life’s little reminders

Just when I was telling myself that I’m not bipolar.  I’ve been relatively stable for some time now, gee, maybe I should think about going off the meds…

I notice that I’m up all night long again.  Meds aren’t putting me to sleep.  Moods are swinging hard and fast.  I feel very grateful that I have a relatively minor disorder and that I’m not so far gone that I don’t recognize this for what it is.  Or maybe I’ve just been burned one too many times and I’m finally taking it seriously.  I’m not going to let it get out of control this time.  This is usually this start of the crash and burn.  I don’t have the fun mania’s that I hear about.  I get goofy but it’s short lived.  It quickly turns into irritable hypomania then into darkness.

Seroquel isn’t knocking me out.  I could take more but Seroquel is a weight gainer.  Always a trade off.  Sanity or vanity, or diabetes or heart disease or tardive dyskinesia…Topamax is my mood stabilizer.  Could increase that I suppose but could I get any dumber?  Topamax has the nickname Dopamax because of its cognitive side effects.  I have been getting more and more depressed, but delusional me wanted to deny that and go off meds.  Antidepressants backfire on me.  No relief there.  Perhaps a lobotomy would work.

Enough of that.  I just baked a batch of cookies.  From the Cooks Illustrated Family Cookbook.  Last week I baked their Snickerdoodle recipe and I must say it was delicious.  I give it 3 thumbs up.  Tonight, at midnight, I made the sugar cookie recipe.  This one was not my favorite sugar cookie recipe. I give it a raspberry and 1/2 a knuckle.  It called for all the yummy cookie ingredients, real butter, eggs, vanilla.  Maybe my technique was off.  I like my gramma’s better, but it feeds an army.  Her’s calls for shortening and butter and is just divine.

So I think I’m going to knit my sister’s penis shaped lip balm cozies for Christmas, that is if I can muster up enough talent to do it.  I’ve tried to knit my daughter a shawl with this yarn called Noro Kureyon.  It looks like Margaret the Trash Heap.  This yarn sucks.  I read reviews about it, rave reviews.  The colors are beautiful! Yarn is lovely,  wonderful to work with.  HAH!  The yarn has little pieces of sticks in it.  It’s spun so poorly that it’s like chunks of roving and then it goes to tight string like lengths of yarn.  It’s wool, itchy, stick laden wool.  I will never buy Noro Noro “>Kureyon again.  I made a scarf out of Noro Silk Garden and I liked that stuff, not Kureyon.  Now I have to frog Margaret the Trash Heap and figure out what to do with all that crappy yarn.

crabby

The psychologist seemed nice enough.  Didn’t finish going through my history, therapy goals and such, though.  Telling my DBT/therapy tale brought back a lot of shame.  Today was a bad day.  I was very moody, short tempered.  Couldn’t think of a skill to use, didn’t want to use any damn skill.

I’m freaking out about filing a complaint against old therapist.  I’m afraid that I’ll get in trouble.  Stupid, I know.  But I’m afraid.  For some reason I’ve come to associate him with all the bad authority figures in my life and I’m afraid that he’s going to hurt me, even though the rational part of me knows that it makes no sense, a bigger part of me is a frightened child.  I don’t think that complaint will get filed.

I’m trying to shake that off and look forward.  Next session with the new psych will be about therapy goals.  I need to come up with those, what’s realistic for me.  I need to keep pushing myself to move forward, no matter how small the steps may be I have to move forward.  And I did make progress today, even though I was crabby.  I can still move forward when I’m crabby, and crabbiness didn’t have to define my whole day.

baby steps

I’m seeing a new psychologist tomorrow.

I’m still a bit labile, I hope I don’t cry.  I hope I can  keep the mindset that I’m hiring her to help me.  Emphasis on the HIRING part.  I’ve been perceiving my therapists as authority figures and that’s not healthy.

In thinking about what my expectations of therapy are, I’ve been wondering if my expectations have been very realistic.  I am in my forties.  I’ve been very isolated.  I could probably be diagnosed as agoraphobic. ( I haven’t been formally diagnosed as such).  I am easily overwhelmed.  I have little to no outside support.

What changes can I realistically make?  I tend to look at the finish line and panic.  By that I mean, envision myself in a steady job, competently earning a nice income and navigating my way in the real world with ease.  This is something that I want, this is something that I don’t have the tools to actually make happen at this time and it scares the hell out of me.

