Saturday, September 13, 2008

In Passing

So, it's passing. I think. I hope. That was probably the worst I've been since the hospital. Jb and I have a rule: no killing myself. Wednesday, it was a hard rule to keep. Thursday and Friday, I just wanted for him to come home. Smoked a lot. Rocked myself on the porch stairs trying not to think about it while I've got Leonard Cohen's "Everybody Knows" playing through my head like that last strip of film that keeps slapping against the reel--over, and over, and over.

I should have gone to the hospital Wednesday. I should have gone Thursday. I was that bad. But I couldn't stand the idea of another stay, starting back at square one. It had taken me 5-6 months to pull myself out of the last one, and since the first hospital stay, I swear it's as if I get worse and worse, and never better. Or there's the hope of better, and then the crash hits. I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop. But mostly, I couldn't put Jb through the strain of another hospital stay.

This weekend I have Jb as a babysitter. I've an appointment Monday with my therapist. Another Wednesday with my psych. It'll give me things to do, keep me in line.

Out of the blue, a woman I'd struck up a friendship in the ward called me. Last time I'd talked to her, she'd been convinced she was going off her meds and talking about suicide. I couldn't call her after that; I didn't want to know. I couldn't deal if she had. It was so good to hear her voicemail, to know she wasn't a fallen comrade, that I cried. When I called her back, I was suicidal, and she was completely manic. I couldn't keep up with her, as slow and dumb as my brain had gotten. But then again, how do you keep up with someone on a manic kick?

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Crazy Baby

Joan Osborne sings it straight:

That Close

Yesterday was close. I needed Jb, I needed the hospital, I needed something. So when Jb said he was coming home, I sat on the porch, telling myself if I could just hold it all together until he got home, I'd be okay. But all that ran through my head as I was chain smoking, waiting for him, was, "Just bleed out. Just bleed out. Just bleed out." I kept rocking myself, starring at the paving stones, looking up at every car that passed, hoping it was Jb, hopping it was the one person who'd make it all okay. Never, never have I thought Jb could fix me, but I'm better when he's around.

When he finally got home, I couldn't stop crying. I felt so guilty having to admit that I'd been having suicidal thoughts. He asked me if I needed the hospital, and I probably should have gone, but then I'd be back at square one, and I can't go back to that. I can't climb up out of that pit again, and maybe that's why I wanted to end it all. I was so tired. So tired of the meds and the therapist and the psychiatrist and the fact that even though they're brilliant, I still can't bring myself to leave the house today; I don't trust myself with razors. I'm standing at the brink, always at the brink.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

When's This Get Fun?

I can't stand the ups and downs. Last week, I'm hypomanic in my therapist and psychiatrist's appointments, and now I'm flat on the floor. I can't be bothered to do anything. The dishes have been in the sink for two weeks now, and it makes me hate myself. How can I not even get the dishes done? Sometimes I really wish I knew why we go through this existence. I wonder if too much education is a bad thing: it teaches you to question everything, and it doesn't allow you the blind acceptance of societal norms, religion, even psychological propaganda. I had a psychologist tell me once to get up and try to think of 10 things I was happy for. It's a tool, I know, but it's also a distraction. My mind doesn't work that way. It's a trick. Like politics. And it makes me feel less to give into such things. I want to talk and think about real things--not band-aids.

Vertical Issues

That's to say: I'm having trouble staying vertical. I've never been grace personified, but there are limits after which I will not take blame for my own actions. For example, the other night, I nearly took a header off the top stairs of our porch. I could see that "oh shit" look on Jb's face just before he reached out and got his arms around me. My hero, of course. Otherwise, I'd have fallen backward down the stairs and busted my head. Crazy person in the hospital with a head injury. Ba-bump ching. Funny, funny stuff, folks.

Anyway, I really don't know if it's a side effect of one of the meds or not. Zoloft is the most recent addition. But seriously, I walk around the apartment like I'm drunk. I'm good, and then all of a sudden my entire body wants to go to the right, and my feet are trying to catch up. I trip over myself constantly, and when I get up from sitting down, I often plop right back down because I can't quite get my balance. My ex-mother-in-law had an inner ear thing that kept her off balance, but I've no inner ear thing. Thus, I can only attribute it to meds.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Should Haves

I should have talked to my therapist about this today, but I didn't feel it until just now. The anxiety. The very real panicky, fear of going back to what I was. I'd die there. I'd want to die if all I had to look forward to was an 8-hour day and a few, precious hours at home. I have to go back. Everyone does. There are bills, rent, utilities, food. Nothing pays for itself. And yet, it scares me more -- the idea of going back -- then of being poor like this.

I've come to this point where I don't know who I am. Without my family, my home, my friends, the existence and hobbies I'd eked out in Illinois, I don't know who I am here. I knew who I was in my marriage. What my role was. Jb is more challenging. I feel more need to be the things he wants me to be, even though I know that what he most wants is for me to be myself. But I don't know what that is here on the East Coast. I don't know what to do here, or why I should do it, or who to be. And I have no resources in which to explore it.