Migraine & suicide risk.

Migraine.com article about suicide risk

After following the groups for two years, researchers discovered that participants with Migraine and severe, non-Migraine headaches had a 4 times greater risk of attempting suicide than the subjects without Migraine or headache. The level of pain played a role in attempted suicide as well – study subjects with a higher level of Migraine and non-Migraine pain were at greater risk for attempted suicide. In fact, each time the pain intensity scale went up by one point, the risk of attempted suicide went up by 17%.

I… fuck… fucking weather… steroids

I have straight up had a migraine since last Wednesday. I should’ve gone into work over the weekend to make up time, but I just hang onto the bed and close my eyes. Today I took a steroid, which is supposed to be the last resort of last resort, and I managed to make it through the day but I still felt like crap, and I took a Gravol because I felt so nauseous it made my heart race for like five hours.

I cried on the bus on the way home, and then I cried on the walk home, and then I cried for like two hours when I got home, and I was working on trying to find another car but I would’ve had to have my dad cosign for me and it’s just not worth the stress…  and it’s not even so much the stress of having to deal with my dad as it is the stress of getting into a loan for years and years. I haven’t managed to keep a job for more than three years since I graduated, and I’m at 2 1/2 years for this job now,  and I feel like I’m hanging on by the skin of my teeth, not to mention that my boss told me to be discharged and get back to work or he couldn’t keep my job open for me just two short months ago.  So I pretty much feel like I’m gonna lose my job again in six months, or a year, and then I’ll be on unemployment and looking for a job again, and I’ll manage to scrape through until I kill myself,  but I’m seeing  repossession or desperation in the future.

So I guess I’ll just basically never have a car again, because it’s probably not realistic to want to save enough money to just buy one with cash. I had a car 20 years and four months ago, when I first moved to the city. So now I’m moving backwards. As soon as my lease is up here, I’m going to look for somewhere smaller to move  and my life will just shrink around me until I’m an old maid in a boarding house room with nothing and no one. I actually hope to God that I have the courage to kill myself before it comes to that point.

Depeche Mode is OK with my suicide, I think.

Some excerpts from their brilliant, painful lyrics:

 

Scum

You’re calling, and you’re falling
And there’s nowhere left to run
And you’re weeping, and not sleeping
And you’re begging for your gun

You’re dead inside, you’re numb
You’re hollow, and shallow
Your empty life is done

Pull the trigger
Pull the trigger
(Hey scum, hey scum)
Pull the trigger
(Hey scum, hey scum)
Pull the trigger

 

No More (This is the Last Time)

This is the last time
I’ll say goodbye
The last time
Then we won’t have to lie
The last time
(All the memories, all our pain)
This is the last time
(All the memories, all our pain)
The last time

OMG, it’s an anniversary.

I left work early and went to bed as soon as I got home. Now, 6 hours later, I just woke up and realized HOLY SHIT, the 25th anniversary of my attack is coming up. Less than 100 days to go. Perhaps that will be a date I will choose not to be here to see. The thought makes me feel relaxed and peaceful, as opposed to the turmoil that comes with thinking about even keeping going long enough to see Depeche Mode in the fall. I just hate feeling trapped.

It hurts, and I’m tired.

I managed to work for 6 hours and I was completely fried and on the verge of tears by the end of the day. I started tearing up in the elevator, actually, and several times on the drive home. Over nothing, really. My coworker got a call from his wife just before he went home (what to have for supper, by the sounds of it) and so I teared up because how nice for him to have a family, and how nice for me to have no one. Then I cried because it’s only Thursday and my next doctor’s appointment is next Wednesday, and because I’m going home to an empty house, and because I had a Depeche Mode CD in the car (ya, I roll old-school. Or poor, depending on your perspective) and I don’t see myself being able to go to their next concert, and on and on.

The cat is supremely happy because I made a stop on the couch instead of heading directly to bed, like I usually do, but I’m going to head to bed now. My eyes feel all hot and swollen like they do after a cry and I don’t care enough about anything to try and do any chores or anything productive. Knowing that relief is so close, and trying not to do it, is like having a suitcase with a million dollars and trying not to open it.

Depeche Mode to the fucking end.

I love Depeche Mode so much. I have spent the last half hour creating YouTube playlists for me to listen to at work because lately sometimes I need some noise just to be able to concentrate, to drown out the thoughts in my head. So I did one of music that’s fast and intense, like George Watsky,  and one of soundtracks, mostly Hans Zimmer, and one of Depeche Mode. So now I won’t have to click back every three minutes to escape whatever song was up for autoplay.

I still remember a day last week when I was driving to work and had the sudden thought “Just pull the car over and jump off the fucking bridge! If you don’t die on impact I’m sure you will from drowning and hypothermia!” At this point I haven’t been to work in 5 days (2 of them being weekend) so I don’t know how I’ll drag myself in there tomorrow but I have to, fuck. I’m gritting my teeth just thinking about it. It was a stupid fucking idea to wait until after Christmas, that’s for fucking sure, but at least now I have some DM cued up to get me through the day. The first coworker I cried in front of is gone on holidays now, and the second is done on Friday, and that’s her last day, so at least after that I can try to keep up my Public Face with being tired or having a migraine as an excuse (I never lie about having a migraine but I’m willing to now.)

