How Deep is Your Well?

A day best slept through than lived. You can only understand that if you've ever been truly depressed. Made myself shower. It had been a week since I'd washed my hair. Made myself refill my pill boxes and take my morning meds. It'd been three days.

I confessed to my therapist that I hadn't been med compliant. And she asked me why, which is a reasonable question, and I surprised myself by saying, "It's not really intentional. Last week, I was so high I didn't think I needed them. And then when I crashed, I couldn't be bothered to care."

There's a lot of that last lately. Can't be bothered to eat. Can't be bothered to care about food, groceries, money, bills, pills. As if they will all, somehow, magically take care of themselves. Don't care about my hygiene, how the apartment looks, if I'm able to get anything done.

I've started having the gas mask fantasy again.

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?

Grog

I can't stand the groggy morning. Up by ten, and it's 12:15, I've showered, and I still can't say I'm awake. The lids are heavy, the body leaden. I'm still third person twice removed from the world. I couldn't care less about anything, except maybe something to eat. But the idea of going out is a heroic endeavor. I'd like to crawl my ass back into bed and stay there. But Jb's home this weekend, so there's no hope of me getting away with such a thing. I'm just glad he wants to go out for sandwiches so I'm not required to do dishes, look at the kitchen, or bake the cheesy sausage thing I told him I'd make for breakfast. I really can't deal with making anything. Thank god, he likes tuna melts. It was an easy dinner last night. I just ... I'm not pulling my share this week. And I feel guilty about it, but I ... can't. I really can't. Everything is such an effort. The depression is back again. Some of the bad thoughts are back again, as well. At bay for the moment, but there at the edges.

2:07 p.m. Upkeep

After a bout of depression and mania, I think--understandably--that when a person starts feeling better, they become leery of certain things (i.e. communing with Sharp Items of Peril (TM)). My hygiene is the first thing to suffer when I hit a depressive episode, and I'm still having trouble with physical upkeep, even as I'm straining to continue with my mental upkeep. That often overwhelms the more earthly need to keep up appearances. But when your boyfriend looks at your legs and deems them "furry," that's a hint--perhaps--that some things have gone on too long. Especially when you, yourself, look down and wonder how on earth things got so out of hand.

I knew today I was going to make myself take a shower, shave, shampoo. This doesn't sound like a monumental task by any means, I know, but it's something I've had to work myself up to. Not the shower or shampoo (well, possibly a little), but certainly the shave. There was a point, not overly long ago, when I stood looking in the mirror, trying to keep the pressure in my head in, and wondering how everyone couldn't see it throbbing to get out when they looked at me. It was one of those times when I understood implicitly why cutters cut. And Jb's razor was on the sink. And I picked it up. And I looked at myself in the mirror. And I wanted to cry so hard and shout out anything to alleviate the pressure in my head that I took the razor, and rather than cut myself, cut through a few fingers worth of hair, chopping it off without any regard for how it'd look. Now, on muggy, humid days, I have this little curl in the middle of my forehead that makes me feel like a Parkerism:

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good
She was very, very good
And when she was bad,
She played with Sharp Instruments of Peril (TM).

Needless to say, there was no temptation today. Possibly because I was too busy trying to keep the new bathtub from overflowing long enough to shower, shampoo, and shave. (Apparently, it has problems that require Drain-o-like finesse. Yet another perk of living in a house from the 40's.) There was some wary speculation of each other between the razor and myself. But we came to some sort of truce that seemed, blessedly, normal. I didn't press my luck, though, and was very quick about everything, which was just as well when the tub began backing up on me.

Everybody's Comin' to Get Me

Last night, paranoia hit me hard. It's been hitting me on and off for a long while, though it gets stronger and weaker at times. But it's only last night that I think I started seeing it for what it is. Half the time it manifests itself in the usual ways: thinking people are always watching me, talking about me behind my back, thinking mean thoughts about me, conspiring about me at work. Now I'm starting to think it manifests itself heavily in my relationships. I start thinking things about my significant other like, "Oh, he doesn't really love me. I just want him to admit what I already know: he doesn't actually love me." And there's paranoia about what they're doing, thinking, mostly in regards to me or how it affects me. Are they cheating? Would they ever? Do they want to? What are they hiding on their computers? What are they hiding in their lives? Why don't they ever want to spend time with me? The computer/tv/object must be more important than I am. Maybe I'm not capable of being loved. Etc., etc.

