allow themselves to be loved or love themselves, so I ate the pistachios. Now I’m bloated and sitting here thinking about it just makes me fat.

Ok, so then I just have to open the door and lock it. I have to expose myself to the world. My fat, lazy, worthless, pathetic self to others. And maybe I will see someone who is young and maybe they don’t exercise but they still can look so amazing in their leggings. And how do they not show their underwear line? I’m so cheap-looking, I look like someone who is just so ugly and stupid and can’t even wear their underwear right. And people will see that and they will just think I don’t deserve to be outside walking. Or they will think I’m ugly and somehow just knowing they could think that just proves what I know to be true – that I am. And then it will be cold, it will hurt because it’s cold and because I still haven’t bought those over-pants because I’m too lazy and even when I could do it while sitting watching tv, I still do an NYTimes crossword which I’m not smart enough to figure out so I just cheat. So pathetic. But can’t even go on Amazon to buy the pants. Not that I have the money. And I’m so pathetic still getting money from my parents. And I spend too much while telling everyone how frugal I am because I can’t do basic math. And I have to just keep eating so I have to keep buying food. Because I’m selfish and fat and have no self-control.

Plus I have this homework. And it will probably take me longer because I keep procrastinating. And I won’t like what I write. And I can study for the quiz but how will I know if I’ve studied enough? I mean I’ve aced all the other ones but it will feel so awful to get it wrong when I know this stuff is so easy. But studying for it is better than reading the other stuff on counseling because that just makes me so scared that I can’t do this. And I have that mock this week. I’m going to fuck that up. I have no idea what to do. I don’t know how to set goals with clients, I’m horrible at that. It just doesn’t make sense. What if I’m not feeling good and I’m out of it and I just can’t think of anything to say or I do what I always do and drone on and on? I hate my voice. And I can’t believe how fat I looked on that last video.  I can feel my stomach fat.

I can’t believe I was in shape and I let it go. I worked so hard. I mean I still felt so fat and clothes still didn’t fit right but at least I was thinner than now. Now I have no muscle. I should try to just do some push-ups or sit-ups. Man, it’s going to be so depressing to not even be able to do one or two. I used to be able to do 16. I mean not well, I can never do them well. I can’t believe I thought I was so strong. I mean, I knew I wasn’t I just let others think I was. But I knew I wasn’t. I knew I was just skimming by. I do that with everything. Never fully committed. Always just doing the bare minimum to get by.

Why do I feel like crying? I’m so weak. I can tell people I’m depressed but they’ll still be disappointed and they probably won’t believe me. I ate that breakfast so fast. No wonder I’m fat. I don’t even know how to enjoy food. But honestly, it just doesn’t taste that good. I feel like people enjoy food, it tastes so good and I don’t. And I try to keep myself from eating foods that are fattening but I eat so much, I stuff myself because I’m weak and then I will keep gaining weight. Plus I don’t move.

My g-d, it’s been two hours and I haven’t left the house. And I have work to do and if I do go to that thing tonight, I have to give myself a half hour to get there. It only takes 10 minutes but what if there’s traffic, or I somehow get lost? Better to get there early and wait in the car. Well, it’s going to take me an hour to get ready. How does it take someone who barely does anything to get ready so long to get ready? I don’t shave my fat legs, I barely wear makeup. I could try to do something nice with my hair but what if it looks stupid and then everyone will say it looks nice because they’ll know I tried but it won’t look nice but I can’t say that to them because it sounds pathetic and self-serving like I’m asking them to say no, you really do look nice, even though I know I don’t. I know I say that to people sometimes just to make them feel better even if I don’t fully mean it. Who am I to judge other people? They still have a boyfriend and some self-respect and here I am judging their hair or clothes. When was the last time I went shopping? Not that I have the money to or that I’ll like how it looks.

Man, I feel sorry for myself. And why do I sweat so much? My clothes are going to just start smelling. It doesn’t matter the deodorant. I haven’t done laundry in two weeks. How can I not do it? It’s a building away. Why am I scared to do laundry? It feels like fear. If someone is in the laundry room, what if they rape me or what if they don’t and think I’m ugly. Well, which is it? Do you want them to find you attractive enough to rape or too ugly to even think about? My g-d that’s sick. You are seriously pathetic. I feel this deep pain, starting in my throat all the way down to my stomach and I think kind of in my thighs though that makes no sense. Are those nerves? Why am I sad? Maybe it’s energy which I could get out if I just left the house. But what if it doesn’t work? Besides, it’s not the gym and it won’t really help make me more fit. It’s all this anxiety of worrying that I will be attacked that people will judge me that I will judge myself for not walking long enough and for what? For the chance that I will feel better and then be more effective? I don’t know, last time I went I didn’t really feel better. And my knee kind of hurt. Of course maybe if I wore the right shoes and wasn’t so fat.

I need to buy new shoes but I don’t want to go to the store. My socks are old, my toenails are gross, and even though I waxed my leg, you can still see some. If I get a guy he’ll think I’m gross and if I get a girl she will judge me. What’s a fat girl doing getting athletic shoes? And they’re so expensive. What if they’re not comfortable but I have to wear them because they’re so expensive? And mom will joke that I will return them but it isn’t really a joke because I probably will. Why am I so indecisive about the dumbest shit?

Is there a dead rat in the wall or is that me that smells? If it’s a dead rat I have to call maintenance and then someone has to come in here. If I’m not here, then they are privy to all my stuff. But if I am here, what if they hurt me? But would they? Is that arrogant to think that? It’s awkward anyway. And if there isn’t a rat, that’s embarrassing and if there is, they’re going to look through all my stuff. And I am so disorganized because I’m lazy. Why didn’t I kill myself? Oh please like you could make that strong of a decision but you find picking out fruit overwhelming. Why do you make everything such a big deal? You must be so exhausting to other people. Who wants to be around someone that complains constantly, that makes everything such a production. You are so needy, you are such a child.

