Tonight should be a perfect example of a beautiful summer night in Chicago. It's in the mid 70's, we have all doors and windows open so there is a soft breeze blowing through the house. The kids have been fed, both a healthy dinner and then chocolate dipped ice-cream cones from McDonalds. They are now in the backyard, running and screaming, burning off extra energy and sugar in the hopes that they will sleep past 7AM tomorrow. J has made himself comfortable with our dog, Mia, on the back porch and has been pretty silent, except for the occasionally need to tell L to not be so bossy or remind Little A that they have to share toys in the sandbox. It should be a beautiful night.
I am sitting at our oversized kitchen table, a round, 8 person table with a lazy-susan in the middle. It sits on my freshly washed white tiled floor, surrounded by stucco and deep yellow walls. The almost-white counters are as clean as they will ever be, littered with library books that are due back tomorrow, various Rescue Bots that Little A got for his birthday party yesterday, and a pan of leftover purple cupcakes. While there is a stack of dishes to be done, looking at them reminds me that we just had a family dinner, something that is rare during the busy summer months, especially since I have been working until 7PM lately. I should be content. I should be happy.
Yesterday we had what I should consider a very successful birthday party for the kids. Since L, Big A, and Little A's birthdays are all within a month of each other we simply have one giant party. We rent out a local pool, invite all of their friends and families, order several dozen pizzas and just let them loose. We had about 60 people in attendance last night, something I was happy with considering the weather in Chicago went from being in the upper 80's to a very chilly 68 last night. Of course, little kids don't give two thoughts to cold weather; they were to anxious to jump in the pool and go down the two story tall waterslide! The parents sat bundled in coats and watched their children turn from adorable little kids to blue-lipped monsters. I should be thankful.
But I am not.
Tonight depression is rearing its ugly head.
Tonight I am not a good mother, I am a slacker who is doing whatever she can to avoid contact with her children.
Tonight I am a bad wife because dinner was a simple set of leftovers, both pasta from the other night and pizza from last night. Not that anyone complained, but I should have done better for a Sunday night dinner.
Tonight I don't like myself. I can feel every pound on my body and I wish I could literally take a pair of scissors and cut off unwanted pieces.
Tonight I want to crawl into a ball in my bed, pull the blanket up over my head, and just shut out the world.
Tonight I think thoughts that are too overwhelming and triggering to put into words. I think thoughts that would end this depression.
Tonight I worry that this past week of somewhat contentment is breaking way for a week of going downhill. I worry, as I always do, that I will not survive another round of deep depression and anxiety.
Tonight I will shut everything out as soon as the kids go to bed (T-minus 15 minutes), watch a few episodes of ArmyWives on Netflix, and just breath.
Tomorrow, well, I know that if I can make it to tomorrow I will have survived tonight. And for now that's all I can do.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Friday, June 28, 2013
For the love of J
I really think that is some aspects of my life I got really lucky. Like, really lucky. I have three wonderful children. I have a house that, while small, fits us all and keeps us warm and dry. I have a good part time job, and hope to soon make it full time. I have a rusty mini-van with 100,000+ miles that still gets me from here to there. And, best of all, I have my J.
J and I met almost 10 years ago. Wow, 10 years this September! We met online, on a site called Lavalife. The summer of 2003, I had just ended a long term relationship and my best friend at the time had encouraged me to try online dating. Soon after, I got dreaded mono and was stuck at home for almost 2 months. It was really bad. So, to pass the time, I set up a few online dating sites and started chatting away with a bunch of people, J being one of them. I went on a few dates, but none of them really panned out. Until I met J. I think that we clicked right away. Within weeks we were hanging out together, and I think it was about the month mark that he introduced me to his family. It was moving kind of quick, but it was good. We moved in together within a year, and were married at the end of 2005! Life was good, we were moving along, having lots of babies in a short amount of time (2006,2007, and 2009). Money has often been tight as we elected to send our kids to private day-care and Catholic school, but have been happy.
Then, when I got sick in 2011, I worried what would become of us. I was pushing everyone away, most of all J. He was the only one that I had EVER let get so close to me, and there were times that I just couldn't talk anymore, let alone be held or comforted in anyway. And when I was hospitalized, well, I worried about the strain that it was putting on our marriage. He was essentially a single parent for 18 months. And he didn't complain, not even once. Honestly, not ever. He took a version FMLA leave with work so that he could be home with me when needed (they gave him a year to use the 12 week benefit so that he can pick and choose days that he needs to be home). All I have to do is call or text him and say FMLA and he comes home. When I was in the hospital, he would come and visit me almost every night, counting on his parents to help with babysitting. Some days that meant skipping dinner and eating hospital food just so that he could make it within the given time.
Just being with him makes me feel better. It's almost like he is his own version of an anti-anxiety pill. Seriously, unless the depression is REALLY bad, I cannot help but smile and laugh when I am around him. And he knows it; I think that he secretly prides himself on it. He stands at about 6'1", and I am pushing 5'3", so I fit perfectly under his chin when I need a bear hug. He has a great goatee, and I love the way that it tickles my neck when he kisses me. His eyes are full of compassion and understanding, and I have never felt judged by him through this whole mess. I have been lucky, I snagged one of the best fish in the sea, and I know it....
