It’s been a few days since I’ve had a “real” post. Life has been pretty shitty since Saturday mid-morning, which is funny, because I was so sunny and hopeful in Human Again? which was written very early Saturday morning.
I did go and see my Grandma and go to the grocery store on Saturday morning, as I said I would. Just those two things put me over the edge. The rested feeling that I felt from sleeping from two days, plus the cute little hypomanic spell that followed, was quickly snatched from me and I spent all weekend in bed. I think it is totally awesome (obviously sarcasm) that even a little bit of peace can vanish so quickly with this stupid bipolar crap.
So, over the weekend, I slept, didn’t eat, avoided everyone including Malcom and my mom and DHut, didn’t go anywhere, didn’t mow or do yardwork, didn’t do laundry, didn’t didn’t didn’t. I was either sleeping or laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. So much for progress.
Monday was also not a picnic, not that I really expected it to be. IOP was tolerable…but I was pretty spacey and not really able to focus on what we were doing.
The front of my diary card was pathetic because I hadn’t used any skills in the previous 24 hours…too busy laying in bed, hating myself, too depressed to move. The back was full of “5’s”, which, for anyone who doesn’t know what a diary card looks like, is not good. The number “5” means “unbearable intensity” and the number “4” means high intensity. So yeah, definitely a “4” and “5” weekend.
As I said, Monday was not much better. I survived through group, on auto-pilot. I then had therapy with Goddess of Mindfulness, and she expressed concern about the high numbers on my diary card. We talked about what self-soothing skills I could use (I’ll take any suggestions) and the need to build structure and work on “sacred self” because I haven’t been treating my body well. She explained that I am using mostly distraction techniques, which are good in the short term, but don’t really decrease anxiety…they just, DUH, distract you from it.
We have been working on interpersonal effectiveness in group, and I was feeling bad about the way I have been treating Malcom and I called him and we talked and I told him I would try harder, be more loving, compassionate. He doesn’t deserve to be treated poorly and I need to stop acting like a jackass.
I went home from therapy and went straight to bed, where I stayed until 4:30 p.m. I then took off with my dog for Mom’s. My objective — let Kizzie play with their dog and build structure. I didn’t particularly want to be there other than those two reasons. I yelled at Mom for trying to talk with me about certain things…which isn’t really her fault, although I made it out to be that way. We then pretty much sat and stared at each other because I was unable to hold a conversation.
Then DHut came home. He always has good stories to tell from the bait shop and watergarden store, and it is easier for me when I can just listen to him and Mom talk about stuff and just throw in my two cents every here and there. They made me laugh. And smile. And that was good. Thank you, Mom and Daddy Hut.
So, I felt a little bit better, at least on the surface areas, after I left Mom and DHut’s. I even agreed to come back tonight and do a fish fry.
I talked to Curly Snap for almost an hour last night. She is being very supportive and is just very, I don’t know, good at validating my feelings. I don’t always get that — and sometimes that’s all I need.
Everyone wants to know what they can do to help, to make me feel better…sometimes I just need my feelings validated, sometimes I just want to hear about something other than myself and my problems. Sometimes I just need to feel normal. Kind of the opposite of the Toby Keith Wanna Talk About Me song.
I want to talk about anything other than me. I hash out my problems here, in emails with Jody, in phone calls with Curly Snap and with Malcom, in five days of IOP with each session lasting three hours, and in three one-hour individual therapy sessions a week. Those are the places I choose to talk about me, because I know I need to. I am hanging onto my life with my fingernails and I just want you to tell me how your day was and maybe a funny story from work or something outrageous you heard on the news (Malcom is good about that) or about politics or religion or almost anything. But me.
There will be times when I can’t interact, can’t talk, can do nothing but stare at you across the table. I could apologize, but I’d probably get threatened to go stand on the steps. I guess what I would say is that I wish I could get this all across to you in person, but I can’t.
And if we do talk about me (which is fine to a point), let’s keep it brief and please don’t try to fix it…just validate my feelings and give advice if I ask for it. Maybe I should just tell my family that. All of them. Hopefully they will read it here and understand. And understand why I had to write it down instead of say it.
And yes, I’m mad. I’m frustrated. Not at you, my family, or anyone but myself. About my inability to interact, to be normal, to be what I think I should be.
Dixie Chicks Not Ready to Make Nice