Are you going to blame this somehow on your childhood? Honestly, grow up. I wish you were strong enough to either kill yourself or at least hurt yourself. But if you’re going to do it, do it with something that will help you – like exercising too much or anorexia. Cutting is so pointless. You never do it right – you see those teens and how much they cut – that’s real pain. Remember how you told everyone and it made them so freaked out? But you didn’t even do it well. And now you’ve scared people away. You are a bullshit artist. All I want to do is get under my covers and just watch some tv. But what if later I regret that? Wasting all that time when I have work to do and then I’m going to be stressed out because I have all this work and no one to blame but myself? But is this work even important? Am I learning anything?

Oh my g-d, I have so much work to do. I have all those papers and I have to find articles. I have to go to that meeting but I just don’t want to leave the house. There’s so much to do to leave the house. And I just feel so sad. And angry. I’m such a pathetic broken record. And I’m so fat.

Fuck, it’s been two hours. I’m never going to the gym now. This is my fault. I mean, it doesn’t feel like I can, I don’t know how to explain that to people, like, I just feel too anxious, scared, ugly, fat, worthless, pathetic to leave the house. I can’t call anyone because I don’t even know how to explain this to them. And they won’t understand. I barely do. Is this an illness or am I just a spoiled brat? How can a house be so boring and yet so messy and disorganized? Remember when you used to be organized? When you were super depressed but still high functioning? Maybe being severely depressed was better for you. Now you’re just pathetic.

Maybe the meds are working, you’re just scared to handle life. You’re making this up. Or maybe you’re forcing it to happen. What if one day they do a test and you don’t have a chemical imbalance and they tell you that you have been lying. But like, this doesn’t feel right. I mean I suppose it is under my control but I can’t do it. I am too weak. I swear I want to. I want to go to the gym. I can feel that. I just can’t seem to and now I have to do work. I just want to watch TV. Maybe if you were more effective you wouldn’t feel that way. You did this. I know it doesn’t feel that way but you did. Why are you so weak?

I can’t believe I’m going to cancel tonight. I can say it’s a migraine. They won’t believe me. I want to see those people but I can’t. I don’t know why it has to be so complicated but it is. Maybe I’ll feel better later. Of course, if I stay in the house all day I probably won’t. I wish someone would come pick me up. I wish someone would come take a walk with me. I’m so lonely. I can’t ask. Who am I going to ask anyway? Only person who would do that is mom and I would feel so guilty but also pathetic – I need someone to come to get me to take a walk. How can I be 37? What a waste.

I did that assignment though. I mean, not well and it’s really small and there’s that larger one I’m avoiding. Why can’t I appreciate the little things? I’m so ungrateful. My back hurts. G-d, I hate myself so much. I feel this rage inside, this little creature inside. I want it to tear my body apart, to tear me apart from the inside out. At least then I will have a reason to feel pain. My eyes are tearing up. I’m so exhausted.

I wonder if I’ll leave the house today. If I don’t, I probably won’t leave tomorrow. Fuck, I have work on Monday. I hope my clothes fit. I hope I have the energy to do it. I hope I don’t fuck it up. Jesus, it’s Saturday. Why don’t you just try to not fuck up today? I can’t stand not knowing what will happen today. This is my life and I’m wasting it one day at a time. How am I going to explain this to them? I’m so weak. Worthless. And I still haven’t gone to the gym.

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New Scientific Possibilities for Help, But Not Hope

Sometimes I question whether I just wasn’t made for this world. That perhaps I was born defective and unable to survive. Many people are born with parts of their body that didn’t fully form or formed differently; some without the necessary components to function or function fully. And lots of people, who may have these differences, adapt and manage, and do not let their difference stop them from enjoying all life has to offer.

But my “defect” is in my brain, and I can’t seem to find a way to adapt or manage on my own. Often times, there are devices and tools to support and help in this process. I have tried the “devices” for my impairment: medications, ECT, exercise, diet, sleep, and a variety of therapies, to try to work with what I have been given. But for some reason, my brain remains resistant to change, unable to manage and function at a level that is personally acceptable.

It’s been exhausting – the entire process. And since I was in my late teens/early 20’s, I never thought I could make it to 35. I assumed my body would simply get too tired of the pain and stop working, or I would have to help do it myself. But even with these dark thoughts, every so often, there were flashes of hope; moments of a belief that things could get better. And so here I am – three weeks into 35, with a new possibility for change at my chemically-enhanced door.

I have had a good year and a half where I seemed to have found a concoction that made me feel more stable. Not perfect – I still dealt with mood swings, depressive dilemmas, and uncomfortable side effects – but enough to make me hopeful that I could work to form a functional and fulfilling life. Then we changed a medication, and the past three months have been a clusterfuck of mood swings, depression, and a melange of side effects. We hit a road block in terms of options and so a few weeks ago, my doctor conferred with her colleagues to see what ideas they may have for bipolar II medication-resistant treatment.

When I saw her last week she told me about two new scientific advancements that could drastically help me get better. (Please forgive my explanations, as I am still learning.)

The first suggestion is a test for genetic markers that show what medications work best in an individual’s brain. There are five markers and they are able to indicate drugs that will work; some that might work; and others that won’t. I found a website of a company that does it called Genesight. I don’t know if this is the company my doctor is referring to – but the hope is that with this test, we will stop having to do so much guesswork with my meds, and may find out if some are actually decreasing the positive effect of other drugs in my system.

The other suggestion is the use of folate. We all know about folic acid. (Okay I didn’t, but everyone else seems to refer to it like I should.) Doctors encourage women who are pregnant to use it to help with a fetus’ growth and have noted that it could help with growth and rehabilitation of other cells. If I were to just ingest folic acid, it would go through my blood stream and I would pee it out. However, this new folate supplement called Deplin specifically goes into the brain blood stream. Evidently, by delivering the folate directly to the brain, it helps with your body’s ability to absorb medications. So for me, while I have slightly benefited, my medication is still not being fully absorbed, and therefore, I’m not actually getting the full impact of the medications.

After explaining these ideas to me, my psychiatrist asked me if I felt hopeful.