J and I met almost 10 years ago. Wow, 10 years this September! We met online, on a site called Lavalife. The summer of 2003, I had just ended a long term relationship and my best friend at the time had encouraged me to try online dating. Soon after, I got dreaded mono and was stuck at home for almost 2 months. It was really bad. So, to pass the time, I set up a few online dating sites and started chatting away with a bunch of people, J being one of them. I went on a few dates, but none of them really panned out. Until I met J. I think that we clicked right away. Within weeks we were hanging out together, and I think it was about the month mark that he introduced me to his family. It was moving kind of quick, but it was good. We moved in together within a year, and were married at the end of 2005! Life was good, we were moving along, having lots of babies in a short amount of time (2006,2007, and 2009). Money has often been tight as we elected to send our kids to private day-care and Catholic school, but have been happy.
Then, when I got sick in 2011, I worried what would become of us. I was pushing everyone away, most of all J. He was the only one that I had EVER let get so close to me, and there were times that I just couldn't talk anymore, let alone be held or comforted in anyway. And when I was hospitalized, well, I worried about the strain that it was putting on our marriage. He was essentially a single parent for 18 months. And he didn't complain, not even once. Honestly, not ever. He took a version FMLA leave with work so that he could be home with me when needed (they gave him a year to use the 12 week benefit so that he can pick and choose days that he needs to be home). All I have to do is call or text him and say FMLA and he comes home. When I was in the hospital, he would come and visit me almost every night, counting on his parents to help with babysitting. Some days that meant skipping dinner and eating hospital food just so that he could make it within the given time.
Just being with him makes me feel better. It's almost like he is his own version of an anti-anxiety pill. Seriously, unless the depression is REALLY bad, I cannot help but smile and laugh when I am around him. And he knows it; I think that he secretly prides himself on it. He stands at about 6'1", and I am pushing 5'3", so I fit perfectly under his chin when I need a bear hug. He has a great goatee, and I love the way that it tickles my neck when he kisses me. His eyes are full of compassion and understanding, and I have never felt judged by him through this whole mess. I have been lucky, I snagged one of the best fish in the sea, and I know it....
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Plugging along...
Today has been rough. I haven't really gotten sleep in the past 3 nights, and that has a direct impact on how I function during the day. My mind has just been going and going, and then when I finally can fall asleep, well, one night there was the thunderstorm and last night Little A had a bad dream and wanted me to rub his back (at 4AM!). Who can say no to that? Then, before I know it, J is getting up for work at 6:30 and my sleep in over. My anxiety has been high, and I have taken my Klonopin twice in an effort just to stay at a level that I can work with. I am hoping that a combo of light rain and pure exhaustion will help me to sleep well tonight.
Tomorrow is usually the day that I see Dr. C, but she is out of the office. Boo. Isn't it weird how we build relationships with our therapists and it can totally throw your week off if you don't get to see them? I mean, in reality, there are how many hours in a week? 168. So, 167 of them I function just fine without her, but if I don't have that one hour (or 50 minutes) it all goes to hell. Alright, so, to be honest, I really don't function well the other 167 and usually send her a few e-mails during the week, but I don't expect to get responses from her, they are more just so that I can feel that I am touching base and not floating alone in the Universe.
I have a blog that I have used with her, as well. I started it last summer when I was working with another therapist as a way to vent and express emotion between sessions. I shared it with Dr. C in December when she was sick for one of our appointments and I felt I was going to burst. I have written stories, poems, shared music. It has been an awesome tool for us and for me to be able to express my feelings in another manner. Remind me to post some of the stories that I have written from there over to here. Most of them are pretty damn depressing and triggering, but it's pure emotion and I remember it feeling so good to just get it out. Actually, it's what kinda inspired me to start this blog, a place that I can write it all out, get it out of my insides, but where it's still anonymous.
Ok, folks, that's about all I got in me for today. 2 more students to see and then my day is over. I am thinking chips and salsa for dinner and then off to bed. Have a wonderful night!
Tomorrow is usually the day that I see Dr. C, but she is out of the office. Boo. Isn't it weird how we build relationships with our therapists and it can totally throw your week off if you don't get to see them? I mean, in reality, there are how many hours in a week? 168. So, 167 of them I function just fine without her, but if I don't have that one hour (or 50 minutes) it all goes to hell. Alright, so, to be honest, I really don't function well the other 167 and usually send her a few e-mails during the week, but I don't expect to get responses from her, they are more just so that I can feel that I am touching base and not floating alone in the Universe.
I have a blog that I have used with her, as well. I started it last summer when I was working with another therapist as a way to vent and express emotion between sessions. I shared it with Dr. C in December when she was sick for one of our appointments and I felt I was going to burst. I have written stories, poems, shared music. It has been an awesome tool for us and for me to be able to express my feelings in another manner. Remind me to post some of the stories that I have written from there over to here. Most of them are pretty damn depressing and triggering, but it's pure emotion and I remember it feeling so good to just get it out. Actually, it's what kinda inspired me to start this blog, a place that I can write it all out, get it out of my insides, but where it's still anonymous.
Ok, folks, that's about all I got in me for today. 2 more students to see and then my day is over. I am thinking chips and salsa for dinner and then off to bed. Have a wonderful night!