So I’m wondering what is realistic?  How many people my age, who have isolated themselves for so many years have been able to crawl out of that hell?  Who have no support or friendships because of that isolation?

But I’m trying so hard not to get bogged down by my past.  I’ve been trying so damn hard not to let that stop me from trying anyway.  I have to start where I am, no matter what my circumstances are.  I am here.  I can’t change that.

I’ve been thinking about college.  I can’t afford classes right now.  Our public library system has an online learning center with free courses in math, business English, adult job skills refresher courses among many other resources.   So I’ve been looking them over and sticking my toe in and testing out the waters, seeing how much I’ve forgotten over the years.  I never went to college.

I read something on a forum, someone mentioned that they had once been very obsessed with themselves, and once they had made the decision to stop being so self obsessed, life became so much easier.  That really hit home.  Hard to hear, but oh, so true.  So I’ve been trying to stop being so damn self obsessed, and I’ve been trying to stop dwelling on the obstacles in my way.  They just tend to bog me down and stop me in my tracks.

All of this scares the hell out of me.

…

Tomorrow I see my old therapist and I am already freaking out.  I am filled with anxiety.  I am not usually like this, not with therapists.  I will go, I wont run away.  But something happened at that last therapy session with my dbt therapist that has caused me to associate therapy with bad things and this isn’t good.

Tomorrow is the new moon, a time for beginnings.  I hope this can be the beginning of healing for me, a new chapter.

I had a doctor appointment today, pretty routine, mostly to keep a prescription for blood pressure and thyroid meds filled for another year.  I disclosed my psych meds, and the nurse practitioner asked if my diagnosis had changed from depression to bipolar because of the medications.  It has and I said, yes.  So, it’s now on my medical chart that I have bipolar disorder.  I’m not comfortable with that.

In a perfect world where there is no stigma against mental illness this would not be an issue.  I don’t live in that perfect world.  People who wear labels of mental illness do not get taken as seriously as people who don’t wear those labels.  Depression doesn’t carry quite the same stigma as bipolar disorder, and if the label borderline personality disorder ever becomes attached then man, just forget about credibility altogether.  I don’t have that diagnosis,  I really feel for those that do.

I wonder if I can get that removed from my chart.  I wonder if I should lie about my meds.  I will if I feel that I’m being stigmatized because of my mental illness.  I’m pissed off that I have to be concerned about this at all.

strength

Sigh.

I think I can write about it now.  I’m stronger than I thought.  There was a point two weeks ago when I honestly thought that I wasn’t going to make it.  I really thought that I was going to die.

I’ve been going to my DBT group for 1 1/2 years now.  I loved my group.  One of my struggles is that I tend towards agoraphobia.  This group has been my source of social support.  I’ve learned so much, and not just the skills.  I’ve learned that I’m not the hideous monster that I’ve made myself out to be.  I can fit in with a group.

Therapy has been a struggle.  When I read back I see that I’ve had doubts about it for a long time.  T can be very validating at times and therapy can feel like a battle.  I think that’s par for the course.

Therapy has gone wrong.  I don’t want to get in to the particulars, but I’ve lost all trust with him.  He happens to be co-leader of DBT group.  I’ve decided to stop both.  This was a heart wrenching decision that brings me to tears, even now and it’s been 2 weeks.

T has called me twice in that time.  Both times, when I saw his name on caller ID, I started shaking, my legs got weak, I started to cry and my heart began to race.  What in the world is going on with me? I don’t understand the fear response at all.  Nothing happened in therapy to warrant this response, yet it’s happening and it is very real.  I am not usually like this.

We had been opening up old wounds in therapy.  Painful ones, obviously, deep ones.  They’ve gone unresolved.  At our last session, I brought in a journal entry, like I had been doing in previous sessions.  This one wasn’t pretty.  It had been a very difficult week.  I wanted him to see exactly where I was at so I didn’t censor as much as I usually do.  He couldn’t have been more invalidating in his response to what I wrote.

One of the things that got to me the most was I journaled about an incident with a person who had sexually abused me when I was 13.  My t then discussed what I had written, spoke the names out loud, actually got the name of my abuser wrong, and then I don’t remember anything, I don’t remember what he said except that I found it to be so hurtful, so cruel even.   Then he said that I was creating my own emotional pain by staying in emotion mind.  Said journaling is fine if I want to relate facts but not if I want to relate emotions.