The genetic markers sound interesting, though I feel like it isn’t going to be that helpful. I suppose it would provide me with the peace of understanding that there are genetic reasons why I am resistant to so many medications. And perhaps provide new ideas for medication usage. The Deplin definitely sounds too easy. The idea that a supplement is going to help engage my medications and that would help me feel better – I suppose it just sounds too good to be true. Then again, I know people who take incredibly small amounts of anti-depressants, and it changes their life. I find myself skeptical, but willing to give it a try. However, I would not say I am hopeful.

Hope is a complicated emotion for me. I don’t always have control over my hope – sometimes I can feel it behind my cynicism, trying to push through, small bursts getting by, evoking images of peace and contentment. But through the years, it has become an enemy of my depression – spreading fallacies of possible happiness into my brain, only to be devastatingly wrong.

I remember when I started to feel better after a few weeks of ECT. I was ecstatic because I had finally found something that would allow me the chance to have a life worth living. The short term memory loss was a bit annoying, but at the time, it was a small price to pay to have the heavy pressure of depression lifted. I’d found the “piece” that I was born without, that would make me whole – the component that would provide an adaptation to survive. And then it stopped working. And then I found out it wouldn’t work anymore, no matter how many times I tried. And then I was expected to go back to the medication drawing board and start again.

I would say that’s when my trust of hope died. That’s when I started to wonder if I was just too broken, the deficit irreparable and too impairing for me to ever be able to have dreams again. Hope had hurt me one too many times. So am I hopeful? All I can give right now is that I’m not NOT hopeful. I’m open to being pleasantly surprised, but I’m not running around telling the world to watch out because I’ll be out there soon! I have a feeling even if the Deplin works, I will still need to make changes to my meds, there will still be quite a bit of side effects, as well as possible withdrawal and mood swings. I am not naive enough to think that this is “my piece” anymore. But if my doctor is telling me that my what I was feeling this past year was only a fraction of the medication working and that I could feel better than that, I’ll swallow the pill faithfully, I’ll change the dosages, I’ll try medications again, I’ll do whatever it takes. At this point, what do I have to lose?

While some people believe that hope takes less energy than despair, I think there is a key component to that theory that often gets overlooked. Because when you are in the despair, you have to work to get to that hope, and you have so many factors against you. To reach a place of hope you must push through the exhaustion, find a way to ignore all past failures, and find the strength to block out the despair that radiates throughout your body and mind, draining you, beating you down, offering the temptation of rest.

I imagine myself on the side of a sea cliff, trying to pull myself up to get to safety, knowing that if my muscles get too tired; if I miscalculate one move; or a piece of the cliff simply loosens and drops, I could fall quickly into the dark, depressive water below, possibly being killed on impact. I wait, terrified, for a surge of strength or an outreached hand.

I want to have hope that I can feel better and find a new normal that doesn’t include dire mood swings and hypomanic bursts. I want to believe that help is on its’ way. But hoping for help doesn’t save me. And frankly, I’m getting really tired of holding on to this “sea cliff,” waiting for the moment when I can stand on firm ground.

the pointless nature of “crying for help”

disclaimer: some stuff about suicide, self-harm, and just basically scary, downer stuff. don’t read this if it’s going to trigger you. i assure you it’s not worth it: just some ramblings but without a filter.

They say that an attempted suicide is a cry for help. While I have never attempted, I will say that based on my experience leading up to a moment like that, you are definitely past a “shout out.” Asking for help can be difficult for anyone. Some people don’t like to ask for help doing a difficult DIY project. A lot of people think they should be able to deal with something on their own, or maybe they don’t want to bother someone.

But I’m trying to understand this idea of crying out for help when it comes to depression. I never have really understood it, even when I have tried to do it. So let’s see, sometimes when I’m getting down, when I feel myself getting closer to a destructive ledge, I may call someone. When they ask “Hey, how are you?” I don’t say anything like: “You know how it is…I guess I just feel like i’m getting closer to a destructive ledge.” I don’t think that’s actually what they’re expecting and frankly I don’t think it’s what they want to hear. I usually just ask them about how their life is. I’m trying to get better at not hiding everything, so I might even say, “Hey, I’m just feeling out of sorts and just wanted to hear your voice and focus on you, because i love you, and i need to get out of my selfishly depressed brain right now.” But people are busy. And you’re calling “just” to talk? That doesn’t really take precedence over preparing for a party, or going out to dinner with someone. it doesn’t take precedence over a crying baby, or a timer for the oven.

So then you get to that destructive ledge. I suppose you can call out before doing something. Sometimes i have called someone before I harm myself. It’s hard – trying to express you’re scared without freaking everyone out. Because they don’t know where you are: maybe you have the knife to your wrist; or maybe you just are in bed and don’t want to get out. And besides, by that point, I have either decided to do something or not. In fact, the only thing that might stop me is if someone called me right in that moment. But that’s not going to happen.

Then there’s the “I’ve already done it and I’m ashamed” call for help. I’ve done that one a few times. Not sure it helps. I mean, it pulls me out of the chaos usually. Makes me remember that I don’t want to hurt others or to scare them with my unacceptable behaviors. Situations, that if and when things settle, I will have to explain, will never really be understood by loved ones because it won’t sound like a “good enough” reason to have done something they think is so unnecessary.

Recently, I was sitting and i could feel the wave coming. And i could feel that I wasn’t strong enough to push it down. I couldn’t help myself. And that “couldn’t” was turning into a “I don’t wanna” really fast. So I think: maybe I text someone? Maybe something vague with this hope that somehow they see through it and understand I need them to come save me? Because honestly, how the fuck is a text convo with emojis really going to help? And haven’t we had this conversation before, the last time I was in this position?

Then, what if it does pass? What if it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be? Now I’ve scared them and they need me to call them all the time; they don’t want me to be alone. Now those things that took precedent before don’t, but you know it’s because of you, and the guilt is worse than if you had just gone through with it. By the time they call you back or get to your house, the immediacy has passed.

The thing about a call for help, is you have to want to make it. You have to have the strength and gumption to say that you need help. But maybe you don’t want to use up your “helps.” I mean, everyone says they will always be there, but lest you be the “boy that cried wolf.” Plus, you are bothering that person, you are impacting their life in a selfish way, so you kind of want to use those moments when they really matter. But then of course, how do you know if this time will matter, and what if you realize it but you’re too far committed to turn back and make that call?