Not broken just bent
Because some days words come in the form of a song....I will be back later with another blog...
Right from the start, you were a thief,
You stole my heart and
I'm your willing victim
I let you see the parts of me
That weren't all that pretty.
And with every touch
You fixed them.
Now, you've been talking in your sleep
Oh oh, things you never say to me
Oh oh, tell me that you've had enough
Of our love, our love.
Just give me a reason,
Just a little bit's enough
Just a second, we're not broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again.
it's in the stars,
It's been written in the scars on our hearts
We're NOT broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again.
I'm sorry I don't understand where
All of this is coming from.
I thought that we were fine,
(Oh, we had everything)
Your head is running wild again
My dear, WE still have everything
And it's all in your MIND.
(Yeah, but this is happenin')
You've been having real bad dreams
Oh oh, you use to lie so close to me
Oh oh, there's nothing more than empty sheets
Between our love, our love
Ooooh, our love, our love.
Just give me a reason,
Just a little bit's enough
Just a second, we're not broken
Just bent and we can learn to LOVE again.
I never stopped
It's still written in the scars on my heart
You're NOT broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again.
Oh, tear ducts and rust
I'll fix it for us
We're collecting dust,
But our love's enough.
You're holding it in,
You're pouring a drink
No, nothing is as bad as it seems.
We'll come clean!
Just give me a reason,
Just a little bit's enough
Just a second, we're not broken
Just bent and we can learn to LOVE again.
It's in the stars
It's still written in the scars on our hearts
That We're NOT broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again.
Just give me a reason,
Just a little bit's enough
Just a second, we're not broken
Just bent and we can learn to LOVE again.
Oh, it's in the stars
It's still written in the scars on our hearts
That We're NOT broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again.
Ooh, we can learn to love again
Ooh, we can learn to love again
Oh, that we're not broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again
You stole my heart and
I'm your willing victim
I let you see the parts of me
That weren't all that pretty.
And with every touch
You fixed them.
Now, you've been talking in your sleep
Oh oh, things you never say to me
Oh oh, tell me that you've had enough
Of our love, our love.
Just give me a reason,
Just a little bit's enough
Just a second, we're not broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again.
it's in the stars,
It's been written in the scars on our hearts
We're NOT broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again.
I'm sorry I don't understand where
All of this is coming from.
I thought that we were fine,
(Oh, we had everything)
Your head is running wild again
My dear, WE still have everything
And it's all in your MIND.
(Yeah, but this is happenin')
You've been having real bad dreams
Oh oh, you use to lie so close to me
Oh oh, there's nothing more than empty sheets
Between our love, our love
Ooooh, our love, our love.
Just give me a reason,
Just a little bit's enough
Just a second, we're not broken
Just bent and we can learn to LOVE again.
I never stopped
It's still written in the scars on my heart
You're NOT broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again.
Oh, tear ducts and rust
I'll fix it for us
We're collecting dust,
But our love's enough.
You're holding it in,
You're pouring a drink
No, nothing is as bad as it seems.
We'll come clean!
Just give me a reason,
Just a little bit's enough
Just a second, we're not broken
Just bent and we can learn to LOVE again.
It's in the stars
It's still written in the scars on our hearts
That We're NOT broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again.
Just give me a reason,
Just a little bit's enough
Just a second, we're not broken
Just bent and we can learn to LOVE again.
Oh, it's in the stars
It's still written in the scars on our hearts
That We're NOT broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again.
Ooh, we can learn to love again
Ooh, we can learn to love again
Oh, that we're not broken
Just bent and we can learn to love again
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Who do you tell?
OMG, the rain in Chicago today! It started at about 4AM and didn't stop until after 9AM, which means our front yard turned into a lake again, essentially trapping J and I in the house. He is able to work from home, so that's good, and it turns out that there was so much widespread flooding that they closed my college today! We let the nanny still come for the kids, we all went to lunch, and now have shipped them off to the pool so I can have some much needed down time....
Making the best use of my time, I decided to watch a few episodes of ArmyWives on Netflix. I heart ArmyWives. So much drama, so much big hair. This was the episode where Claudia Joy learns that she has diabetes and decides that she doesn't want to tell anyone. She declares over and over to her husband that it is her personal problem and it's no one's business. But, she ends up going into shock and her friends find out anyway (I know, predictable). It made me think, though. How true is this for people with mental illness? How many friends have you told?
For me, telling people when I first starting having symptoms of depression was horrible. Having to ask my boss, the Dean, to adjust my schedule to accommodate doctor's appointments was humiliating. And then having to fill out the paperwork to ask for FMLA leave, beyond embarrassed. I didn't tell people at work that I was leaving, I just couldn't. The timing was bad, my last day at work was the day before the Asst. Dean's wedding that we were all going to, so I just didn't mention it. J and I went to the wedding, acted as if nothing was going on, and kept our mouths shut. We left it up to the Dean to tell people on Monday morning that I was out for at least 12 weeks. I also didn't tell my family at first that I was taking a leave. Again, embarrassment and fear of reaction overwhelmed me. This later came back to bite me in the arse, but at that time it seemed like the right thing. I thought that I was sparing them pain by not sharing mine. As for friends, I told exactly 2 that I was going through this; one of my friends who noticed right away that I was not acting the same and another who I knew was also going through depression and would probably understand. And that's it. For almost 2 years now, I have kept it a secret.
