Depression the disease who can’t make up it’s mind…

You know, one of the things I hate most about depression is that it can’t make up it’s mind.  One day you can’t stop crying, everything is sad, the world is a sad sad place.  The next day everything offends you, you are angry, you are bitter, resentful, mad and hate pretty much everyone. Then the next day, you just feel eh.  Not bad, not good, you are just existing.  At that point you wonder, am I still depressed or am I ok now and just lazy? I can’t stand it.  I wish it could just pick an emotion and stick with it.  Because I get whiplash trying to figure out where I am, what I am feeling and what the heck is going on.  I know a couple weeks ago I said I wanted to feel numb…. but I have changed my mind.  Numb makes you feel lazy and useless.  Numb makes you feel like you really have nothing wrong with you. At least when you are sad you know what you are feeling.  I can’t make up my mind.

I have also been looking up the symptoms of borderline personality disorder.  I really feel like the symptoms fit me, and I wonder if that’s not another label that would fit me. I don’t know why it’s important, I guess I just like neat and tidy answers, and I know I may never get all the neat and tidy answers I am looking for but I certainly can wish that I had them.

I also am irritated with people who think they know how to make you better.  Yes, I realize it comes from a good place, a place of love and care, a place of wanting to help, but please leave it to the professionals.  Let my doctors and my counselors decide whats best for me and when.  I already have a guilt problem and piling on things you think I “should” be doing just makes it worse.  I stepped down from teaching co op this week.  It looks like tomorrow is going to be my last class because no one has stepped up to sub for me.  I am kind of hurt by that because I have stepped up and helped others.  But I will get over it- eventually.  But I tend to be hurt by things like that and let them bother me for a long time. Because I will wonder if secretly they really hate me, if I have done something to offend them.  I am really not sure that I am going to do co op next year.  There is so much stress, so much time involved and I am not really sure that it’s worth it for my kids. I guess I will have to give that some major thought.

I think I have more to say but I can’t think of it right now so I will end here.

Take this pill… no this one…. no this one.

I’ve known since the beginning that finding the right meds combination would be a long and arduous process, and I know this first hand from the fact that we went through it with big one.  It took years before we found the right combination that did what it needed to for him.

But man I didn’t realize how much it messes with you.  We started with hydroxyzine for sleep, it wasn’t very effective, and my depression wasn’t getting better, so she wanted to try something different that would give me a bigger antidepressant boost and we did remeron at night (another antidepressant – I was taking effexor during the day).  We did 14 days of remeron, my sleep was pretty good, though apparently I was talking and thrashing a lot. Not a huge deal, but I gained 14lbs in 14 days, and though yes I was binging she felt it was unlikely I was eating enough to account for that and it must be the meds.  So she put me on this beta blocker similar to propanalol that I used to take for anxiety but was ineffective….. this was supposedly a great treatment for PTSD, nightmares and sleep.  So I took it Tuesday night, and Tuesday night I dreamt my 73 year old mother in law had quadruplets, and she was in florida with them, she was trying to feed them in bouncy seats at the edge of the surf and they were drowning.  They were just preemies, so tiny.  And everytime I would move one so that they weren’t in the water another one would go in the the water. *As a side note my mother in law was/is an amazing mother and never would have done that* and they babies were just drowning no matter what I did, it was so unnerving.  But I shrugged it off.

Night 2 on the med, first I had a dream we were at a wedding at a friend’s house (who is actually a celebrity and we don’t know in real life) and there was a shooter, and we were all trying to escape.  Then I had a dream that I don’t want to share details about but it involved infidelity on my husbands part, and doing counseling with our pastor and my husband acting like it was no big deal, and he left mid session to go continue with the aforementioned behavior.  Now let me tell you my husband is as loyal as they come and I would never have to worry about this…. there were a lot more details in the dream that give me insight into what the dreams were probably really about but that’s not important.  What’s important is the med I am taking to prevent nightmares has caused nightmares two nights in a row.  It can’t be a coincidence.  I woke up with extreme anxiety, and full of anger and rage towards my poor husband who had been asleep beside me all along.