I don’t know about this cry for help. During a time when I feel pointless, frustrated, exhausted, tired of trying, I am supposed to call someone and tell them that I am feeling those things and that I need them to help me. I mean, isn’t that contradictory?

And now it’s time for me to go off topic, because it makes sense in my head.

I was writing to a friend today and wrote this huge explanation of the past three months: what has happened, how i have felt, all the shit. And then I erased it. I didn’t want to freak him out. And I realized, I only share, I only ask for help, after I don’t need it anymore. So i will tell someone that the night before, I had wanted to die. I will email with a friend across the pond to tell them about a scary period of time I had the past month when I didn’t know whether I was going to be ok or not.

Because if provided through this viewpoint, it’s something they can handle. They need to know it’s ok so they don’t feel helpless. And I don’t want to burden them with something they can’t control – so i tell them after, as if it was just a momentary weakness. And you have to, because if you don’t, then they don’t trust you. When you say you’re ok in the future, they don’t believe you. They call you all the time or attempt to subtly make sure you’re alive by “just passing by” or “thinking of you and deciding to call.” And it’s funny, because even though at one point I thought that was what I needed; by that point, it just feels like they are reaching out for themselves. So they feel better knowing they were doing “their part.” In fact, I’m not sure they actually want to understand what I would need in terms of help.

Many people offer their help to me and in doing so, I see the love they want to provide. They are good people; caring people. People I am lucky to have in my life. But they don’t get it. I don’t know if they can’t because they don’t know what it feels like, or maybe because they aren’t really listening to me the way I need to be listened to. Or maybe I’m not being clear because I don’t know what I need, let alone what I need specifically from them.

To me a cry for help needs to be answered immediately and never is. To me a cry of help is yet another pathetic demonstration of why no one should answer. Honestly, i’m pretty sure just a good cry would be more helpful than anything else.

I’m Tired.

I’m tired today.

  • I’m tired of trying so hard to keep it together every day.
  • I’m tired of following a sleep regimen and still waking up fatigued.
  • I’m tired of trying to do everything “right” – going to the gym, losing weight, calling friends, not drinking, being vegan and not eating anything processed, and still not feeling good or having extra energ.
  • I’m tired of not being able to have more than a day or two of stability and balance.
  • I’m tired of having to make decisions.
  • I’m tired of not having a purpose that isn’t about myself. While I don’t miss working crazy long hours, I miss having a job where I am spending time thinking about others and doing work for them.
  • I’m so tired of seeing all of the hate and ignorance in the world today. Of watching history repeat itself.  Of knowing it will never stop and will only get worse. And not knowing what to do. Because $15 isn’t enough. Volunteering isn’t enough. There isn’t a job that will be enough. And people don’t really want to listen, to learn, to compromise, to change. I don’t want to stand aside – but I feel so useless.
  • I’m tired of not liking myself.
  • I’m tired of trying to understand why I do not like myself.
  • I’m tired of being told to have hope, to think positive, to just keep trying.
  • I’m tired of not being able to help the people I love. To watch them in stress, in pain, in sadness. Shitty stuff happens, but I wish I could just alleviate some of it.
  • I’m tired of the constant shame I feel about who I am.
  • I’m tired of the guilt I allow myself to carry.
  • I’m tired of not knowing what to do next.
  • I’m tired of not knowing the “right” thing for “me.”
  • I’m tired of caring so much, about everything. Of feeling so much.
  • I’m tired of trying so hard to just keep it together for everyone: my family, my friends, my therapist and psychiatrist. I’m just tired of feeling responsible for adding stress or pain to their lives because of my stress and pain. Of trying to make them happy or relieved.
  • I’m tired of all the dichotomies in my life. Of wanting to be alone but feeling so alone. For wanting to be happy but feeling like it’s a charade anyway. For wanting love but not the strings that come with it.
  • I’m tired of being so scared to do things. I don’t know when I became this way but I’m so fucking tired of it.
  • I’m tired of feeling like I have lost so much time in my life, so many chances, so many opportunities, and still wanting sometimes to just end it all because I’m just too tired to try to catch up.
  • I’m tired of my fucking side effects.
  • I’m tired of trying to imagine what it feels like to wake up without a mental illness. To have shitty days and stress and life, but not have to take drugs that make me feel like shit to just survive them, while others take none and are able to function just fine. To go to bed without fear that tomorrow I might not be able to get out of bed. Or wake up without knowing if I will be able to make it through the day.
  • I’m tired of feeling so guilty that I want more. That this is unfair. That I don’t deserve this. And then feeling guilty for thinking that. It just cycles over and over again.
  • I’m tired of having to change. To constantly fight myself, to unburden others, to hold back my anger, my frustration, my words to not hurt others. To get up every day and try to want things, work for things, be effective, have goals, work to get better at who I am. To push down the bad thoughts, the urges, the desires, to assuage others.
  • I’m tired of never knowing who to blame: is it the meds? the disease? my circumstances? me?
  • I’m tired of only seeing the mistakes I make. The failures. The not good-enoughs.
  • I’m tired of having hope. It’s almost more exhausting than just admitting defeat.
  • I’m tired of thinking.

I’m just tired.

Decisions: Jumping Into An Ocean of Unknown Outcomes and Consequences

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I’m getting tired of all these life decisions. I don’t know what’s more irritating: knowing I have to make them and not knowing what to do; or watching myself avoid them like the plague. Both make me feel like shit. I’m ashamed because for so long I was embarrassed that I didn’t have a life and now I technically have the power to create one, and I’m too lost and scared to make one. I also feel like everyone is waiting to see what happens. After all, I have never actually been this way before – so if I do go out in the world, will I be strong enough? Will it have been too soon to leave the cocoon? Will I survive or come home nine months later like I did after the ECT treatment three years ago?

I know everyone has to make life decisions. I guess I’ve always been a fan of letting them be made for me – either by others or by fate. Sometimes if you just wait long enough, you are automatically put into a situation based on timing and don’t really have to decide anything. I guess that was how I felt with London. If I just kept doing the bare minimum but not overthinking it, September would come and I would be on the plane and that would be settled.