Then I started the new job. I started May 1, so it's not even been 2 months that I have been there. And I love it! The people who I work with are fabulous, and I quickly became friends with one we will call JMR. She is beyond nice, so down to earth, and incredibly funny. We clicked right away. Anyway, the other day I was in her office and I was telling a story about this jerk of a driver and I said, "I was already worked up from being with my therapist for over an hour," and as soon as the words came out I started to panic. She, however, got this big smile on her face and said, "You see a therapist?!?!" It was almost as if she was happy about it. Weird, very weird. She then asked me if I was on medication, and I reluctantly said yes and she got even happier and said that she has been on anti-depressants since her 20's (she is almost 40 now). She then launches into a story about her past experience with therapists and doctors. It was one of the most reassuring feelings that I have had in a long time. Here was someone, whom I had pre-judged as not safe to talk to, who actually has now turned out to be one of my best allies. We have shared stories about childhood, seeing therapists we've hated and loved, what medications work the best for us, how we handle breakdowns. I cannot begin to explain how good it is to know that I have someone in my office who is aware of my situation, is completely non-judgemental, and who I know I can turn to if I need a boost.
Now, does this mean that I am going to run out and tell everyone about my depression? Well, I guess I am on this blog, but I don't think that I will be sharing it anytime soon with my Facebook world. It's a hard call, who to tell and who not to. There are some people who don't understand, who judge and point fingers and laugh. There are some people who will be ubber supportive and can become close friends. It's a flip of a coin, a risk we have to take.
Have you had positive or negative experiences telling people? Stories you'd like to share?
Making the best use of my time, I decided to watch a few episodes of ArmyWives on Netflix. I heart ArmyWives. So much drama, so much big hair. This was the episode where Claudia Joy learns that she has diabetes and decides that she doesn't want to tell anyone. She declares over and over to her husband that it is her personal problem and it's no one's business. But, she ends up going into shock and her friends find out anyway (I know, predictable). It made me think, though. How true is this for people with mental illness? How many friends have you told?
For me, telling people when I first starting having symptoms of depression was horrible. Having to ask my boss, the Dean, to adjust my schedule to accommodate doctor's appointments was humiliating. And then having to fill out the paperwork to ask for FMLA leave, beyond embarrassed. I didn't tell people at work that I was leaving, I just couldn't. The timing was bad, my last day at work was the day before the Asst. Dean's wedding that we were all going to, so I just didn't mention it. J and I went to the wedding, acted as if nothing was going on, and kept our mouths shut. We left it up to the Dean to tell people on Monday morning that I was out for at least 12 weeks. I also didn't tell my family at first that I was taking a leave. Again, embarrassment and fear of reaction overwhelmed me. This later came back to bite me in the arse, but at that time it seemed like the right thing. I thought that I was sparing them pain by not sharing mine. As for friends, I told exactly 2 that I was going through this; one of my friends who noticed right away that I was not acting the same and another who I knew was also going through depression and would probably understand. And that's it. For almost 2 years now, I have kept it a secret.
Then I started the new job. I started May 1, so it's not even been 2 months that I have been there. And I love it! The people who I work with are fabulous, and I quickly became friends with one we will call JMR. She is beyond nice, so down to earth, and incredibly funny. We clicked right away. Anyway, the other day I was in her office and I was telling a story about this jerk of a driver and I said, "I was already worked up from being with my therapist for over an hour," and as soon as the words came out I started to panic. She, however, got this big smile on her face and said, "You see a therapist?!?!" It was almost as if she was happy about it. Weird, very weird. She then asked me if I was on medication, and I reluctantly said yes and she got even happier and said that she has been on anti-depressants since her 20's (she is almost 40 now). She then launches into a story about her past experience with therapists and doctors. It was one of the most reassuring feelings that I have had in a long time. Here was someone, whom I had pre-judged as not safe to talk to, who actually has now turned out to be one of my best allies. We have shared stories about childhood, seeing therapists we've hated and loved, what medications work the best for us, how we handle breakdowns. I cannot begin to explain how good it is to know that I have someone in my office who is aware of my situation, is completely non-judgemental, and who I know I can turn to if I need a boost.
Now, does this mean that I am going to run out and tell everyone about my depression? Well, I guess I am on this blog, but I don't think that I will be sharing it anytime soon with my Facebook world. It's a hard call, who to tell and who not to. There are some people who don't understand, who judge and point fingers and laugh. There are some people who will be ubber supportive and can become close friends. It's a flip of a coin, a risk we have to take.
Have you had positive or negative experiences telling people? Stories you'd like to share?
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
In the middle...
Phew....deep breath. And to pick up where we left off yesterday....
So, I was ruined. I had tried to go back to work, but I couldn't concentrate, couldn't stop crying, couldn't function at home. I felt like a total failure. So, I was pulled from work and onto disability AGAIN, and placed back in the day program at hospital B. Out of frustration, confusion, whatever, I stopped talking. I just couldn't I felt like no matter what I said I was only making things worse, and I couldn't risk being honest with anyone. I didn't feel safe, like I could trust anyone. So I stopped.