I journaled about another very painful memory.  I felt like it all blew up in my face.  I shared some really painful stuff and he shit all over it.  And this isn’t the worst of it, but I’m not going to get into the rest right now.

I don’t understand my response to his mere phone calls.  It doesn’t make any sense.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I felt so alone, so hurt.  I stayed sober.  I called my old therapist.  I made good decisions, healthy decisions in the midst of the storm.  I didn’t know that I could do this.

catching up, making sense of it all

(4-3-09)

DH isn’t out of the woods yet.  If his hand isn’t noticeably better by tomorrow evening, he has to have surgery. Doc thinks he has an abscess.  He told DH to soak it 4x daily in Dreft but DH “forgot” about it until I asked him if the doc wanted him to do any think like soaking it.  Why?  Why does DH refuse to ACT unless someone TELLS him to?  I get pissed off all over again and go to the store to buy the damn Dreft.

I’m thinking more rationally today.  I am embarrassed by my freak out.  I feel very fragile though.  Tears and another freak out are just under the surface.  I’m very tired.

I think that some of this weird over-reaction also has to do with the fact that the boys and I are so very dependent on DH for everything that I really freak out when that is threatened in any way.  I need to become independent, I really need to be able to provide for us. I’ve been emotionally dependent on him ever since I met him.  I didn’t realize how strong that still is. I feel so frantic when I feel that he might be taken away from me.  I can’t even name the emotion, but it’s a terrible feeling, a panicked, hysterical, terrified feeling. It’s primal.  I am ashamed of this. It’s not normal or healthy.

I’m worried that if DH does need surgery, which will be done out patient but under general anesthesia in the CITY, where I am totally unfamiliar and have no idea where anything is or where I’m going, I’m worried that DH wont be able to tell me how to get home due to the anesthesia, and I wont be able to figure it out.  But this is a few days away, IF it happens at all.  I need to stay present, in THIS moment.

I’m disturbed by how easily I spun into some very dangerous thinking and actions.

Just some thoughts on calling T for help yesterday.  I honestly don’t even remember what I told him, I think I remember most of what he told me.  The big thing is, I called.  I really HATE calling for help.  Just making the call, knowing that someone actually gave a shit, at least at that moment anyway, grounded me a little, brought me down. Hearing the voice of reason brought me down.  When I found myself ruminating, I could hear T’s voice telling me to focus on other things so I don’t ruminate.

and I lose it.

(4-2-09)

Looks like I wont be alone after all.

How to put the story together so it will makes sense….here goes:

DH cut his hand a couple of weeks ago.  When I first saw it, it looked red, inflamed and dirty.  I told him to wash it, put some antibiotic ointment on it and bandage it.  He refused to do so. I felt very frustrated, but decided that I couldn’t make him take care of it so I let it go.

Fast-forward to yesterday afternoon. DS1 (my son) had a med check with his pdoc.  DH took him.  Pdoc sees DH’s very swollen, red hand and says, let me look at that.  You need to see the doc, it’s infected.  You need to see the doc NOW.

DS1 runs into the house when they get home and tells me what his doc said to DH.  I demand to see DH’s hand, demand that DH tell me what DS1’s doc said, and proceed to call the clinic to get him in.

After a frustrating conversation with our local clinic, I contact urgent care and get him in to be seen within the hour.

I lose it.

Here is my secret. I feel that this is my fault.  I feel guilty that I didn’t realize, or even notice how bad his hand was.  I didn’t tell him to go to the doctor. I didn’t insist that he take care of the wound.   I was too self centered, too occupied with my own damn self to even consider that other people have problems, too.  But I did this to him. It doesn’t make any sense, but I really feel responsible for this.

I feel tremendous guilt.  I feel extreme worry, I think he’ll be put in the hospital, and he may be put in tomorrow by the hand specialist, but that’s getting ahead of the story. I feel tremendous anger at DH for allowing it to get this bad.  He’s not stupid.  He knew it was getting really bad last week he admitted to me tonight.    So I yell at him.  I yell at him and I yell at him and I yell some more.  I feel frantic. I want to yell and scream and hit him.  I need to chill.  I refuse to go to the clinic with him get my hair cut instead.  I’m a jumble of conflicting emotions.