I am suspicious of this new possibility of not going to London, but seeking a different path, because I thought of it when I was depressed. So I suppose there’s a part of me that questions if it was made of sound mind or if this is some elaborate attempt to sabotage myself. I have written out pro and con lists and thought through the goals and outcomes for each situation. Obviously, both have their share of good and bad possibilities. Some say the good news is that neither would be a mistake since they are both incredible opportunities, but clearly they have never dealt with depression and anxiety.

I haven’t worked since 2012. Since then, my memory has decreased, my cognitive skills have slowed, and I live a simple (sometimes empty,) life. While I have grown stronger without clinical depression, I almost feel more fragile – not knowing if the strength I have built to help me go to the gym and make appointments will be enough in the real world of jobs, people, men, and life.

I suppose since I made the decision to accept defeat and come home, I have doubted my ability to handle myself. Perhaps that is why I stayed in California for my job after ECT – so that if I fell, I would be close to home. And I did, so I suppose that was convenient. But perhaps having that “safety net” actually made it worse because it allowed me to stay closer to the possibility and comfort of depression, knowing home was just two hours away.

It’s odd given that when I was younger and incredibly depressed, I handled all of this. Not well mind you, but I knew it was something I had to do, so I did it. Part of what I think kept me going when I was in NY and DC when I was younger, before the breakdown, was that I was on my own (without my family,) and independent. I was scared of everything in life, but I didn’t have anyone to hold my hand, so I either did it or didn’t. I was forced to make decisions, good and bad, throughout my illness. And while some of those decisions were ineffective and harmful, they were still decisions. And I suppose I know how to make decisions from a depressed state of mind. I’ve been doing it since I was a child. I developed a system for life within my depression to make myself function – at least at work and in public. But I am not that person anymore and while I am grateful for that, I am really scared. I don’t know how strong this person is. I know, like all new things, you really don’t know until you try. But I also guess there is a part of me that knows deep down that if I fall, I don’t know if I will be able to get up or want to.

When I became depressed a few weeks ago, it became clear to me that I couldn’t go back to feeling that way. I couldn’t go back to a life where I was unable to leave the house, answer the phone, shower, or clean, with a constant desire to hurt and ruin myself in whatever way possible. I told myself when I was 33 that I wouldn’t live a life like that past 35. And now I am turning 35 in August and I feel like I’m teetering.

I’m pretty sure the medication regimen I’m on is working, at least for now. I know the majority of the issues that I believe are causing me anxiety and depression, are big, and anyone, depressed or not, would be having a difficult time facing them.I am aware that there is no reality where I will not carry my bipolar II with me. There will be no decision I can make with complete confidence that I will make it. And I know that no one faces life’s challenges with a blank slate. We all go into our life with our past, our weaknesses, our strengths, our doubts. Everyone spends every day of their life jumping into an ocean of unknown outcomes and consequences.

I guess I’m just really scared that if I jump, I’m going to drown.

I Fell Off the Wagon.

Disclaimer: This blog post does discuss self harm and suicidal ideation. If these are triggers, please protect yourself.

So I’ve been avoiding writing mostly because I’ve been ashamed and angry with how the past 5/6 weeks have been. I’ve spent a lot of time in my head, and perhaps writing would have been better. Maybe I didn’t want to see it written down. Maybe I didn’t want people to tell me it was going to be okay. But I’m still feeling scared and a bit weak, so I’m going to try and see if it helps. Apologies if some of this is repetitive from previous posts.

Ok, so I’ve been on Klonopin for what, 13 years. This is a controlled substance that you’re supposed to take for emergency panic attacks or maybe for a week or so to help bring you down. That’s because as a controlled substance, it’s highly addictive. Not like I crave it, but my body clearly does. Even if you’ve only been on it for a few weeks, it can take over a month to taper off – so trying to get off of it after 13 years…well it’s a very long process.

The Klonopin doesn’t actually do anything for me, except ensure my body doesn’t go into withdrawal. Since I’m going to London in September and their healthcare isn’t as tip-top in terms of mental health (which is saying a lot given how shit ours is,) I figured if I could get off of it, that would help. It also is known for impacting memory – in fact recently, they were recommending no one over 50 take it. The only comforting thing about this is that it could be one of the reasons why my memory and cognitive skills have been getting worse over the years. Given I’m about to go into an incredibly rigorous academic program, I want to have as much of my brain functioning as possible.

Anyway, I was really pushing my psychiatrist since I’ve been better to start tapering. I guess I was only thinking about the physical side effects of withdrawal and figured I could handle the shakes and sweats and vomiting – whatever happens when you withdraw from Klonopin (I naively based this on movies where people detox.) So I pushed her and we went down by .25. Ok, evidently that’s a LOT. You’re supposed to go down by .125 every 3 weeks or some shit like that. Anyway, I didn’t realize there would be brain chemistry psychological effects and I became very depressed.

It’s been over a year since I have had clinical depression and all of a sudden I felt the weight and pain again. That sucked, but even more so, it scared the shite out of me. It also brought some old depressive thoughts to the surface again. Ok, so after a week, we went back up to my original dosage. But the depression didn’t pass, which I still don’t get, but whatever. So then we tried to give me some extra short release tabs of meds I am on that helped with my clinical depression and they did jack squat. But each day my depression was getting worse and my bad habits came back to town.

Still, after this past year, I knew what it was like to not be clinically depressed and I could differentiate when it was the depression guiding my thoughts and when it was me. I really tried to be compassionate to myself. I excused not going to the gym, or thinking about my future. I allowed myself to not leave the house for days. I don’t know, I suppose I thought if I resisted it, it would just make it worse. But it was like the angel and devil on my shoulders – they were fighting each other. And so the mood swings went from fine to so fucking low I wanted to die. And while in my heart I knew the depression was chemical, it still feels rational and true. And so the same things that before might have made me anxious but excited, became terrifying and pointless.

And then I fell off the wagon. It’s been over a year since I’ve self-harmed.