Well, apparently, they don't like it when you stop talking and so I was forced back to inpatient. And, once again, the hospital that I preferred was full. Now I am shipped to hospital D. And, it turns out, this was a Godsend at this time. The doctor that I was assigned to did not agree with the fact that I was hospitalized, and asked me to stay for just 2 days while they adjusted my medications. She also asked that I try a day program at their hospital that specialized in CBT. At this point I felt that I had nothing to loose, so I agreed. And it was great. The staff were great, the other clients were great. I felt comfortable enough to start talking again, and completed the program in about two months. And, the best part for me, was that when I left I was given a letter of clearance to have my lap-band surgery. HURRAY! So, come April 2012, I had the lap-band surgery. I thought this was going to be the "band-aid", that this would fix everything. Boy, was I wrong.
When I left the day program at hospital D, they had recommended follow-up care with a center that specialized in weight issues. I was given a new therapist and a new doctor. And they were super nice. I mean unbelievably nice. They supported me through the surgery, adjusted meds as needed, and the therapist even started to see me twice a week to avoid me having to go back into a day program. But I could NOT get over this hump. I could not shake whatever demon was on my back. I was spending so much time talking about my past and how it had impacted me that I was not living in the present. I started to spiral back down, and my "team" suggested another day program. Another one. Are you kidding me? Beyond frustrated. Beyond disappointed in myself. But I agreed, again. This program, in the city so it was about an hour commute each way, was intense. More intense than any program that I had been in so far. Very much lay all your issues out on the table, let them sit there for awhile, and then try to fix it. I was in trauma groups, weight issue groups, depression groups, self-injury groups. It was a lot, but I was pushing myself to do it because I wanted to be better. I am sure that you can see where this is going already. I was pushed, and pushed, and pushed, and I shut down. I kept going to groups, but would cry and could not speak. The depression got bad, and I tried to tell my therapist, but the moment she brought up hospitalization, I clammed up. No surprise, they hospitalized me again. But this time, things started to FINALLY turn around. This hospital ( we are now on hospital E) was like a 5 star hotel. Private room, private bath, beautiful group rooms, super staff, workout center. 5 stars. And, it worked. I was there for 4 weeks, 4 long hard weeks, but it worked. I felt calm. I felt stable. I felt like I could get back on track.
I was released in August 2012 and assigned another therapist and doctor. Insert Dr. C and Dr. H. Dr. C does the talking, Dr. H does the meds. It took awhile for Dr. C and I to bond, but once we did, things started to get much better. I was able to get a part-time job at a clothing store, I was able to be there for my kid's first day of school, I was able to function. Now, Dr. C does NOT go easy on me, she pushes me hard, but I think it's the relationship that was built before the pushing that allows us to get along so well. And Dr. H was great at working with me on meds, trying new things, supporting me 100%. I made it until January 2013 before I had another break-down. I almost drove my car into incoming traffic. I was just at a point that I didn't care again. And I got scared. I called J, he came home from work, we talked, and I agreed to check back into hospital E. I also agreed, after two weeks, to try a few more rounds of ECT. I made it 6 sessions of ECT before I gave up. ECT is hard, man. It takes a lot out of you, and I was having some major memory problems. And Dr. C didn't seem to mind that I had stopped, so I decided that I was just going to see her for awhile. No day programs, no more drama, just me and her. And she is about as drama-free as you can get.
Dr. C looked hard at my past year and a half, where I was at currently, and started to notice my patterns. About every six weeks, I bottom out. And I had been pretty consistent for 18 months. So, our task became to break the pattern. To do everything in our power to meet that 6 week dip and not end up in the hospital. I was scared, but I was committed to trying. When things were up, we met once a week. I e-mailed or blogged to her in between, and when I needed an extra push, she would respond back. I started to express my feelings through creative writing, and she eagerly encouraged me to continue. When things got bad, which they did in March, and April, and just last week, we upped the sessions to twice a week, sometimes having J come in as added support. There were times that all I wanted to do was lay in bed and do nothing, and she told me to do that. She said that I needed to do whatever my body needed to heal. So I would lay in bed for three days and feel horrible, but I would make it through. I would come to sessions and not talk, and she, with her never-ending patience, would tell me stories and tales that taught me lessons about how to handle depression. And the few times that I needed a kick in the arse to remind me why I am on this planet, she gave me that, too.
It has been 5 months since I have been in a hospital. That's the longest stretch that I have gone since this whole thing started back in August 2011. I am learning that my depression is more than likely biological, not situational, but it was merely the situations that occurred that triggered and exaggerated the symptoms. It's a fight, every day is a fight, but I have put on my boxing gloves and stepped into the ring. This blog, my tell-all blog about depression and how much it sucks, is therapy for me. It's giving me a voice and courage that I had lost in the past two years. I have a job again, as an academic advisor, and I am headed down the right path. Things will be bumpy, and I will talk about them here. There are so many more specific stories that I want to share about my two years, and I will share them here. So, stay tuned, the best is yet to come!
So, I was ruined. I had tried to go back to work, but I couldn't concentrate, couldn't stop crying, couldn't function at home. I felt like a total failure. So, I was pulled from work and onto disability AGAIN, and placed back in the day program at hospital B. Out of frustration, confusion, whatever, I stopped talking. I just couldn't I felt like no matter what I said I was only making things worse, and I couldn't risk being honest with anyone. I didn't feel safe, like I could trust anyone. So I stopped.
