It's Sunday and, as usual, things are calm in our house. No one was out of jammies before noon, Little A took a good, long nap, L and Big A got to go to Toys R Us to spend birthday gift cards. J has now taken all three kids on a walk in the forest, and I get to relax before the whirlwind of evening activities start.
I am sad that I am out of episodes of Army Wives to watch, but I have started to stream Sister Wives through Netflix. It's an addiction, I know, but it's so much fun to watch someone else's story and see what goes on in their lives. It's like being a Peeping Tom, but doing it legally.
I am sad, however, because tomorrow my cousin will be giving birth to her second child. And because of the division in the family, I won't be there to see the baby. I am sure that I will see pictures via Facebook, but it's really not the same. Some days this whole "alienation" thing really bugs me, like when things like this are happening. I grew up with my cousins like we were siblings, and now because 1 person in my family had an issue with my depression, everyone has had to choose sides, and I have been left alone; abandoned by all the people who I have thought loved me throughout the years.
Not a lot else to say...tomorrow is back to the comfortable schedule of the work-week, nanny will be here, the kids will play all morning and swim all afternoon, then pass out after dinner. I do have an appointment with Dr. H this week which is good because since I have stopped the Latuda (it causes severe stomach cramps) I am able to see that the Wellbutrin does not do enough on it's own. I also have an appointment with Dr. C, which could be interesting. Last night, I might have had a few shots of Tequila Rose and then I might have accidentally texted her instead of J, stating that I was ready for more shots...don't think that's going to go over real well. It is what it is, and I am sure that I will survive.
Good night for now, if anything interesting happens I will be sure to come back and tell you all about it!
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Sunday, July 7, 2013
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....
Friday, June 21, 2013
Undone by a text message
I had an appt. with Dr. C today, and boy, was I ever thankful for the timing!
As you know, this week was L's and Big A's birthdays...and I was struggling because my parents were not there. Well, my Mom sent me text messages on both days to say "Happy Birthday" to the girls, and for some reason this struck a chord in me. I miss my family. I am/was very sad that they were not with my girls to celebrate their special days.
I got to therapy early today, and sat in the parking lot as I could see that Dr. C wasn't there yet. I took a deep breath and sent my Mom a text back. Told her we missed her, and that I hoped the fight would be over soon. I said that I was just waiting for my Dad to "say the word". (That's because he was the one who cut communication, so I have put it in his court to re-establish it.) Dr. C arrives, onto therapy, and I tell her about the week and that I have texted my mom. As if on cue, my phone dings. I ask her if she minds if I check the message in case it's the sitter. It's from Mom. She says, "I miss you and them. My heart hurts." I pretty much die inside. I read it aloud and try to laugh it off. My heart hurts, too. It has hurt ever since I read my father's words: "I am getting off your roller coaster. I can no longer do this." I can feel the tears building in my chest to the point I feel like it's going to explode. They start to escape from my eyes and I do my best to brush them away quickly as if they weren't there. We talk about it; I am struggling as this is usually when I would shut down and not talk, but I force myself to talk through my feelings. I am squishing down the tears...willing them to go away. It's as if my whole body was shaking from the shear force of my stubbornness not to cry.
Conversation turns, we talk about how we can categorize family members into groups and how I can still approach some even through the fight. My head is spinning. I keep saying a phrase over and over in my head. "He promised not to leave me. He promised not to leave me." I am trying as hard as I can to stay on topic, to agree with what she is saying, to be an active listener. My tears betray me; they are refusing to stop rolling. Finally, I know that I cannot hold it in anymore and there is only about 20 minutes left of the session. I knew I had to say it or I would leave and have a break-down outside of session. I think that it's better that I have it in session where I can at least get support. I don't like to fall apart in front of Dr. C, well...really anyone...but I can feel it's going to happen.
So, I take a breath and say it. Tell her how he used to tuck me into bed at night and promise that he would never leave me like my bio-mom did. But he did leave me. He left me when I needed him the most. My tears make the conversation jagged. The pain cannot escape fast enough through my eyes; it feels like it's going to jump through every hole that it can. I cover my eyes as if that will stop her from seeing how much I hurt. We talk through it. I am able to refocus. I am able to make the sobs and the tears stop. I will myself to take control, to stop crying and center. "You can cry more later," I soothingly tell myself. I always tell myself that, just usually "later" never comes.
