So busted!

So i cut myself, if you can call it that (it is really more like scratches) when I get really upset. I managed a pretty wide but shallow slice in the emergency room with a broken gel nail and a plastic knife, then when I got back here I had the heavy foil that comes on top of milk and juice, that you can fold into a half-ass cutter.

I have had a migraine for 3 days now, which they are giving me some medication for at least, but most of the drugs I usually take aren’t “in the formulary” so the hospital pharmacy doesn’t have them.

Anyway, I asked for Ensure instead of supper like twice but they brought me a supper tray anyway with, yes, some milk that had my favourite foil topper. So I scratched myself with it a bit, and then was refolding it on my little bedside table with my plastic knife, and my nurse walks in. Shit! Look casual, I think. Ya, right.

Also I have a pair of wrist warmers, to cover the cuts, and had the one on the arm I was cutting pulled up. So I was like “oh hi!” and backed away from the table and sat up on the bed and he said hi and asked how I was doing, and by the way how were my feelings of self harm, had I been thinking of it? So I obviously was not at all successful in my attempts to Act Natural, which made me feel like a stupid asshole.

He said that obviously they couldn’t stop me (you could bite into your wrist with your own teeth if you were motivated enough) but that they hoped I could choose different coping strategies, etc. And I mean, I would hope so too… if deep breathing or colouring books had the instant endorphin rush I’d do them instead, but they don’t!



Interview with the psychiatrist.

I have been admitted into a different hospital – not the one my psychiatrist is at, because there are no beds. So the doctor who will be my psychiatrist while I am here came and talked to me for about an hour and I cried waaayyy too much.

Like she asked if I was eating and I started crying and said I’d gone to the grocery store but nothing looked good, and even if it did I would have to take it to the checkout, then to my car, then into the house, then into the fridge, and then I’d STILL have to do something to it before eating it? That is way too hard, I wept.

I want to blog more but I am sooo tired. I’ve felt exhausted since I was certified, like I was sprinting and finally stopped.

The ER “Safety Room” sucks.

It is safe, I’ll give them that, but an awful place to spend more than an hour or two. The bed is a “Stryker” cot that absolutely kills my back. The walls are coated in some kind of plastic wallpaper so you can’t gouge out the drywall, the light fixtures and outlets are all smooth cornered with special screws, and of course the door locks from the outside. Oh, and there is a prison style sink and toilet, ew. Right in the room, no lid on the toilet, they could walk in anytime. My appetite disappears when I have depression so I won’t be having to make any number 2’s at least.

The light is always on – they turned off the main fluorescent fixtures to be kind to my migraine, but there is a pot light. It’s very loud – monitors, nurses talking to patients, people walking. Practically impossible to sleep.

In the hospital again.

I went to see my psychiatrist and he walked me to the ER after our appointment. I’m not sure how the conversation got to where it was to be honest, it felt like I was trying to tell him I was feeling bad and suddenly it had spiraled out of control. All I can think of is the Penn and Teller show “Cruel Tricks for Dear Friends”, which has a card trick where the reveal depends on you saying that you drew the four of diamonds. Penn sarcastically spells out that it doesn’t matter what card you drew, all you have to do is SAY the four of diamonds, and if that’s too much for you, ask your aunt to take you bowling.

Anyway, my doctor asked if I was safe and I stuttered and stammered and hedged. This is why I refused to play poker in school, even if it was for $20 a night, because I have no bluffing game. I said things like “why don’t I take next week off, and try the new meds at home?” and he said that wasn’t good enough, and said he had to be cautious, and walked me to the ER. I’m not sure if he walked me there instead of calling security because he couldn’t get a hold of anyone on call in his office, or if he was just making it easier for me but it was easier, so I am grateful for that.

Crying at the nurse.

I’d had ketamine today and was crying from the minute I got in. The nurse asked me what was going on during the infusion and I sobbed out some garbled explanation – I don’t remember exactly what I said but I know I said I’d stopped taking my meds but my psychiatrist didn’t know, and anyway she got the gist that I was feeling pretty hopeless.

She called my psychiatrist to see if I could get in to see him but wasn’t able to get through, so she asked if I was safe to go home until tomorrow (when I have an appointment scheduled.) I answered that I was “reasonably certain I could make it through one more day”, which probably sounded snarkier than I intended.

They make me fill in a bunch of questionnaires when I go, so why doesn’t someone look at them if they want to know what’s going on?

So I guess today is going to be a migraine day.

I woke up feeling tired and pushed my way through three loads of laundry and a load of dishes.  I had a Coke, and some coffee, and my Dexedrine, and I felt just exhausted. So I lay down for a rest with my blanket and the cat. Then I realize that it felt too good to lay on my left side. Like if I wasn’t lying on my left side, it would be hurting on my left side. Yep, got sneaking head pain approaching the left side.  And cold feet, check.  And now I don’t want to move because moving hurts. It’s only early evening   And I’m going to have to kill time somehow, because it hurts to look at light and it hurts to move and so I’m just going to be laying on my side waiting for the pain to stop, but it won’t stop not until I wake up tomorrow morning hopefully.

And this is why I don’t feel my quality of life is worth living.  The last headache I had was Wednesday. I missed half a day off work and went in at noon and tried to work all night and now here I am on Saturday, and tomorrow I’ll have a headache hangover but I’ll need to try and do productive things to get ready for the week.