Well, apparently, they don't like it when you stop talking and so I was forced back to inpatient. And, once again, the hospital that I preferred was full. Now I am shipped to hospital D. And, it turns out, this was a Godsend at this time. The doctor that I was assigned to did not agree with the fact that I was hospitalized, and asked me to stay for just 2 days while they adjusted my medications. She also asked that I try a day program at their hospital that specialized in CBT. At this point I felt that I had nothing to loose, so I agreed. And it was great. The staff were great, the other clients were great. I felt comfortable enough to start talking again, and completed the program in about two months. And, the best part for me, was that when I left I was given a letter of clearance to have my lap-band surgery. HURRAY! So, come April 2012, I had the lap-band surgery. I thought this was going to be the "band-aid", that this would fix everything. Boy, was I wrong.
When I left the day program at hospital D, they had recommended follow-up care with a center that specialized in weight issues. I was given a new therapist and a new doctor. And they were super nice. I mean unbelievably nice. They supported me through the surgery, adjusted meds as needed, and the therapist even started to see me twice a week to avoid me having to go back into a day program. But I could NOT get over this hump. I could not shake whatever demon was on my back. I was spending so much time talking about my past and how it had impacted me that I was not living in the present. I started to spiral back down, and my "team" suggested another day program. Another one. Are you kidding me? Beyond frustrated. Beyond disappointed in myself. But I agreed, again. This program, in the city so it was about an hour commute each way, was intense. More intense than any program that I had been in so far. Very much lay all your issues out on the table, let them sit there for awhile, and then try to fix it. I was in trauma groups, weight issue groups, depression groups, self-injury groups. It was a lot, but I was pushing myself to do it because I wanted to be better. I am sure that you can see where this is going already. I was pushed, and pushed, and pushed, and I shut down. I kept going to groups, but would cry and could not speak. The depression got bad, and I tried to tell my therapist, but the moment she brought up hospitalization, I clammed up. No surprise, they hospitalized me again. But this time, things started to FINALLY turn around. This hospital ( we are now on hospital E) was like a 5 star hotel. Private room, private bath, beautiful group rooms, super staff, workout center. 5 stars. And, it worked. I was there for 4 weeks, 4 long hard weeks, but it worked. I felt calm. I felt stable. I felt like I could get back on track.
I was released in August 2012 and assigned another therapist and doctor. Insert Dr. C and Dr. H. Dr. C does the talking, Dr. H does the meds. It took awhile for Dr. C and I to bond, but once we did, things started to get much better. I was able to get a part-time job at a clothing store, I was able to be there for my kid's first day of school, I was able to function. Now, Dr. C does NOT go easy on me, she pushes me hard, but I think it's the relationship that was built before the pushing that allows us to get along so well. And Dr. H was great at working with me on meds, trying new things, supporting me 100%. I made it until January 2013 before I had another break-down. I almost drove my car into incoming traffic. I was just at a point that I didn't care again. And I got scared. I called J, he came home from work, we talked, and I agreed to check back into hospital E. I also agreed, after two weeks, to try a few more rounds of ECT. I made it 6 sessions of ECT before I gave up. ECT is hard, man. It takes a lot out of you, and I was having some major memory problems. And Dr. C didn't seem to mind that I had stopped, so I decided that I was just going to see her for awhile. No day programs, no more drama, just me and her. And she is about as drama-free as you can get.
Dr. C looked hard at my past year and a half, where I was at currently, and started to notice my patterns. About every six weeks, I bottom out. And I had been pretty consistent for 18 months. So, our task became to break the pattern. To do everything in our power to meet that 6 week dip and not end up in the hospital. I was scared, but I was committed to trying. When things were up, we met once a week. I e-mailed or blogged to her in between, and when I needed an extra push, she would respond back. I started to express my feelings through creative writing, and she eagerly encouraged me to continue. When things got bad, which they did in March, and April, and just last week, we upped the sessions to twice a week, sometimes having J come in as added support. There were times that all I wanted to do was lay in bed and do nothing, and she told me to do that. She said that I needed to do whatever my body needed to heal. So I would lay in bed for three days and feel horrible, but I would make it through. I would come to sessions and not talk, and she, with her never-ending patience, would tell me stories and tales that taught me lessons about how to handle depression. And the few times that I needed a kick in the arse to remind me why I am on this planet, she gave me that, too.
It has been 5 months since I have been in a hospital. That's the longest stretch that I have gone since this whole thing started back in August 2011. I am learning that my depression is more than likely biological, not situational, but it was merely the situations that occurred that triggered and exaggerated the symptoms. It's a fight, every day is a fight, but I have put on my boxing gloves and stepped into the ring. This blog, my tell-all blog about depression and how much it sucks, is therapy for me. It's giving me a voice and courage that I had lost in the past two years. I have a job again, as an academic advisor, and I am headed down the right path. Things will be bumpy, and I will talk about them here. There are so many more specific stories that I want to share about my two years, and I will share them here. So, stay tuned, the best is yet to come!
Monday, June 24, 2013
In the beginning...