So I called the doctor almost the minute they opened to let them know what was going on.  The nurse called back within about 15 minutes and told me to stop this pill, and go back to the hydroxyzine take 3 of them, and if that’s not enough take 4 of them just let them know how many I am taking…. so back to square one there.

It’s a frustrating process, and after 2 nights of nightmares I am exhausted. So I have been napping a lot- which makes me feel guilty about big one and little one…. it never ends….

 

What is it about harming myself that brings me so much pleasure?

I can honestly admit that in the past few months very things have brought me pleasure. Maybe a smile here and there, but not honest pleasure, but several times a day I look at my scratched up scabbed over arms, or the pictures here posted on my blog when they were first done and there is actual pleasure.  A sense of satisfaction.  I can’t voice this to my husband because he’s angry at me for doing it in the first place, but I just can’t stop thinking about it, why does my harm bring me pleasure and satisfaction?  Anyone out there have an answer for that?

The eyes are a window to your soul… 

Several people in the past few months have asked me how I’m doing based upon how I look.  I couldn’t figure out what they were basing their opinion on until I looked at some pictures of myself.  At that moment I realized it’s in my eyes.  So today I took a picture of myself smiling and one just neutral.  I cropped the rest of my face out, and even I can’t tell which is which…. I guess the old saying is true- the eyes never lie. 

So I have to get it out….

Ok, I so I have been mulling this over for over 24 hours now and I am still pissed off that my counselor wouldn’t let me read my entire “paper” I wrote about happiness.  The counselor didn’t want the build up, or the conclusion she wanted to shortest succinct definition, and shortest succinct description of how I would know if I were happy possible.

But she didn’t say that when she assigned the homework.  She didn’t say just give me something short and sweet. If she had then I would have written it way different.  I feel like our visit is still unfulfilled. I wasn’t able to share all my thoughts with her, and everything I wrote.  And it makes me feel uncomfortable, and makes me feel like I need to call her on the phone and be like would you please just let me read it? I need you to hear it. I need you to know all the words I worked so hard on.  It was hard to bare my soul, to open up, and even though you felt a lot of it was avoidance of the question there is still value in what I have to say.

And if I don’t call her, I want to bring it with me again next week and beg her to let me read it to her. I am sure there is some therapeutic reason she was all “just the facts ma’am”  But I am not sure she understands the fact that I am obsessing over the fact that she wouldn’t let me share it all.

My husband said, “well the beginning of it was an awful lot of fluff”.  And I got a little irritated with him.  Yes, maybe it was, but if she doesn’t feel like everything I say to her is important than why should I completely open up to her.

If I still feel this way when I see her next week I am going to have to bring it up.  What would you do?

The Things We Wear and Hide on the Outside…

Today was my med appointment and counseling appointment.  The appointment started with me sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong – as usual.  They hang a sign on the 2nd door of the bathroom that says the door is locked from both sides and can’t be unlocked.  This hangs just below the coat/purse/bag hook.   The problem with this is that every time I take my bags (yes I bring multiple bags with me that’s a story for another day) down the sign falls down onto the bathroom floor.  My OCD won’t let me pick the sign up, so I have to let the lady at the desk know so she can go pick it up.  Normally when I get to my appointment I always go use the restroom.  Then I go check in.  Today, I deviated. I checked in, and when I checked in (with the lady I always check in with – there are 3 choices and if I don’t get “my lady” the appointment doesn’t feel right), when I checked in with her I told her, look it’s none of my business but it would make more sense to move the sign above the hook rather than below, then it wouldn’t get knocked down as often.  She smiled and said she would make a note.

