Where Has Rosa Been?

This is going to be a hard post to write, but I know its necessary.  I feel so much shame and embarrassment, it’s unreal.  I know I shouldn’t.  I know it will be pointed out to me that I have a disease and I was doing what I had to do to manage it.  I guess I just thought I was managing better than I actually was.

There will be no sugar-coating here, just a synopsis of the last several days, and then maybe I can move forward and start posting again.

I have seen so much progress over the course of the last six weeks, so maybe it seemed like everything was fine.  Everything, my friends, was far from fine.  True, I was making progress, but I was also sinking deeper and deeper into a cycle, where I finally came to the point that I was suicidal.  I didn’t feel like I could go on with how things currently were.  I was desparate for relief and knew the only solution was to go see my pdoc again and see if my meds could be changed again.

I went to the city to see Dr. Wizard on Thursday afternoon, and by 5:0o pm, was headed into an inpatient psychiatric hospital ward.  I was really nervous because I had been to this place before and had only managed about 36 hours before demanding to be set free.  That’s just how horrible it was this last time.  This time I had no choice.  No other beds were open in my part of the state.  I decided I would give it a try.

The non-stop crying spells lasted from Thursday through Sunday.  You couldn’t do anything less than smile at me, and I’d be uncontrollably sobbing.  The majority of the staff were exceptionally nice, and the other patients left me along for the most part.

I was very lucky that my dad came and saw me on each visitation.  It really meant a lot to me, and he brought snacks and change for the soda machines so I could have a little caffeine.  We didn’t talk much, it seems, during our visits.  It was nice knowing he was there, though.

I talked to QoB a few times each day.  The store was really busy while I was gone, so they weren’t able to make it out, but I understood.  What would have happened is that I would have started crying and then QoB would have started crying and we wouldn’t be able to stop.  No parent wants to see their kid in this shape.

I saw the ARNP on Friday and she is taking me off Geodon and adding Ablify.  So far, it seems to have pepped me up some.  I am still experiencing  extreme anxiety and a fair amount of depression.  I really hope I start to feel better soon because I don’t want to go back.

I have developed a very low, extremely low tolerance for any kind of bullshit, so there’s not a lot I can take.  I feel like I should have seen this coming sooner and done something drastic, but as Dr. Wizard says, there was nothing he could do medically outside of send me to the hospital.  I guess I understand that.

So now I’m back and I’m still teary and kind of depressed and really anxious.  And foggy.  But I’m back.  I hope to be able to start posting regularly soon.  Fingers and toes and eyes crossed.

Difference of Wills

I have the will to survive.  I am not ready to die, even though I do think about it, the not-living.  Think about it obsessively, at times.  What I do not have, is the will to live.  To flesh out my meaningless existence into something worth having.  And I’m not sure it’s even the will that I’m lacking, but maybe the strength, or the desire, or the current ability.

I had another hard day yesterday and today, so far, hasn’t been much brighter.  I woke up with a chest full of anxiety and feel like I’m breathing through a straw.  I had already taken a PRN by 10:00 a.m., and that is quite rare for me.  I don’t know how to explain this feeling, but it’s more than just anxiety.  It’s anxiety, and it’s tension, and sadness, and hopelessness, depression, despair, agony, hurt, pain, confusion.

And anger.  There is so much anger.  I never thought of myself as an angry person, but I have been lately.  I have so much hatred, directed inward, that it is spilling out into hatred directed outward.  I am tense, I lose control at the slightest irritation, the voices in my head churn together to create a death-metal march of destruction.  I can’t take it.  What is it that I can’t take?  Anything.  The reality of the world rubs me raw and I just.can’t.take.it.  I feel lost and wounded, like I am limping through a forest of evil trees, waiting to be killed.  Kill or be killed.  Kill or be killed.  Kill or be killed.

Fall is coming.  Fall is almost here.  Bad things happen in the Fall.  Mood shifts, cycles, howling at the moon.  I wonder if I should use my sun lamp, but I feel like this might be a mixed episode and so I don’t.  But I want to.  Because that lamp brings me happiness, energy, joy.  Let’s face it.  That lamp could, does have the possibility, entirely possible that it could bring full-blown mania.  And I want that and I don’t, at the same time.  I’d be happy with some hypomania.  Maybe then I could get my house clean.  What I do know, however, is that it could really intensify this mixed episode I believe I am having.  And that would lead to more hurt, more despair, more anger.  I don’t really want that.  So I will wait, ride it out.  Because, really, what else can I do?