Looking back on that Friday, I had been in therapy earlier that day. I had been told that there was another life path that might be better than going to LSE which had kind of mind-fucked me since I was already doubting my ability to go, and decision-making is my number one anxiety-maker. And my therapist, who is still an intern, told me that she would not be able to communicate with me if I was in London, or out of the state where I currently reside.  I have known this was a possibility for a while. It was part of the reason I deferred from LSE last year. I wanted more time to work with her. Anyway, she told me and I kind of just voided it. I guess it was just too much for my mind to handle so I put it in the emotional void of overwhelming news and went home.

I was cooking dinner, watching some tv, and all of a sudden, the depression just hit me. I mean, it came from nowhere. I wasn’t ruminating about anything at the time and then all of a sudden it was like I had just been punched in the gut. I couldn’t breath and found myself bent over in absolute mental pain. Everything imperfect, all of my doubts, it all came to the surface and slapped me. I felt nauseous. I tried to cry but when I opened my mouth nothing came out. And then the craving for self-harm felt no longer like an option but like a need.

So I did. And at the time, it felt amazing. I guess what it must feel like when you slip from your recovery and go back – that first sip or hit in a year, it’s intense and satisfying and feels fucking amazing and you wonder why you ever stopped. But I quickly realized it was escalating not calming me. I wanted to do it better and I was worried I wouldn’t be able to stop. I went through the tiny rolodex in my mind of people I could reach. This person wouldn’t be available, this person couldn’t handle it, this person shouldn’t have to. I truly didn’t want to call anyone but I guess I knew I had to do it. I was at my threshold and I just didn’t want to tip over because I think there was still a part of me that knew it wasn’t real – that it had just happened too fast to be right or rational and I just had to stop it before I did something I couldn’t come back from.

I didn’t want to bother him, but I called my brother. I’ve called him before. I hate doing it because he has so much on his plate and he’s just such an amazing person and I don’t want to hurt him, but I also know he’s a police officer, so out of everyone I know, he has seen it with others and can understand it without freaking out. When I called him sputtering and hyperventilating, he went into police mode – asking questions to ensure I was safe, if I needed to go to the hospital, or call 911. I was yelling out everything I thought meant I couldn’t do this anymore but he somehow got my breathing to slow, to pull me back or out of wherever I was. He was at work, helping on dispatch – the irony of others calling 911 while he talked me through my emergency was not missed.

And he just stayed on the phone with me. He told me some funny stories about ridiculous debacles of the day, he talked about the chaos of his life, mundane and big. He kept me listening, asking questions, laughing. I patched myself up while we were on the phone. He stayed on the phone with me as he finished up work, got in the car, drove home, fed the dogs and started eating his dinner. And when I knew I was okay for the night, when the exhaustion of it all hit me and I knew I was too tired to think or move, we got off the phone. Thank goodness people like him exist in the world and I am beyond lucky to have one in my life.

The next day is always the worst. Not only do you feel the ramifications of your actions, you feel stupid and ashamed. It all felt so silly – and worst of all, I had broken my streak that had become a badge of honor. But I made it through that day. And I made it through the next and got to my psychiatrist. It was easier to tell her. She has known me for a long time, since the ECT stopped working. And she’s known me when this was a regular thing. I guess that felt better because I didn’t feel like she was judging me, because both of us at that moment, knew it was clear that it wasn’t me.

I had spent the week overanalyzing if I was making things worse, fighting to not feel better, trying to exacerbate the depression. But saying it out loud, it just made no sense. It also made sense why I felt overwhelmed – I was questioning my next big move, and my therapist and I were going to have to end our relationship. I was also turning 35 in a few months and even if I wasn’t clinically depressed it was still a heavy date to approach as I had declared it, when I was 33, as the last day I would live in the pain I was in. Even if I wasn’t clinically depressed this would have overwhelmed me.

So I’ve been recovering this past week. The med change seems to be working, and I can handle the side effects, which in the past with this medication, seem to dissipate over time. The cravings aren’t gone, but the temptation is low,  especially every time I see the evidence of last Friday and realize how ridiculous it looks and the amount of work that will go into hiding and healing.

Funny enough, we are doing distress tolerance in DBT, which is meant for situations just like those. It started four days after the incident. I’m still unsure if I’ll make it to the gym today. And I’m unsure if I’ll be effective or what choices I will make. I still know deep down that the problems that arose when I was depressed are real. The way I handled it wasn’t me, but it doesn’t mean the issues don’t still exist. And I do have to deal with them. Maybe not today, but I have to apply for my visa in two weeks, so soon.

I’m hoping in another week or so, I can look at that moment with some understanding and compassion. To see it not as a failure, but as a reality check of both how far I’ve come and that it really is a disease and not the true me. So many of my scars are memories of a time and place. I used to think of them as tattoos of where I was was and what I’ve been through – and maybe these too will come to serve as mere place markers in my life. But for today, I just have to decide that no matter what I do, or how effective I am, it’s ok. Because it is what it is, and for now, that will have to do.

The Dichotomy of Dread and Excitement For the Unknown Future of Tomorrow

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I had a rush of overwhelming dread today. It’s not like my normal waves of panic when I have too many tasks before me, or when I have decisions to make for the future. This feels exhausting, frightening and sad – fearful of the days ahead, exhausted by the idea of making it through yet another week, sad that this hasn’t gone away.

The thing is, it’s fleeting. I might stop and think to myself “Another week of living this life until Thursday?” And then I’m back at the table, working on the computer. And I’m thankful for that. It’s just so intense in that moment of distress. It feels so strong and definitive.

I have been in a good place in a while, but I still feel exhausted by the prospect of life. Every day, even without clinical depression, takes energy, drive, and a lot of forced action against maladaptive habits. I fight rational and irrational fears from the morning when I wake up to when I lie in bed hoping to fall asleep. I don’t feel sorry for myself. Now that the medical depression is gone, I know that in due time, feelings pass, and if I allow it, so do my thoughts.

But every so often, I wonder if I have what it takes to make it. Is this week going to be like last? Is that good enough? What if it’s better, or what if it’s worse? What will that mean for the week after that? I felt this when I was clinically depressed, but in a much deeper, darker, and devastating degree.