And on that note, let’s read the lyrics to my life “Wrong” by Depeche Mode:

I was born with the wrong sign

In the wrong house

With the wrong ascendancy

I took the wrong road

That led to the wrong tendencies

I was in the wrong place at the wrong time

For the wrong reason and the wrong rhyme

On the wrong day of the wrong week

I used the wrong method with the wrong technique
Wrong
Wrong
There’s something wrong with me chemically

Something wrong with me inherently

The wrong mix in the wrong genes

I reached the wrong ends by the wrong means

It was the wrong plan

In the wrong hands

With the wrong theory for the wrong man

The wrong lies, on the wrong vibes

The wrong questions with the wrong replies
Wrong
Wrong
I was marching to the wrong drum

With the wrong scum

Pissing out the wrong energy

Using all the wrong lines

And the wrong signs

With the wrong intensity

I was on the wrong page of the wrong book

With the wrong rendition of the wrong hook

Made the wrong move, every wrong night

With the wrong tune played till it sounded right yeah
Wrong
Wrong
Too long
Wrong

“That sounds like depression to me.”

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist this afternoon, right after my last appointment ever with my psychologist. (I cried; no surprise there.)

I guess I was all cried out by the time I got there so was just like “bleh” and reported that I’d been having nightmares, that my energy was better but my mood was worse, and that I’d cried at work. He asked a bunch of the standard questions — how is my appetite, sleep, what had I been up to, etc., and then when I thought I was going to be off the hook he asked “how strong are the suicidal thoughts?”

I am a crappy liar so I squirmed uncomfortably and said “I don’t know what to say to that,” and I could feel him looking at me even though I was looking at my knees, so I said “Look, I know you’re all about Life at All Costs but it’s not like it would be a loss to anyone,” which actually did make me tear up. Then he said something about how he didn’t believe that, and I said “of course you don’t!” and he said “you don’t think your family would miss you?” and I was like “yes, of course they would, but they would get over it, just as families of friends of mine who have lost a sibling to suicide have gotten over it” and he said that people never really got over suicide, that they always wondered what they could do differently, and I said that was supposed to be the point of this Big Christmas Visit (which probably wouldn’t work anyway, but whatevs.)

Really I was thinking about it being (or not being) a Loss To the World, like “we’ve lost one of our brightest minds!” versus “she did spreadsheets, now we will have to hire someone else to do spreadsheets” — I wasn’t thinking about my family in particular. The fact that there would be collateral damage is regrettable but unavoidable.

Anyway, he replied that it sounded like depression to him and I said “yes, of course it does! I grant you that sounds like classic Textbook Depression Thinking but that doesn’t mean it isn’t actually true” and told him my intention was to do the best I can for as long as I can, so if I can face 2017, I will, and if I can’t, I won’t, which was letting more slip than I had intended.

He asked if I’d had ECT (yes, and it was like Ernest Hemingway, and I’d make it illegal for everyone for all time) and then mentioned ketamine again. Apparently they do it at his hospital.

He decided that I should stop the “Skrillex” as it is expensive but didn’t seem to be helping, and wrote me a prescription for more lithium and a lab requisition. Then he said he’d like to see me next week, and walked me out to the appointment desk and took his appointment book from the receptionist and found a time a week from tomorrow.

That whole Walk to the Desk is him being worried that the receptionist might say he didn’t have any openings, I think. I have read blogs online that say people would never go for treatment if they were “really” suicidal, and that is bullshit. For me, I want to know that I did my best.

So now I’m sitting in this crummy pharmacy because they said there would be a 45 minute wait and if I go home I won’t go out again to pick this up. I realized I haven’t eaten today (although I am not feeling hungry) so I thought I would go across the street to the Starbucks to have a delicious carb-full Turkey and Stuffing Panini, only to find they have no panini and no seats. So I came straight back. There are schwarma places and donair places within a block from here but I just was not motivated to go anywhere when I’m not hungry in the first place.

So I guess we’ll try more lithium for a week and see how that goes.

Maybe depression is like poverty.

I think the thing that is bugging me most about dealing with a psychiatrist (or any people, really) is the idea that it’s totally possible to build a worthwhile, fulfilling life and if you commit suicide you are giving up because you just haven’t found the right treatment or hung in with it long enough yet.

I think it is generally accepted now that poverty isn’t just a matter of people needing to “work harder” and then they would have financially successful, stable lives – there are systemic factors at work. Cracked.com has some good articles about poverty (yes, on a comedy site.) 

So why is depression the mental health equivalent of old-school poverty, where surely if I really buckled down, pulled myself up by the bootstraps, hung on and waited for the new antidepressant to work (which is $30 a week and not covered by either of my out-of-pocket health insurance plans) I’d inevitably feel the “wonder of living” (watch that sarcasm there doesn’t drip straight into your keyboard!)

Maybe I’m ready now.

I told my psychiatrist yesterday, when he asked how strong the suicidal thoughts were, that I was going to try not to ruin Christmas for everyone if I could. I don’t know that holding out until after will be any better, though.

If I manage to keep up An Act while I see people, maybe they’ll wonder whether they “should have been able to tell.” (Of course not, is the answer, but I want to spare as much collateral damage as possible.)

today I slept until 10 am and left at 4 pm. I guess I’ll see how things go over the next few days. My thought yesterday was that I could stop taking my meds altogether to capture the perfect intersection of desire and energy as they wore off. In abstract, the idea of stopping meds that are working because I don’t have quite enough desire to complete suicide when I am on them sounds kinda crazy, I’ll admit…

Postscript: Jesus!! WordPress loaded up my blog from this time a few years ago at the bottom of the page – “Treatment [ECT] #1.” What a lovely reminder. I haven’t gotten any further ahead since then… no partner, no dates even, no steady job, no holidays, et cetera.  Now that is depressing!