My thoughts were on the mental downward train last night because Jb was on the computer most of the night, watched a tiny bit of tv with me, then zonked out. I immediately started in with the whole, "He never wants to spend time with me anymore. He must not love me. The computer and tv are more important than me. This is just like my last relationship. I'm losing him. What if he cheats on me? He probably doesn't love me anymore. He probably hates me and thinks I'm crazy." Which he should when I think things like that. Because, you know, he couldn't possibly be tired because he's had a long week at work in 90 degree weather, which would be enough to sap anyone. So this becomes just another symptom to bring up to my psych doctor.

Also, I willfully didn't take my meds last night. I didn't want to. I didn't want to have to be taking meds, and certainly not so damn many. Most of the time, I'm extremely faithful to the idea of being med compliant. But last night, I was so down with the paranoid thinking that I didn't see how it mattered if I took meds or not. I didn't care. I didn't care about me.

On a better note, I did take my meds this morning. Lamictal and Wellbutrin down. As far as my sleep schedule, tried to go to bed around 10:30-ish. Not sure when I actually got to sleep. Slept until about 10:30-ish this morning. 12 hours. A little too long, maybe.

Comrades In Arms

I've also been worrying about J----. We met in the hospital and exchanged info, though that's considering breaking a rule in hospital. You're not supposed to have outside contact with anyone you meet inside the psych ward. But we sort of clicked, and it was only for two days. She was discharged before me. But for a few weeks, we didn't talk, and then I called. Because I needed to talk. And it was strange to be able to call someone and to realize that when they asked how you were doing, for once, you didn't have to lie. So we became each other's touchstones. She called when she was thinking about cutting and her husband wasn't home. I called when I just needed to reach out to someone who understood. But the last time I talked to her, things were bad. She was talking about going back into the hospital, about cutting, about wanting to stop taking her meds, even about letting it all go and committing suicide. And I haven't heard from her since, and I... I'm truly afraid to call, to find out that maybe she's relapsed, or worse. I understand wanting to die. And she was in such a black depression. If she committed suicide, not only would it be a horrible tragedy for her family and friends, but selfishly, it'd be like losing a comrade in arms. How easy it is for any of us to slide down that razor's edge, and it'd be like looking into a mirror and seeing possible futures, possible outcomes. How many of us end that way? Why, with all the medications, the therapy, the hospitals, why do some of us never make it? I don't even know if I'm grieving for what could have happened to her, and for myself. Maybe it's for all us standing on the edge of that yawning pit of despair, the slick whisper that asks us, "What are you doing all of this for? Why must you, why must anyone, have to live this?" I can't explain it. All I know is that I have to hold on. And that's as irrational to me as the depression. And I hope like hell she's held on, too.

6:02 p.m. More & Less

More packing, less words. Jb's late again. He's always late these days. He works hard, works for the two of us, so I can't resent it, but I get lonely. It leaves me too much time by myself. It's... hard... to be constantly alone with all these interim hours to while away. I'm tired of packing, of doing the work here at home. I'm tired of being here. I've started thinking about the hospital, wishing, almost, that I was back there. I'm feeling depressed, and... brittle. I can't shoulder much more. I feel like it'd only take some small thing to break me, and I don't know what I might say, how I might act, how the anger might come out. It is anger. I'm so angry at myself for being this way, for feeling so broken at times. I can't tolerate the thought of being touched. I want my space, I want. And I don't know what I want. It's just this gaping hole somewhere, and my brain can't wrap itself around the feelings, this ephemeral thing. It's like this dark shadow behind you, breathing down your neck, and you just want to scrub yourself clean, scrub everything raw until it's bare and white and shining and there's nothing dirty left, everything that's wrong is gone. The pressure grows inside until you feel half mad with it. It's times like that I can understand cutters. I curl my fingers in and dig my nails into my palms until the pain makes the pressure ease. But I'll manage. I'll make myself manage. I have for years. I know how to put one foot in front of the other, and there are other people depending on me. I feel indebted, and so, force myself on.

Inappropriate Thoughts

The thing about feeling better, however, is that it leaves room for inappropriate thoughts, like the fleeting thoughts about the serrated bread knife. Apparently, people with bipolar are at greater risk for suicide when maniac than when depressed. Often, they don't intend to commit suicide. Usually, it's an accident.