So next vital signs with the nurse.  That was fine (at first) blood pressure and pulse was fine.  As usual- despite my obese status I have a healthy cholesterol and blood pressure. Then the nurse said hmm, we checked your weight 2 weeks ago we don’t have to.  I said go ahead, how bad can it be? Now here’s a piece of advice – NEVER EVER EVER say that before you step on a scale.  I had a feeling I had gained some weight, my pants were a little more constricting, my appetite a little more (probably due to a new med from my last med change) and the fact that I have been binging as a coping skill (yeah not a healthy skill). But never in my wildest dreams did I think that the scale would say what it said… I gained, FOURTEEN yes 14 pounds in 14 days.  A Pound a day.  At this point I knew the day would go downhill.  Not only did that mean I was even fatter than I thought, but this put me back at the weight I was when I started a weight loss journey and came within 7 pounds of my 135 goal weigh 4 years ago. It means that in 1 year I have gained 76 pounds.  It means I’m back at square one, but this time the desire to lose weight, is trumped by my desire to not give a crap about much at all, except I care enough to be pissed at myself, to hate my weight, to hate my body and to hate me.

So next piece of good news is to go to my med appointment.  She asks me how I have been.  Im honest, good days and bad days.  Some really bad days when I hurt myself, but only 2 suicidal thoughts a week. An improvement— though I have a strong feeling that wont be the case the next time I see her…. We talk about the 14 pounds.  She thinks it’s likely the remeron, so we are going to stop that and try some other pill that’s supposed to help me sleep.  I want to say let’s just skip to the good crap and give me some ambien or something. But whatever.  She increases my Effexor.  She asks me about my sex life, I say HA! We haven’t had sex since the last time I saw you, and I am pretty sure we haven’t had it in like a month. I’ve lost count.  Apparently hubby’s medication messes with his libido- however despite that I am still convinced he’s not interested in me because I look like the state puff marshmallow man and jabba the hut had a baby. But again – whatever.

After that joy ride I head upstairs for counseling.  I’m feeling peckish when I sit down which isn’t typical but it should have been a hint that today wouldn’t go well.  I had done my homework, and shared most of it here with you – you know all about happiness and crap.  I edited it and added a little and was happy with the result.  She asked me to read it to her, but as I was about halfway through page one she made me stop.  She asked me if I ever get to the actual definition, and I said yes and she made me skip to that. I read it, and continued, she stopped me again, and asked if I ever said what happiness would look like to me, again I answered in the affirmative and she made me skip to that part.

Now first of all, if you are asking me to write something from the heart, you should have the decency to listen to the whole thing.   Even if you think parts of it is rambling, avoidance and hyberbole.  I was hurt that she wouldn’t hear it all.  I am sure there is some theraputic reason why she wouldn’t let me, but I was pissed, and hurt. So then we discuss my view of happiness, of how happy would look to me.  And I had already decided my expectations were too high, my goals unattainable, and that I would probably have to reframe my ideals if I ever wanted to reach this magical land called happiness.  And she agreed.  She confirmed with me that I believed every one of those things had to be in place in order for me to be happy (or so I thought) and I said absolutely. And she made a note.  Probably something about how nutty I am, or to bring home milk… I don’t know.  By now I was defensive and getting kind of mad at her.

Somehow we got into the discussion of the sign in the bathroom, I don’t remember how, but I did tell her that I felt a little bitchy asking her to do it, like I was insinuating myself into the running of their office and it really wasn’t my business…. she asked if I always use the bathroom when I come here, and I said yes, twice, when I come and when I go.  It’s my routine, just like I always check in with the same lady (as long as she’s there) and I always sit in the same chair in the waiting room, and that I will probably always sit in the same place in her office. And the she asked how I would feel if she sat somewhere else. I told her I wouldn’t care, as long as she didn’t sit next to me on the couch that would be too close and not behind her desk.  She asked why I said well for one how do I know you aren’t playing solitaire back there, and for 2 you are putting up a wall and if you get to put up a wall then I get to too.  There was a little back and forth there but the next question is giving me quite a bit of anxiety and will till my next appointment.  She asked how I would feel if the sign wasn’t moved. I said well, it’s their office they ultimately get to decide.

