Two weeks of hospital time is on the cards for me next week Monday.
My pdoc managed to squeeze me in for a session yesterday late afternoon. She was very concerned about the messages I had sent her over the weekend.
The images of her reminding me of a cat disappeared as I unpacked the heaviness over my heart. I sat in her office in tears, the whole process so clinical, but her voice warm.
I drowned in the embarrassing details of my thoughts and my feelings. She reminded me that this isn’t me talking- my feelings and actions are controlled by this beast of a disorder. I told her how I’ve struggled for the past while to look after myself, to feel anything cheerful, to enjoy my family or my writing. But nothing. I told her about my scary thoughts. The thoughts I had when I had my first hospital stay in March this year. I don’t think anyone is honest about these types of thoughts so I’ll keep them to myself. Just know that they are horrible.
I wondered if anyone ever felt like I did.
Besides that, I’ve been agitated and irritable. The suicidal thoughts are on the rise. I’ve grown so used to them whispering to me now and then, but now they come with impulses- possible details to plans. They come with ways I can escape it all. But what always stops me are the same stressors that put in me in the place: my family. Yes, I said it. They are a contributing factor. I think anyone with small children have some off days.
But what is it like? Suicidal ideation? For me it’s like standing at the edge of a cliff.
Knowing the jump will be the end.
Every now and then flashes of the edge and jumping spring before me. I walk to the edge, look down and turn back around. But when I’m going through a low, I find myself coming to the edge more often, lingering a little longer at the edge than I should. I feel the wind blow against my back, giving me reason to jump and false hope to fly.
This weekend my low was so bad that I had to miss my father-in-law’s birthday party on Sunday. I knew I was not going to manage my tears that were constantly bubbling beneath my eyelids and still smile and wave. So I excused myself and my husband took the children through to the party. While they took their trip, I took a guilt trip- further down into the abyss.
I told my pdoc about the weight issues I’ve had (and still struggling with) and that I take forever to wake up in the mornings.
My current medication is known for its weight-gaining effects and as they knock me out straight, I feel like I missing out on life. I can’t have a normal day as it only starts around 12. Then I have to check emails, write and then start cooking by 4pm. Throw in children, homework and a husband and you have the mix to make yourself go crazy.
She advised that we should change medications to something that is more of a pick-me-upper.
Something that has no weight gaining effects.
Something like a dream?
Let’s hope so.
I’ll need two weeks to phase out the old meds and phase in the new ones. It was a big decision to make to have me do it in-hospital because I know that this puts a lot of pressure on hubby. But the professionals prefer that you’re there so they can watch you. And this med can leave one restless for the first while. And with me being so impulsive lately, we didn’t want to take a chance. I could just decide to want to jump, to fly, you know?
I sent this to a friend a moment or so ago, “That’s how I feel: embarrassed and ashamed because I feel I can do more, be better. But a few weeks ago, I could. Now, I can’t do shit. I look like shit. I’m an overspending piece of crap crying over things I don’t have power over. This is my vent. Straight from the heart which I shall put in my post.”
And just like that I put it into my post.
She obviously gave such a great reply, I’m still teary from the warmth in her (typing)voice and the huge pat on the back I felt.
A little heads up: I don’t write for attention. I write for the me inside that’s crying away softly and for those out there who dare not say a word, afraid of looking weak. I also don’t always tell everyone in my life how I feel because I don’t want to be a bother. I’m also sometimes have this messed up theory that if I say how I feel, people may change their perception of me, or worse, they’ll think that I’m weak and my husband could have married a beta version of me. All psychological bullshit I feed myself and swallow, obviously.
I’m sad and lonely and a few other things. But when my doctor told me the plan, a wave of relief blew over me and it filled my lungs with a dose of hope.
I trust her.
I will be fixed.