Long Overdue

Well, here I am…appears that I made it through winter without too many glitches.  The last month has seen lots of changes, most for the better.  Since it has been so long since I have posted, and I have so many things on my mind, this could be a long one.

Dr. Love and I broke up about three weeks ago.  It was probably a long time coming and I shouldn’t have been as shocked as I was.  Things hadn’t been bad, but there hadn’t been much happiness, joy, or love.  It had come to the point where we were mostly roommates, forced to share space, both of us being annoyed about it.  The breakup has been for the best, and has really awakened me to some changes I will have to make in my life if I want it to be a long, happy one.

Exactly two days after Dr. Love and I broke up, I rescued a very cute, sweet, terribly skinny and abused female Yorkie from a nearby city.  She had been dumped on a gravel road out in the country, and somehow made it to a farm where she was picked up by the family that lived there and taken temporarily to their sister’s house inside the city.  I found out about her through an email that was sent out by one of my mom’s co-workers and then sent to me.  I knew at once that I had to have her.

She was getting used to me, getting accustomed to Kizzie, and then last weekend I went to visit my sister.  QoB watched Birdie for me, and I anticipated no problems, but she is a very skittish dog.  Everything was going fine at QoB’s with Birdie and mom’s other dogs, when Birdie went walk-about around 8:00 p.m. on Saturday night.  I was heartbroken.  When I hadn’t received a call (she had a tag on and I filed a missing dog report with the local shelter) by Tuesday, I was convinced that she was gone forever.  It had snowed on Sunday night and I just didn’t see how that tiny dog could have made it.  My best hope was that someone picked her up and decided to keep her.

Much to my surprise, I received a call around 9:30 p.m. on Wednesday asking if I had lost my dog.  I was dumbfounded and in shock.  I had really written Birdie off, believing I would never see her again.  I went and picked her up and she was a mess.  She had lost all of the weight I had been able to put on her, and was covered in cockleburrs.  And of course, was filthy dirty.  She was so excited to see me, though, and I was overwhelmed.  I had said that I was going to get rid of her if I got her back, because I couldn’t deal with all of that drama and heartbreak.  When I brought her home, she got into a fight with Kizzie, which strengthened my resolve to find her another home.

By the following evening, after spending about 20 minutes with Birdie and Kizzie together, seeing how happy Birdie was, how happy I was to be around her, and how good it was to see Kizzie so excited, I knew that I was going to keep her and nurse her back to health, physically and emotionally.  This poor dog has been through hell and back.  When she was found, she was over a mile from where she had went missing.  I firmly believed that God wanted me to have this dog.  I don’t care how corny that sounds.  I believe.

With Dr. Love gone, I am trying to figure out what makes me happy. I keep telling everyone, “I’m fine, I’m great,” and maybe in some ways I am.  I feel more free, but I experience terrible loneliness and cry often.  I have spent a lot of time in my life being alone, and doing fine with it — it has been awhile though.  I know it will come in time.  I have to remind myself that I am grieving something that I had always thought would get better and last forever.

One of the things I know I am going to have to do if I want to attain any level of happiness is to stop f’ing with my Cymbalta.  I have taken it, it has worked well, and then I stop.  I just stop and I don’t know why.  Ok, I do know why…I feel better.  I convince myself that it is something other than Cymbalta that makes me feel good, and I just stop.  When the low days hit, I blame it on a lack of sleep or the weather.  It is not the friggin’ weather.  It is a damn chemical imbalance in my brain that can be righted with a small blue and white pill and I am so willful in this area it kills me.

In other “let’s-try-to-be-happy” news, I have been walking, eating right, trying to lose weight.  The progress is slow, and the knees are painful, but I want to live for a very long time and that isn’t going to happen if I don’t get at least some of this weight off.  I want to be more active and not be so restricted by my size.  I know I can get there.

I tried to quit smoking on January 10th and it is a damn uphill battle ever since.  Some days are better than others, some worse.  I just keep trying.  That’s all I can do.

I have been thinking about getting involved in a local church.  I feel that I had forsaken God for years, and find that He has not forsaken me.  I am humbly grateful for all I have and all I can give.  I’m sure there will be more on this topic later, as I try to find a church that I enjoy.  For now, talking to God makes me feel more whole than I can remember.

Jeff Buckley, Hallelujah

This is the song I wanted to put for this blog, but couldn’t find a video I could embed.  Try this link.