By then the session was over and homework given- write down 2 positive things about my day every day (GAG).  I know it’s probably therapeutically significant but honestly my life pretty much sucks it’s hard to see the good. OH! I forgot to mention I am not allowed to say “I don’t know” because although that is legitimately sometimes the truth more often it’s that I don’t want to answer or I need more time to think about it. So I have to say that. (GAG).  She’s really doing things to make me uncomfortable.  She also asked about exposure therapy I said, in a safe place, with safe people I would be ok, but you ask me to lick a walmart cart and all bets are off.

So that being over, I checked out, made my next appoinments, grabbed one of the sdnacks they offer and used the restroom.  The sign was moved. My heat skipped a little. Success. One of my OCDs would be lowered. I went and thanked the receptionist.

When I got into the car the 14 pounds hit me, hard. And immediately I decided I needed to hurt, physically because I was hurting so much mentally. So I tried my fingernails, but I have been biting them and it wasn’t enough. They were too short, I bit them this week, and it didn’t hurt enough.  I had my knitting needles with me, so while driving I tried one of my metal needles.  Not enough, not even close. So I remembered I had a set of keys to our old house and I used them.  I scratched the inside of my arm,  the outside of my arms, I went up and down and side to side. I drew blood a couple times.  It hurt so much but it felt so good. I needed that. My old wounds were almost healed and I needed new ones, and add to that the weight gain I needed to feel the burn and the pain of scratching.

After a while I called hubby to find out how his appointment went, about as expected, so at least not bad news. I stopped and met a friend to pick up some furniture another friend was giving us and then I talked to hubby more.  We talked about scratching with the keys.  When I got home he said that when I was in a better place we would talk about me scratching with implements.  He said my fingernails are one thing but keys are another… and I got honest, and said I was almost thinking the keys weren’t enough.  He said if this keeps up he will make me sign myself into a facility. I understand his concern but really, it could be worse.  It could be a razor, a knife, or even something worse….

Here’s what I did…

IMG_6733IMG_6734IMG_6735IMG_6736IMG_6737

I look at it, and realistically I know it’s stupid. That it really doesn’t help in the long run, but I feel like I need the pain, I need the scars.  The scars that people can see on the outside that match the scars that are inside. Though I have to say that they don’t even come close to the depth of the scars that are inside my brain and heart.

Of course tonight I didn’t do any better with food, I drank a large caramel frappe from McDonald’s – 680 calories, and my dinner was 2 very big bowls of cocoa pebbles. I am sure that will do wonders for my weight.

And what’s even better, I had my husband drop my son off at his counseling appointment at 1pm, and I said I would pick him up at 2… guess what? His appointment was at 2pm. I had it written in 2 places- my phone calendar and my paper calendar. AND I got a reminder call yesterday.  I can’t keep anything straight these days. Ia m just so tired of living this life.

This was a pretty bleak post.  I guess I should end with 2 positive things from today…..

  1.  I had a friend who cared enough to go out of her way and meet me, to get some free furniture from another friend.
  2. I took my kids to karate even though I didn’t want to go, and wanted to stay home.

I used to be

I used to be a good mom.  I used to be a good cook.  I used to be a good friend. I used to be a good wife. I used to be a good sister. I used to be in shape. I used to care about how I looked. I used to be a good Christian.

Depression, anxiety, OCD and PTSD stole all that.

Now I spend hours napping, instead of crafting or playing Go Fish.  I spend time playing solitaire instead of reading to my kids. I let my kids watch too much tv and use the devices too much.

I used to cook elaborate meals, everyday.  I used to bake for my family.  I took pride in my God-given talent for culinary arts.  I used to love people with food.  Now I excel at grilled cheese, cereal, toaster waffles or hubby cooking.

I used to talk to my friends daily and want to spend time going out and doing things with them. Instead of dodging invitations, avoiding eye contact and just plain avoiding messaging or contacting them on Facebook.

I used to talk to my siblings about their lives, now, if I talk to them it’s all about me all the time- what’s wrong with me, why my life sucks, why I feel like crap- me me me.