So often in recovery, people tell you to take things day by day. When I was first starting out it felt like hour by hour, task by task. But now I feel the need to look at the week. And I’m being asked to make decisions in two weeks about something four months from now. If you asked me four months ago if I would be where I am today, I would have had no clue. So how am I to make a rational choice about four months from now when I have no idea where I will be, how I will feel, or who I will have become?

It’s such a weird feeling to dread the week ahead while at the same time feeling like I’m wasting the limited time I have on earth. I panic sometimes that all this work is for nothing. Will I work this hard and tragedy will strike and ruin me? Will my medications stop working? Will I push myself just a step too far and fall back down the steps of my progress to the very bottom? What if one day I stop progressing? Or worse, what if after all this work to find hope and seek moments of contentment, I just don’t wake up, or get hit by a car, or any number of things that happen to so many on a daily basis.

For so long I craved to leave this world. I had resigned myself to never getting better, my fire of hope was completely out. All of my dreams and fantasies felt like mean illusions – mocking me, taunting me, showing me what I would never have. And now, with life-changing decisions before me, I find myself timid. Or maybe just terrified to face the world outside. Out there, more decisions and their possibilities lie in wait.

Everyone keeps telling me they see me at a place where they feel safe for me, where they trust I can begin to live the life I have missed for so long. And I have tried so hard to gain that trust and understanding. But my fear of failure hangs above me, constantly threatening. And I know if I fail this time, no one will believe I could get back up. Especially myself.

The dichotomy in my head of both dreading and fearing (with excitement) the future is so odd to me. Everyone around me trusts me, but why can’t I? They believe in me, they see something there, but I can’t see it, I can’t feel it. I look in the mirror waiting to see the girl I believed was hiding behind the depression but my face stays the same. I have done so much and yet what if tomorrow I can’t or worse, what if I don’t want to? And how can each day seem like a challenge to become more whole, and at the same time seem like an exhausting future I don’t want to carry? And why, after more than a year, am I still asking the same fucking questions?

This will pass. I have thankfully learned that my emotions and thoughts do change. Even if I have them for a week, they can be changed, either naturally or by forced action. I just felt scared and exhausted by the notion of the days ahead. It’ll pass. I know it will.

this too shall pass?

Something’s wrong. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I can feel it deep within. I have decided to play this one out…see if I can wait it out until it gets bored and subsides. I know it’s a futile attempt.

This mounting, ominous presence has made my torrid relationship with sleep even worse. I want to outlast my inevitable sleep – a looming fear that begins when I wake up. Every decision I make throughout the day, I wonder “will this help tonight or make it worse?” I’ve become paralyzed. Complacent. Sad. Scared. I remember six months ago, when the medication was in full effect, still waking up scared, but excited too. I didn’t know if I would have a good or bad day, but I wanted to try. I miss that feeling.

For the past year, I have tried really hard to develop a sleep regimen to lessen my insomnia. I have to be in bed by 11, take my pills to help me sleep, and read, not watch tv. I turn on my fan and my noise machine, prep my eye mask, and as soon as I feel my eyes begin to tire, I turn off the lights and wait for my dreams or nightmares to come – I’ll take what I can get. But now, I feel a panic inside as I start to wash my face and begin my process for bed. I brush my teeth and I start to think about my day, my life, what lays in store for me once I get underneath the covers – the thoughts that will consume me no matter how much white noise I use to try and block it out.

I tried to avoid dealing with this panic for a few weeks by staying up until I was exhausted and over-medicating myself with relaxants. The problem was, I woke up painfully exhausted, spending the day with a headache, frustrated and sad, and unless committed to someone else, canceling all of the things I use to keep myself above the tow of depressive thinking because I was just too fucking tired.

Before I fell asleep last night, I reviewed the day. I did not get any errands done. I did not do any homework. I did not contact any friends. I did not do any cleaning. I did not go to the gym. I did not shower.

I opened the book I have attempted to read with little interest, and noticed the age on my hand: veins, dry skin, worn down knuckles. I am not a child anymore even though my life is like one. In therapy, we talk about trying to volunteer one day a month; we discuss learning who I am and who I want to be; what could make me happy; why I have so much hate and detest for everything I am. I have barely maturated past the emotional age of 15, but my age hasn’t. And I started to cry.

I cried for how little I have accomplished. I cried for the potential my life has and had that is slowly and constantly draining away. I cried for the exhaustion of fighting this disease even with medication. I cried for the craving I fight every day not to self-harm, to punish myself. I cried at how long I have been fighting this and how when each day passes, opportunities lessen. I cried because I am so painfully lonely. I cried because I never wanted to make it past 30 for this very reason. I’m getting older, but I’m not moving forward and my life is passing me by – unlived.

I cried because I’m losing hope in myself that I can be saved.

I woke up this morning, and did not want to get out of bed. Once I got out of bed, there would be choices to make, and I knew already that I wasn’t going to make the ones I wanted. And I knew that that was my fault. Maybe this weakness has been triggered by events beyond my control but I haven’t been fighting it, at least not enough.

Maybe tomorrow I will wake up and find the power to push past my fear. Maybe it’s just a phase in the process. Maybe it’s just a down time, “like all people have.” But maybe it won’t, and I’m scared, and I’m sad; and I’m just so fucking tired.

Perfectionism and the Terrifying Fear of Failure

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I was accepted into a Master’s program in London and decided to defer for a year to prepare myself for the challenges I might face. As part of that preparation, I signed up for two classes at a community college. After 12 years of being out of college, I wanted to freshen up my writing skills, get back into the “groove” of school. I have written quite a bit for my previous jobs, but writing an action alert and writing a critical essay require very different skills. I also wanted to see how I handled the stress, time management, ability to focus, retain large amounts of information, etc. I just wanted to make sure that the impact of the last three years would not make school an impossible task.

And I love school: going to class, learning, asking questions, debating, having homework. Still, I leave class overwhelmed, anxious, and often feeling very lonely.

