I’ve been a bit down lately
It has been a little rough lately. Matt has been working crazy long hours and I hardly get to see him anymore. For instance, he got home from work tonight at about 9:30 pm and promptly went to bed. I’m glad we got our kitten (we got a kitten named Molly!) otherwise I would be really lonely. Luckily, I met two really awesome people, Vera and Ted, and we have become fast friends who hang out every chance we get. They’ve really helped me not to feel totally isolated and alone, which is easy to feel when you live with a boyfriend who is hardly home.
I was put on Celexa for my depression/anxiety and really, it wasn’t working, so I was sent to a counselor to talk about what would be best. After talking to her for about 10 minutes she realizes that what I really need is to be seen in the mental health facility in Kaiser, so she made me an appointment for 8:15 the following Tuesday. I showed up a little early (as always) and they gave me an enormous packet to fill out that covered every topic from sleeping habits to family history to addictions. I’m pretty sure Kaiser now knows more about me than any person I know. Around 9 I was called in, along with 15 other people for an orientation where they take all of our packets and the psychiatrists look them over and decide who should talk to whom. While they are doing this, we, the patients, are seated in a room to endure a powerpoint presentation about the benefits of Kaiser’s mental health facility. I don’t care. I’m already here, aren’t I?
We got called out of the room one by one to go off to mini offices to talk over our paperwork. I got a woman named Dominique who was older with red hair and a taste for gaudy jewelry. She went over ever detail of my packet painstakingly and asked me to clarify any answers that she deemed worrying, which had magically been highlighted at some point. I never expected that I’d loose my shit at any point and start crying, but when we went into my relationship with my father and her desire for every minute detail, I just couldn’t help myself. She had me describe for her how my father would physically abuse my mother and brother, but leave me to watch. He could be one of the cruelest people I’ve ever known, but he could also be incredibly sweet. One day he would brush your hair and paint your toenails (I was 6, so this was a big deal) and the next he would be slitting your dog’s throat with a shovel and threatening to do the same thing to you if you told anyone. You never quite knew what you would encounter from day to day until one day he up and left our family for a new one. I’ve fought for his love ever since, but it’s turned out to be a losing battle.
She also wanted to go into detail about my suicide attempts. I was 19 the last time I tried to kill myself. I was living in San Luis Obispo at the time, and this wasn’t long after “the incident”. I took all the sleeping pills I had left (about 7 though I never really counted) and the rest of my Nyquil (not too much) along with a couple shots of vodka. It wasn’t a stellar attempt, but it was all I had and I hoped it would do the trick.
I laid down in my bed and pondered what it would be like to die while I waited for sleep to come over me, but it never did. In fact, I had one of the worst cases of insomnia that I had had in a long while. I never fell asleep and I never got tired. In fact, I became hyper. Dominique asked me if I ever told anyone and I asked her if she would tell anyone if she failed at killing herself. At that point in my life I was so low that I never imagined I could sink any deeper. Failing at suicide doesn’t help you to feel any better about yourself. You just feel like more of a failure.
After going through the highlights of my crazy, Dominique gave me several referrals to support groups, psychologists and an immediate referral to see a doctor about a possible case of bipolar disorder. The appointment was in 30 minutes, but before I left Dominique told me something that made me cry no matter how hard I tried not to. She told me that though I never got to choose who my parents were, I never should have gone through what I did. She then went on to tell me that I had shit parents (mainly my dad) and that she understood how I felt and thought I was remarkable as I could have become a totally different person. It sounds strange, but it was nice to hear that someone out there was giving me permission to feel heavyhearted. She also said that I might have some PTSD from my childhood then again after “the incident” and that it wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t control the memories that sometimes flood my mind or the moods that drown me in sorrow. It’s amazing how many people out there try to make you feel like shit for things you cannot control. She knew exactly what I needed to hear.
After my time with Dominique, I went to the waiting room for about 20 minutes before seeing Dr. Wang (really). She and I further discussed my life and my moods and my sometimes erratic behavior. She gave me some medication and told me that I wasn’t just depressed, but I was probably mildly bipolar (which is something my mother thinks is bullshit. Of course she does. Then again, this is the woman who never acknowledged that her daughter would cut herself) and that regular depression meds were making things worse for me, which seemed to be true. She then wanted to know when I began hurting myself. It was probably back in junior high when I would slam my fingers in drawers and doors in order to feel better and have a physical pain to focus on. From there I would stab forks into my arms under the dinner table so that no one would notice. I started cutting in high school. I remember sitting in my car before school started and feeling like my chest was filling with this overwhelming pressure that needed to be let out. It was like a balloon that was being overfilled. If some of the pressure wasn’t released then I would absolutely explode. I picked up a safety pin that I kept in my car and began cutting myself with it. I immediately felt so much better. A friend of mine recently recalled how I would lay in the back of the bus on our way home from competitions. I would have my headphones on listening to Bright Eyes while continuously stabbing and racking the safety pin across my arm. No one ever talked to me about it, and I was just fine with that.
I don’t recall when the transition to an actual razor happened. I had this mini box cutter key chain that was perfect. It was discrete and sharp. I remember Matt finding it in San Luis Obispo. It still had blood on it from the last time I had hit bottom and cut myself while sobbing. He made me swear on the spot to stop cutting and for some reason, I did. That was the last time I cut myself, though I often long for it. Lately I find myself digging my nails into my arms until the skin breaks, but I never consciously do it. I want to cut so badly that it hurts, but I’m not. I am absolutely doing my best, but I can feel myself weakening. I think about cutting and/or killing myself at least once per day. I know how I would do it this time too… I’ve made a plan. But I won’t kill myself because I don’t want anyone else in this world to feel the way I do. I wish I could, I really do.
Dr. Wang gave me my new prescription and had me make an appointment with her for the next month. I’ll be seeing to docs, my regular MD, and a support group for who knows how long. My mother wants me to see a psychologist of hers (a patient I think) to get a second opinion because I couldn’t possibly be bipolar. Whatever. I’ll see whomever she wants just as long as this feeling stops.
So here it is, the least humorous post I’ve put on this blog. But you know, sometimes life really isn’t all that funny. Then again, you’ll always find me laughing. I joke with Matt that I laugh to keep from crying, but really I’m not sure whether or not that is true. I make jokes to keep from having to face the person I really am. Anyway, it’s been a pretty hard couple of days.