Session is over. I try and smile. She will be gone next week, inside that does not sit well with me. It makes me nervous. I have become dependant on our sessions, too dependant. Sometimes it's hard to wait the 6 days between sessions, let alone now having to wait 2 weeks. I pull down the sunglasses that have been perched on the top of my head to cover my red eyes from her next client who is in the waiting room. I walk outside; it's dark and looks like it's about to rain. Great, I think. I get in my car and almost as soon as I do small droplets start to fall on my car. "Good-bye Yellow Brick Road" plays from the stereo as I begin the drive home. The tears come again. I let them fall. Inside I am breaking into a million little pieces, but I will worry about putting them together later. Right now I need the 25 minute ride home to mourn the loss of my father, to let "Little M" inside me feel the pain that she has always dreaded.
I come to a stoplight and know that I have to respond to my Mom's message. I read her's again.
"I miss you and them. My heart hurts."
I respond.
"Ditto."
As you know, this week was L's and Big A's birthdays...and I was struggling because my parents were not there. Well, my Mom sent me text messages on both days to say "Happy Birthday" to the girls, and for some reason this struck a chord in me. I miss my family. I am/was very sad that they were not with my girls to celebrate their special days.
I got to therapy early today, and sat in the parking lot as I could see that Dr. C wasn't there yet. I took a deep breath and sent my Mom a text back. Told her we missed her, and that I hoped the fight would be over soon. I said that I was just waiting for my Dad to "say the word". (That's because he was the one who cut communication, so I have put it in his court to re-establish it.) Dr. C arrives, onto therapy, and I tell her about the week and that I have texted my mom. As if on cue, my phone dings. I ask her if she minds if I check the message in case it's the sitter. It's from Mom. She says, "I miss you and them. My heart hurts." I pretty much die inside. I read it aloud and try to laugh it off. My heart hurts, too. It has hurt ever since I read my father's words: "I am getting off your roller coaster. I can no longer do this." I can feel the tears building in my chest to the point I feel like it's going to explode. They start to escape from my eyes and I do my best to brush them away quickly as if they weren't there. We talk about it; I am struggling as this is usually when I would shut down and not talk, but I force myself to talk through my feelings. I am squishing down the tears...willing them to go away. It's as if my whole body was shaking from the shear force of my stubbornness not to cry.
Conversation turns, we talk about how we can categorize family members into groups and how I can still approach some even through the fight. My head is spinning. I keep saying a phrase over and over in my head. "He promised not to leave me. He promised not to leave me." I am trying as hard as I can to stay on topic, to agree with what she is saying, to be an active listener. My tears betray me; they are refusing to stop rolling. Finally, I know that I cannot hold it in anymore and there is only about 20 minutes left of the session. I knew I had to say it or I would leave and have a break-down outside of session. I think that it's better that I have it in session where I can at least get support. I don't like to fall apart in front of Dr. C, well...really anyone...but I can feel it's going to happen.
So, I take a breath and say it. Tell her how he used to tuck me into bed at night and promise that he would never leave me like my bio-mom did. But he did leave me. He left me when I needed him the most. My tears make the conversation jagged. The pain cannot escape fast enough through my eyes; it feels like it's going to jump through every hole that it can. I cover my eyes as if that will stop her from seeing how much I hurt. We talk through it. I am able to refocus. I am able to make the sobs and the tears stop. I will myself to take control, to stop crying and center. "You can cry more later," I soothingly tell myself. I always tell myself that, just usually "later" never comes.
Session is over. I try and smile. She will be gone next week, inside that does not sit well with me. It makes me nervous. I have become dependant on our sessions, too dependant. Sometimes it's hard to wait the 6 days between sessions, let alone now having to wait 2 weeks. I pull down the sunglasses that have been perched on the top of my head to cover my red eyes from her next client who is in the waiting room. I walk outside; it's dark and looks like it's about to rain. Great, I think. I get in my car and almost as soon as I do small droplets start to fall on my car. "Good-bye Yellow Brick Road" plays from the stereo as I begin the drive home. The tears come again. I let them fall. Inside I am breaking into a million little pieces, but I will worry about putting them together later. Right now I need the 25 minute ride home to mourn the loss of my father, to let "Little M" inside me feel the pain that she has always dreaded.
I come to a stoplight and know that I have to respond to my Mom's message. I read her's again.
"I miss you and them. My heart hurts."
I respond.
"Ditto."
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