I don't know if I can remember far enough back to think of a time when I didn't have some sort of depression. Not that all of my childhood was bad, just troubled, and I am sure that has a lot to do with it. My bio-mom left when I before I was 2, that has to screw a kid up somehow, right? And Dr. C says that my depression is biological, so maybe I was just born this way.
But this latest round, this round that has had me in the worst place I have ever been in my life, it started in September of 2011. I wanted to have lap-band surgery. I am obese...there, I said it. I have been obese most of my life. (Which really isn't that hard because nowadays if you are 40 pounds overweight you are considered obese.) So, I wanted to have lap-band surgery. And in order to do that you have to jump through hoops and balance balls on your head, and one of those balls is psychological clearance. Hmm...not a test that I thought I would pass, but I had no idea how bad I would fail.
I met with the doctor one random Tuesday in August 2011. He was very nice, had super comfortable chairs in his office, and was very welcoming. We settled in for what was booked as a 75 minute appointment, and he started to ask a lot of questions. A LOT of questions. Questions about my family, my career, my education, my support system. He asked about J and our kids. And then he wanted to talk about difficult things. My miscarriage in 2008. My assault in college. My bio-mom leaving. My childhood. I answered the questions how I thought he wanted me to answer them, eliminating some elements, making some seem less violent or traumatic than they really were. And in the end, I got my clearance. I stood up shaking, shook his hand, and started to walk out the door. And then he said, and I can remember it like it just happened, he said, "Just so you know, I do follow up appointments." I smiled and walked out of his office. The drive between his office and work was about an hour, and I cried the whole time. I had just told him more information, true or not, than I had ever spilled to anyone. And it shook me to the core.
I couldn't get our appointment out of my head. I was fixated on it. I played over and over again. I began to cry at the drop of a hat where I would have normally plowed through the stress. So I made another appointment with him. I tried to explain what I was going through, and how I was struggling. We talked through it, and he wanted me to continue sessions. Each one was more painful than the next. I found myself divulging information that I had never shared before. It was literally taking the scab that had been covering all my pain for the past 30 some years, and ripping it off. And I was bleeding all over the place.
After a month of meeting with him, and my mental health deteriorating, he suggested that I join a day program to learn some coping skills. And this is when things start to get fuzzy for me. I took a leave of absence from work and agreed to try his suggestion. I remember the day program. I hated it. It was large, the "small groups" had over 20 people in them and the larger group sessions easily held 50. I remember having a really, really bad day, and needing to talk to someone at the end of program, and there was no one available. They sat me in a chair in the corner and told me to wait. And I waited for over an hour, crying the entire time. I was devastated. I was overwhelmed. It was the first time that I felt suicidal since I was in college. I am not clear on what happened when, but I believe that the end result was that I left the program at that hospital and we found another one, closer to home, that was much smaller. I'm talking 20 people total in the program, small groups had about 6. It was perfect, but by this time I was done. I was toast. Within a few days my counselor at this program had me involuntarily admitted to the hospital. Thinking back, I needed it. I was not safe. I was not happy. I could not handle all the information that my head was running over and over about my past. But I was also terrified. I was hospitalized. What did that say about me? Me, who used to be a college professor and academic advisor was now reduced to what I thought was the stereotypical hospital patient. What was I doing to my family? What kind of role model was I for my kids?
I was hospitalized for two weeks, I think, and then released back to the day program. I had pretty much done everything the hospital had wanted me to do, and I had said what they wanted me to say, so I was really in the same place as I was the first time I started the program. And, being as they were experienced and smart and all, within a few weeks they hospitalized me again. Only this time when I went through the ER, the hospital I preferred was full, they couldn't find another local hospital with beds, so I was sent to a state hospital. Holy Crap. Have you ever been to one of those? I am talking people with major mental illness who live there. Forever. I freaked out. My husband was able to get me out of there within 48 hours, and I was thankful, but the only place that now had a bed was hospital A where I had hated the day program. Ugg. I took it. I spent Christmas there. It was horrible. I lied and got out of there as soon as I could. But by this time they had been trying me on so many different medications that my head was all screwed up and I couldn't tell left from right. Hospital B, with the beloved day program, took me back again (third times the charm, right?) and that SAME DAY sent me right back inpatient. I mean, I had tasted less than 4 hours of freedom and I was back in the hospital. And, I think, this is when I gave up. When I really started to say that my life was never going to change and I was going to be screwed up forever. I felt that I had lost everything and that nothing was worth fighting for anymore. I took this 4th hospitalization very hard. I wanted to just go home and die. I was hurting so much on the inside and didn't know how to express it on the outside. So I started cutting. In the hospital. I first used my deodorant cap that I smashed on the bathroom floor, and when that was found and confiscated I used the staples that I got from the packets in group therapy. I cried, a lot. A whole lot. The doctor suggested ECT with the promise that it would help and that I would be released earlier if I agreed to it. ECT, in itself, was horrible. I don't know what I was thinking. Well, I wasn't thinking, that was the problem. But I was released, and I did my best to try and move on. I even went back to work for about a month before I realized that I just couldn't do it. I couldn't be whole again. I was ruined. Totally ruined.