I wonder what time that leaves me for fun? Well that’s a good question. It doesn’t leave me any fucking time for fun and my headache being unreliable means I can’t really join up for classes or anything that’s at a specific time without planning to have to miss a lot with little notice. People  have told me to go ahead and sign up anyway, that people will understand when they hear I have a chronic condition. That’s not even the entire problem. The problem is the agony it puts me into trying to decide if my head hurts this much now, how long can I last before I’ll be throwing up? Can I drive myself to the meeting? What if I stay home and my head doesn’t really hurt all that much?   What if I just power through it, but but I’m still sick tomorrow when I have to miss work? There’s no right answer, it’s just soul sucker of energy and it sucks to be in pain and it sucks to be in pain so often and I want to sleep… I think I could try and kill myself now if I had the means at hand, but I’m too sick to move.

What does it mean to be suicidal?

The vacation “didn’t last” the way I hoped it would, in that I don’t feel the same as I did when I was on vacation. I’m sure that’s normal, and it was helpful for me to at least realize that I could feel like myself and that I could have fun. But now I’m feeling crappy again and feeling confused about it.

I feel like I’m pretty clearly still depressed because I still cry on basically a daily basis, and if I’m talking to my psychiatrist about my emotions. It feels like getting out of bed and going to work and just dealing with daily life stuff is a really big job that requires a lot of courage, and that no one can see how hard it is for me.  I’m coming up on four years of singlehood, having had an abusive husband and then I boyfriend who broke his most important promises to me, and who mistreated me during sex. I’m not sure exactly  how to categorize that So I’ll just say that something non-consensual happened.

I know it sounds selfish to say that I want someone, and it’s true that I  want someone to care about me, to take care of me, but that’s not just it. I want someone to love too. I want someone with a deep voice who I can listen to while they’re talking, whose hair I can stroke, who I can make happy in bed.

A few ketamine treatments ago one of the nurses tried to explain to me that we are attracted to people with positive good energy, people who are enthusiastic about life, at Cetera. I get that, and when I have been out on first dates I’ve made every effort to be sociable and enthusiastic. I’ve let the guy do most of the talking, and given them an old if they wanted to cut the date short, saying “are you  OK for time? I know it’s a workday tomorrow, so if you have to get up early…” And without exception they said they were OK and talked to me for another hour, but then didn’t want a second date.

I could guess what’s wrong with me and what they don’t like. I could be too fat, too smart, not stylish enough or pretty enough, or whatever.  That’s a useless game to play. There are plenty of women out there who are less attractive than I am who nonetheless have partners. And I can’t change myself into something that I’m not and expect to have a successful relationship.

So, I’m single. I can’t help that things that even nuns and prisoners have community and that the solitude I have is too much to bear. I always thought that if I were widowed I would be able to bear it, because I would have known that my husband loved me. As it is, he didn’t and he left me when I got depressed.

I don’t want to live like this. It hurts, it literally hurts to be alive. I literally have Hardik. I feel like there’s an 18 black hole in the centre of my chest and a lump in my throat and tears prickling behind my eyes. Every day. I can see going for days or weeks and maybe a few months. Not longer.

So I’ve made a plan. I had tried stopping my medication in May, and got some pretty serious withdrawal facts so gave up and started taking it again. Now I’m cutting back on the two antidepressants gradually. I feel like the medication has been keeping me  away from my desire to die artificially, and I want to meet it clearly face-to-face. My thought is that I can’t kill myself now, I’m just not in that headspace to overcome that and strength of self-preservation and carry through with the violence it would take to be successful. If my mood drops without the medication, then I’ll be able to.

So there in lies the contradiction of it all. I can’t commit suicide now, but am I suicidal because I’m making the plans  to allow my mood to decrease to where I really am suicidal and able to execute it?

Well-deserved vacation.

I took a vacation last week. I actually went somewhere and got a hotel room and did tourist things and everything. It was awesome. People at work are saying how much more rested I look, and I actually feel OK. Like, mood wise. Like I  can stand to live and plan fun things in the future, like taking more vacations.

I hope it lasts.

“Hope Floats” pisses me off.

I haven’t watched this one for years. I watched it tonight and I could’ve strangled Sandra Bullock, listening to her tell Harry Connick Junior ”Ah can’t dayte yewww” and “Ah can’t kiss yewwww.”  And then we’re supposed to believe that she found the magical powers of hope by the end? You don’t need magical powers of hope when a handsome piece of work like that is throwing himself at you from the first minute.  You need magical powers of hope when it’s been fucking years and there’s no one even taking an interest.

I was trying to sew on some fucking buttons tonight because I’ve got literally a box full of tops but I can’t wear because the bottom is falling off, and I lost a needle and a spool of thread.  I don’t know how the fuck I could do that. I was sitting fucking watching the movie on the couch, and sewing on buttons, and I must’ve knocked the spool off the coffee table or something. I can’t find it now, and I’m paranoid that the cat will step on the needle although I guess that’s not likely if I can’t see it. I am sure  it’s fucking depression concentration that’s at fault, that I went to get a glass of water and put the thread in the cupboard or something stupid, but now I’m too tired and sad to look for it. So I guess I’ll wait till tomorrow.

In other news, I started taking my illegal Accutane this week. I understand that they don’t want people to take it and get pregnant, but there something wrong with the system when I just find it easier to pay out of pocket on the Internet for them than to to jump through the official hoops. I found some North American sources which are tied to steroids distribution. I never would’ve thought, but maybe taking steroids for bodybuilding makes you break out.