I had my midterm essay for one of my classes due this past Friday. About two weeks ago, I noticed an increase in panic attacks, crying fits, random, rapid, and intense mood swings, and horrific insomnia. I was nauseous all the time, and often too exhausted to eat, call people, go to the gym, shower, or clean. As I started to prepare to write the paper, bad habits and feelings reared their ugly, gigantic heads. I was rereading and over-reading, creating intricate outlines, going on tangents, overanalyzing the question. Sometimes, my mind would just go totally blank. I hated everything I typed. It was taking me hours and I was getting nowhere. Most days I would sit, the books and my computer on the table in front of me, watching tv, avoiding the process of creating a piece of shit.

At that point, I would have rather not turned anything in, than turn in something I was ashamed of and let my teacher see what a fucking moron I was. No matter what I wrote, it just sounded so awful. I was so angry at myself for being so stupid. I was sad that I would never be good enough. I mean, I couldn’t even write a six page paper at a community college, for an introductory class, on a subject I had already studied.

I went to my therapist a mess. She asked me if I ever felt this way before. I have always been the engaged student: participating in class;, seeing my teacher after to make sure I was understanding the information properly; discussing the issues with my friends at lunch (while they rolled their eyes at me) – but I wasn’t the “A student.” I believed this even while getting A’s and awards for my academic work. I always found an exception every time I succeeded.

Turns out, a lot of these problems actually manifested at work too. I was scared that if I produced great work, there would be expectations that I wouldn’t be able to maintain. However, I also worried that I might create something subpar, and disappoint my boss. I always got my work done, always got fantastic performance reviews, but I would always focus on the “things to work on” with overwhelming shame – even though (funnily enough) they were usually about confidence and anxiety. I actually think a part of me believes that I need the anxiety and fear to ensure I do a good job – that it pushes me to work harder, see things others would miss. No matter how many accolades, I always felt like the other shoe would drop if I ever relaxed or thought I had mastered anything.

This constant fear of failure led to migraines and massive depressive burnouts. After large events, I would have to take days off from the exhaustion – not because of the event, but due to days spent not sleeping, worrying constantly about forgetting something or the event falling flat. Over time, I would completely burnout, missing weeks of work, and quit my job. This has happened at every job I have had since I graduated college. At the last job, I kinda kicked ass, and then quit, right after receiving an award for my work.

My therapist says that this fear of failure is derived from being a perfectionist. I find that so amusing because I have never viewed myself as a perfectionist. In fact, far from it. My fear of failure and rejection has manifested into a habit of always doing slightly less than my best. Take for example my appearance. My thought process has always been that if I don’t try to look my best, if someone thinks I’m ugly, I know that I could look better; but if I try to look my best, and they still aren’t interested, that affirms the validity of my worthlessness. There is a comfort in knowing I can’t truly fail if I don’t truly try. And that doesn’t sound like a perfectionist to me.

I turned in my paper Friday afternoon. I don’t know if it was good. A part of me imagines my teacher sitting in front of my essay thinking “what the fuck is this?” Sometimes, I give myself a moment to imagine him reading my paper, thinking: “I get why this kid is going to a top grad school.” But then I feel cocky, embarrassed, and ashamed in my vulnerability of allowing myself that contentment.

So how do you change something that feels like an ingrained component of your personality? How do you change the way your mind thinks? How do you really know when your’re good at something? What if success is chance? Why do some people believe in themselves and others don’t? I know I’ll never be a person who sits back in my chair, smiling with my hands laced around the back of my head, thinking: “damn, i rock.” But it would be nice to be okay with trying, and when validated, allowing myself to feel the joy of that success.

Will I ever be able to believe in myself? To accept who I am, both my strengths and weaknesses? To approach projects with rationality and excitement, rather than fear and anxiety? Maybe CBT and DBT will help, but I’m not sure if even those techniques can break down what has become a belief system of sorts.

Any suggestions – ‘cuz I’m stumped. Hey look, I failed again. :)

The Power of Words: Finding the Voice of Depression

I’m sad today. Not that anything has really gone wrong. I had a restless night of sleep and am still trying to figure out if it’s the meds, the bed, or just me. I haven’t had a completely pointless day – I actually read more than five pages of a book, took the dog for a “walk”, (she stops so much it feels more like a meander,) did the dishes and laundry, and while I ate too much, I haven’t been too hard on myself about it. I have a few overwhelming life decisions on my plate, but I know today’s not the day to attempt to break them down. (I’m waiting for a bout of hypomania to deal with those.)

But I’m still sad. “Sad.” It’s funny how certain words become so trite and insufficient when you deal with them so often. Words like: depressed, sad, pain, helpless, hurt, or exhausted. They are used so often in so many contexts, when speaking of depression, the specificity of their depth and thus their significance is lost.

Example: When someone dies and you feel sad, it’s a different sad then when you feel this deep pain pounding through your body that extinguishes the luster of color, taste, or smell for weeks. Or the sadness that deflates the excitement of friends calling, stories told, or help provided. I’m not trying to say the sadness of death and grief are any less valid or don’t have similarities to the sadness of depression; I’m saying they are not the same, and yet in both situations the same word is used.

I’ve always loved words; their power and subtlety, their vast ability to make you feel and see and understand. And as much as I love our current lexicon, it never does this disease justice. Without appropriate language, how can a person describe what they feel, especially to someone who might not have ever felt that way? And therefore, how can one make someone understand the frightening reality and serious implications of this disease – how it can devastate a future, crush ones’ dreams, and lead people to a place where they find themselves pleading for death?

I have come to believe a large, painful component of this disease lies in the constant struggle to make others understand and the constant aggravation and helplessness of being misunderstood. (Often times, neither party at fault.) Perhaps that is why so many of us suffer in silence or act out in “crazy” ways in an attempt to be “heard.”

I have had the opportunity to read other blogs of people suffering through depressive diseases and sometimes their descriptions or metaphors are able to capture the daily veil of this demonic disease. But I still wonder – would someone who does not suffer really understand? Will the stigma behind mental illness ever really diminish if people cannot relate?

I’m not arguing that we create a new lexicon for mental illness. If only it was that simple. I guess I just feel sad and wish there was more I could do or say to take the pain away. As for today, I’m going to try and stay busy, push the pain away by ignoring it, and do my best to make it through until tomorrow.

Enough said.