Disintegrating

How is it possible to feel so gut-wrenchingly awful inside, and yet function like a normal human being? I didn’t think I was going to make it through this working day – I kept trying to figure out how to say to my (oblivious) boss that I need to get the **** out of here. In the end it was a lack of alternatives that stopped me; I knew I’d end up at home, in bed, under the duvet, in much greater proximity to the tools with which I could hurt myself. And less witnesses.

That was the other thing about today – destructive urge after destructive urge. I have marker pen lines on my arm where I’ve had to DO SOMETHING, either draw a line, or do worse. Goodness knows what my colleagues make of it if they noticed. They don’t know I have mental health issues, and it has to stay that way, so opening up to someone just isn’t an option. It’s me myself and I, rattling around in my hellhole of a brain.

And the worst thing is I don’t even know why I feel so bad, so it’s not like I can say with any confidence that I’ll feel better tomorrow, or the next day.

Advertisements

Trigger warning

She’s walking behind me. Her shadow blends into mine. “Do it” she whispers “Pick up the blade.”

I say no. I say I’m better than this. I keep walking, I won’t stop.

She taps me on the shoulder. “Stop ignoring me. You want to do this. You’re not scared of me, you’re scared to admit how much you want to do it.”

And she’s right. The pain, the blood, the regret, the self-disgust; somehow I want all of it. I need it. To express the inner on the outer, for me to see a hundred times a day.

“It’s the right thing to do,” she tells me. I’m picturing it. The blade digging in. Trying not to get blood on anything. Mopping it up after. Hating myself for undoing so much good work.

“Do it,” she urges. She’s shouting now, drowning out the doubts, “DO IT”

 

An escape hatch at the base of my neck…?

Last night when I opened my pill box and emptied out ‘Friday’, I realised I was a pill short. The 45mg mirtazapine (/Remeron) was missing, and there wasn’t one in either of the Saturday or Sunday boxes. Actually, I haven’t taken it all week. My reaction: hey, maybe that’s why I feel so miserable!

Can you smell the desperation?

It is an interesting accident though. The withdrawals don’t seem too bad, despite the high dose. What’s even more interesting is that I credited mirtazapine for helping me sleep, but I’ve done just as well without it. Maybe that’s because I believed I was taking it. Ugh I hate psychology sometimes.

I had a night out with some old friends, and during the routine of photo-taking and teasing I found myself secretly wanting to go home, and curl up. Don’t get me wrong, I love my friends, but sometimes it’s so hard to go out and try and be the old me that they’re expecting. And yeah I know you shouldn’t have to pretend around friends, but I don’t think I could stand the concerned looks and awkward questions. I want the easy, ‘blander’ life.

Again I find myself really battling against the old destructive urges. There’s just so much hate floating around; self-hate, life-hate. I hate myself even writing that sentence, it just reeks of self-pity.

I told Dr T I don’t want to be in my head anymore, and I think he thought I was joking. I really wasn’t.

I get it. I won’t argue.

Nope, I’m not dead. Not physically at least. No, MQ lives on, in all her depressive glory.

Okay, enough with the dramatics.

It seems to me that my life always seems to end up being about ‘getting through the day’. Regardless of the highs and the lows, this seems to be the baseline. I try not to think, unless someone has asked me a question, or it’s work related. I use bathroom breaks to reassure myself with whispers that ‘I’m okay’.

I can’t do anything about nighttime, when the dreams settle in. They’re always pressured. It always feels sad, and heavy, and serious. They taunt me with old fears; airplanes and roller-coasters and clocks counting down. My family is in danger, my therapist wants me dead, and the world is about to end. Every night. It’s exhausting.

The diagnosis is the same: depression or dysthymia. The pills are the same: fluoxetine, lithium, mirtazapine, propranolol. I still have the same therapist, but as time goes on (we’re pushing something like four years now), I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’m too…broken. Too twisted out of shape. It’s not normal, not typical, and not fixable.

The old temptations are the same, but dampened with work and home life responsibilities. I have the tools, but I don’t use them. I wish I would. Even though I have to live everyday with my scars and be conscious of them around my colleagues etc, the thought of new marks, new injuries, sometimes seems so right.