I get my hair cut, call home and lose it again.  I call my T for coaching.  He understands that I’m upset, he understands that there is something else driving this reaction but I can’t tell him that this is all my fault.  I can see him using rational mind, asking questions like, did you smear crap in it to infect it, did you keep him from going to the doctor or cleaning and dressing the wound…and of course I did not.

But he wont understand that I feel that this really is my fault anyway, he wont understand the guilt and I cannot explain it.

This is what my mind is telling me….You are such a self centered bitch that you couldn’t see that your husband’s hand is cooking an infection that could kill him?? And that’s all you can do is piss and moan and whine about your own damn self?  You piece of shit. You selfish, whining, cunt.  You deserve to die. I try to push these thoughts away but can’t.  They are no longer words, they’ve become imprinted on my soul.

I freak out every time I see DH and his grotesquely swollen, reddened hand. When I spoke with T, I told him that I wouldn’t go for a long drive, but I did.  After I get home, after talking to T, I freak out.  If I stay I’m gonna take pills.  I lose control, am on the brink of yelling and yelling and yelling some more so I leave.

I lose the fucking cell phone somewhere in my car.  It’s turned on, I can’t figure out how to turn the fucking ringer on, I can’t talk and drive at the same time so I throw it and now I can’t find it.

I want to drive hard and fast.  The music is cranked so loud I can’t think.   I blow the speakers.  I set the cruise because I keep finding myself really going fast. I realize that I have no cell, no money and it’s late. This scares me, but not enough to make me go home.

The radio blares the song “Spirit In The Sky.”  I start to sing along.  Then I start to actually listen to what I’m singing:

When I die and they lay me to rest
Gonna go to the place that’s the best
When I lay me down to die
Goin’ up to the spirit in the sky
Goin’ up to the spirit in the sky
That’s where I’m gonna go when I die
When I die and they lay me to rest
Gonna go to the place that’s the best…

Is the “Spirit in the Sky” telling me to get my ass home, that DH  is dying of this raging infection and worthless piece of shit that I am, I’m driving because I’m too selfish to put aside my own shit to help DH??  I drive until the urge to drive is gone. I drive until I am burnt out.  I turn the car around and go home.

It’s after midnight.  I wake DH and take his temperature.  Only 98.3.  This is good news, I hope.  I look at the boundary of infection marked in ink by the doctor to assess if the infection has spread.  Who the hell am I trying to kid, I’m no doctor.  He doesn’t feel worse.  Still angry, I tell him that if he ever does this again I will kill him he wont have to worry about any infection rotting his arm away. Of course I don’t mean this literally.

I turn on the TV.  John Edward is talking to the dead.  I’m not kidding.  If this “Spirit in the Sky” is trying to tell me something, it really has a twisted sense of humor.  John Edwards has not graced our TV screen for quite a few years.

I feel like I have to clean.  I do the dishes, clean the counters, mop the floor.  Aside from 2 antibiotic shots in the ass and a tetanus shot in the arm, DH has to take Keflex around the clock.  Next dose is at 4 am.  I wait until 4:00, wake him and give him his medicine and go to my room.

I haven’t eaten today.  I don’t deserve to eat. Fuck eating. Fuck hunger.

It’s 5:00 am and I’m too wound up to sleep.  Do I take extra seroquel or not?  He has to see a hand specialist in the morning, who will most likely admit him to the hospital from what DH tells me.  I need to be awake and strong and advocate for him.  I have to make up for giving him this infection.  For being a selfish bitch.  For being worthless and thankless.  I have to atone.

I’m shaking deep within my belly my whole being is shaking and I cannot relax.  I’m hanging on to sanity by my fingernails.  I’m assaulted by guilt, by crazy thoughts but I have to hold on and be strong and I can’t let anyone know what is going on because I know that it’s crazy but I can’t get myself to believe that it is not true. So I try to shove it down but it keeps coming back so I push it away again and again and again.

I can’t stop shaking.  My arms are shaking, my legs are shaking, my gut is shaking, my chest is tight.  Why the fuck can’t I just die? Why the fuck couldn’t this horrid infection have happened to me instead?  So I sit in my bed and rock and rock and rock some more.