And that, my friends, is where we will break for the day. I promise that I will be back tomorrow with the rest of the story. I hope that you appreciate that this is hard to tell, and it's a little draining. But I want to get it out. I need to get it out. My only hope is that someday, somewhere, my story will help someone else....
But this latest round, this round that has had me in the worst place I have ever been in my life, it started in September of 2011. I wanted to have lap-band surgery. I am obese...there, I said it. I have been obese most of my life. (Which really isn't that hard because nowadays if you are 40 pounds overweight you are considered obese.) So, I wanted to have lap-band surgery. And in order to do that you have to jump through hoops and balance balls on your head, and one of those balls is psychological clearance. Hmm...not a test that I thought I would pass, but I had no idea how bad I would fail.
I met with the doctor one random Tuesday in August 2011. He was very nice, had super comfortable chairs in his office, and was very welcoming. We settled in for what was booked as a 75 minute appointment, and he started to ask a lot of questions. A LOT of questions. Questions about my family, my career, my education, my support system. He asked about J and our kids. And then he wanted to talk about difficult things. My miscarriage in 2008. My assault in college. My bio-mom leaving. My childhood. I answered the questions how I thought he wanted me to answer them, eliminating some elements, making some seem less violent or traumatic than they really were. And in the end, I got my clearance. I stood up shaking, shook his hand, and started to walk out the door. And then he said, and I can remember it like it just happened, he said, "Just so you know, I do follow up appointments." I smiled and walked out of his office. The drive between his office and work was about an hour, and I cried the whole time. I had just told him more information, true or not, than I had ever spilled to anyone. And it shook me to the core.
I couldn't get our appointment out of my head. I was fixated on it. I played over and over again. I began to cry at the drop of a hat where I would have normally plowed through the stress. So I made another appointment with him. I tried to explain what I was going through, and how I was struggling. We talked through it, and he wanted me to continue sessions. Each one was more painful than the next. I found myself divulging information that I had never shared before. It was literally taking the scab that had been covering all my pain for the past 30 some years, and ripping it off. And I was bleeding all over the place.
After a month of meeting with him, and my mental health deteriorating, he suggested that I join a day program to learn some coping skills. And this is when things start to get fuzzy for me. I took a leave of absence from work and agreed to try his suggestion. I remember the day program. I hated it. It was large, the "small groups" had over 20 people in them and the larger group sessions easily held 50. I remember having a really, really bad day, and needing to talk to someone at the end of program, and there was no one available. They sat me in a chair in the corner and told me to wait. And I waited for over an hour, crying the entire time. I was devastated. I was overwhelmed. It was the first time that I felt suicidal since I was in college. I am not clear on what happened when, but I believe that the end result was that I left the program at that hospital and we found another one, closer to home, that was much smaller. I'm talking 20 people total in the program, small groups had about 6. It was perfect, but by this time I was done. I was toast. Within a few days my counselor at this program had me involuntarily admitted to the hospital. Thinking back, I needed it. I was not safe. I was not happy. I could not handle all the information that my head was running over and over about my past. But I was also terrified. I was hospitalized. What did that say about me? Me, who used to be a college professor and academic advisor was now reduced to what I thought was the stereotypical hospital patient. What was I doing to my family? What kind of role model was I for my kids?
I was hospitalized for two weeks, I think, and then released back to the day program. I had pretty much done everything the hospital had wanted me to do, and I had said what they wanted me to say, so I was really in the same place as I was the first time I started the program. And, being as they were experienced and smart and all, within a few weeks they hospitalized me again. Only this time when I went through the ER, the hospital I preferred was full, they couldn't find another local hospital with beds, so I was sent to a state hospital. Holy Crap. Have you ever been to one of those? I am talking people with major mental illness who live there. Forever. I freaked out. My husband was able to get me out of there within 48 hours, and I was thankful, but the only place that now had a bed was hospital A where I had hated the day program. Ugg. I took it. I spent Christmas there. It was horrible. I lied and got out of there as soon as I could. But by this time they had been trying me on so many different medications that my head was all screwed up and I couldn't tell left from right. Hospital B, with the beloved day program, took me back again (third times the charm, right?) and that SAME DAY sent me right back inpatient. I mean, I had tasted less than 4 hours of freedom and I was back in the hospital. And, I think, this is when I gave up. When I really started to say that my life was never going to change and I was going to be screwed up forever. I felt that I had lost everything and that nothing was worth fighting for anymore. I took this 4th hospitalization very hard. I wanted to just go home and die. I was hurting so much on the inside and didn't know how to express it on the outside. So I started cutting. In the hospital. I first used my deodorant cap that I smashed on the bathroom floor, and when that was found and confiscated I used the staples that I got from the packets in group therapy. I cried, a lot. A whole lot. The doctor suggested ECT with the promise that it would help and that I would be released earlier if I agreed to it. ECT, in itself, was horrible. I don't know what I was thinking. Well, I wasn't thinking, that was the problem. But I was released, and I did my best to try and move on. I even went back to work for about a month before I realized that I just couldn't do it. I couldn't be whole again. I was ruined. Totally ruined.
And that, my friends, is where we will break for the day. I promise that I will be back tomorrow with the rest of the story. I hope that you appreciate that this is hard to tell, and it's a little draining. But I want to get it out. I need to get it out. My only hope is that someday, somewhere, my story will help someone else....
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