I’m not asking to be happy any more. I accept that just isn’t my lot in life.

But it could be easier. Please.

 

Ugggh

This low phase or whatever it is shows no sign of abating. I can see now that I’ve been trying to cheer myself up with old habits; shopping, unhealthy foods, bad behaviours etc, but none of it seems to be working.

My concentration levels at work are atrocious. I just cannot for the life of me sit there and do even ten minutes’ work in one go. I guess I just have to be grateful that I’m getting away with it, because no one at work knows about my (lack of) mental health. I’m quite ashamed of myself really because a co-worker told us all today about how her son is receiving hospital treatment for a nasty infection, and I find myself fantasising all day about fighting for my life against some evil bacteria. No thinking and no actions required, just a simple case of immune system vs pathogen.

And it’s slightly healthier than fantasising about scratching an intricate pattern of lines on my arm.

It’s not like I can fix this, because I don’t think there’s anything specifically causing this low mood. It’s just…boredom, disinterest in life…ugh. The thought of exploring this in therapy when that starts up again next week doesn’t exactly thrill me either. I have to learn to open up again, and it’s so unnatural!

Bed time. Unconsciousness beckons.

I feel like I’ve done it. In reality I haven’t. But maybe I wish I had done it.

Today has been a real monster of a ‘trigger’ day, and for once it’s not all my fault.

To kick it off I’ve been reading this series of fiction/fantasy novels that I loved as a teenager, and more have been published since I first read them, so I’ve been devouring the new books and today discovered that the last one features a girl who self-harms. Cuts. When I read the blurb I was kind of dismayed, but I love the series so I’m reading it anyway, and the effect is that I have to keep reminding myself that haven’t cut myself. It’s really strange; I almost feel sure that I have self-harmed, and I haven’t.

And now this afternoon Netflix suggested that I watch ‘Girl, Interrupted’, which so far I’m enjoying, but again I feel haunted by my trips to the psych hospital etc, which compounds the self-harm stuff. I would have paid big money to have Whoopi Goldberg as my CRN though.

Actresses aside, the reason I’m even writing this is because I’m increasingly aware of how miserable I feel. Maybe that’s selfish, maybe I have no right to be miserable, I won’t argue with you, but ultimately I just feel like crap, and it’s getting worse. I’m even slightly jealous of some of the characters in ‘Girl, Interrupted’, because they may be stuck on a ward but at least they can act out how they feel.

Trouble with tramadol

Today is a dark day. Not dark because anything terrible has happened, but dark because I can see the darkness. Dr T made a casual comment in therapy today about how the world might seem like a joyless and heavy place, and it hit me afterwards that that was spot on for me. I don’t look forward to anything. I start to doubt the concepts of happiness, and love. Creativity. It all melts down to obligation and pressure, with no real ‘win’.

I thought about sitting down and drawing out a mind map of what the world looks and feels like through the eyes of MQ, but my instincts warned me not to. Outlining all the reasons I don’t enjoy living (now and/or in the forseeable future) could be dangerous, and I could do without that given its the time of year when support networks (docs, therapists) tend to be away on holiday.

I’ll come out and say it: I don’t feel all that safe at the moment, because the theme of overdosing has emerged again recently. When I started taking lithium, I had to stop taking ibuprofen (Advil/Motrin) which had always been a bit of a lifesaver for me, so my doc started giving me prescriptions for tramadol. These prescriptions started at a time when I was rebuilding my overdose stash after the last lot was confiscated (after I ODed), and I got in the habit of asking for more tramadol every time I went to collect my lithium. I deliberately hardly ever took those pills, even when I REALLY needed pain relief, because I was dedicated to piling up this stash *in case I needed it*.

A year or so later, circumstances have changed slightly, and I can take ibuprofen, so now I have absolutely no excuse to ask for tramadol. But I will keep asking for it. I know I will. I’ll just feel more guilty about it.

(Yes, I know I should hand all the boxes over to a pharmacist or someone, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve collected boxes of tramadol for months, and I can’t let it go. My brain just tells me I might need it.)

I never claimed to be intelligent…