So I became pretty good friends last night with Jose. Jose Cuarvo that is. (Did I spell that right?) 4th of July. J's family came over. His best-friend-might-as-well-be-a-brother came over with his wife. And some limes. So we drank. And drank. And then, when we were thirsty, we drank a little more. And the thing was, they were only here for about 3 hours. Was just supposed to be a small BBQ and then a trip to see fireworks. Well, J took the kids, I passed out. Nice. *shakes head*
Today was my session with Dr. C. And, of course, I woke up totally hungover. Which shouldn't really be a problem, except that I saw her hungover three weeks ago, the day after Father's Day when I had too much to drink. I showered and got dressed the best I could between bouts of extreme nausea, forced down some water and toast, and headed out. Half-way there I get a text from Dr. C that they are painting the office and we can either meet at a local McD's or cancel. Well, since I have already gone through so much effort, I agreed to the McD's. Just walking in and smelling all the food made my stomach do more flips-flops then in did during all three of my pregnancies combined.
Because we were sitting in the middle of a restaurant, I didn't want to launch into a rant about just how bad my depression is. We joked, a little, about my hang-over, but I don't think that she was really too happy about it. We talked a little about how my job has gone from 4 days a week to 2, and how financially that has been a challenge. We talked a lot about J's and my relationship and how I can make some small changes to get it back to where we were. And just as I thought I was going to be able to fly under the radar and leave without talking about depression, she asks me what was up. I told her, in as lighthearted of a manner as I could muster. I just said that I thought the depression was coming back, that I didn't have much of an appetite, that I was secluding in my bedroom more. And I left it at that. I didn't bring up the suicidal thoughts, how my mind has begun composing "good-bye" letters again, the numbness that I was feeling. I think that if we had been sitting in her office I might have, but I couldn't let myself go there in a public place. She gave me a few things to try and break the isolation and spend a little more time with the kids, and I agreed to try them this week. We confirmed our date change for next week, and I left.
And now I kick myself. Why do we do that? Why do we have the opportunity to sit with someone who is totally focused on us and we don't use it the best that we can? Why do we, or why do I, choose to stuff what I am thinking and feeling when I know that it will only make things worse? Dr. C has already told me on more than one occasion that as long as I don't say that I am going to leave her office and kill myself that she will not hospitalize me. But the fear is already ingrained. The fear developed from past times I have trusted doctors only to be shipped off to inpatient units for weeks at a time. The fear that telling someone what is going on in my head makes it more true somehow. It also feels like it is my little secret, and I don't know that I want to share it. Sounds weird, and I don't know if I am even explaining it right.
Anyway, 6 more days until I get to meet with her again, and I am hoping that by that time either the depression will be better or I will be able to be honest. Because I know that keeping the secret will one day kill me.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Friday, July 5, 2013
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
So, I am sitting at work...
So, I am sitting at work and my mind is racing. My last 2 student appointments have not show. It is, after all July 3rd and my guess is most people are already starting vacations versus wanting to come in to register for Fall Classes.
I was hoping for a busy day at work to ease my mind. It's not here. I popped a Klonopin before I even started the work day because I was already overly-anxious. It's not helping. I am here now to try and type it out, to get it out into cyber-space, in the hopes that it will help calm and relax me.
I am pretty familiar with my "levels" of depression. Level 1 is just feeling crummy, but able to get up and do stuff with a smile. Level 2, drop that smile and grumble and complain that everything is too difficult and refuse to do even the simplest of chores. Level 3, start withdrawing, stop talking to J, talk with a harsher tone to the kids, eat everything in site. Level 4, stay in bed for as long as possible, stop eating, start making not-so-good plans in my head. Level 5, full on meltdown, refusing to speak even to Dr. C, thoughts totally consumed with suicide and self-injury.
Today, I am at Level 4. Not good. Not good at all.
I have been taking my morning meds, although I HAD to stop the Latuda because the side-effects were overwhelming. I have an appointment with Dr. H in a week, and hope that he can find an alternative. I don't think the Wellbutrin alone is working.
I have had major issues bot yesterday and today with eating. I just can't do it. I feel sick to my stomach and the thought of putting food in there makes me want to gag. And this is from a chronic over-eater. Not good. Not good at all.
I have two more days before I have an appointment with Dr. C. I am trying to avoid e-mailing her, sometimes it just seems like the e-mails are a pathetic waste of time. I am sure they come across whiny and juvenile, and besides, I don't have the energy for it.
T-minus 3 hours and counting until I can get back into bed, put ArmyWives on Netflix, and just forget about the day. Right now, it can't come soon enough.
I was hoping for a busy day at work to ease my mind. It's not here. I popped a Klonopin before I even started the work day because I was already overly-anxious. It's not helping. I am here now to try and type it out, to get it out into cyber-space, in the hopes that it will help calm and relax me.
I am pretty familiar with my "levels" of depression. Level 1 is just feeling crummy, but able to get up and do stuff with a smile. Level 2, drop that smile and grumble and complain that everything is too difficult and refuse to do even the simplest of chores. Level 3, start withdrawing, stop talking to J, talk with a harsher tone to the kids, eat everything in site. Level 4, stay in bed for as long as possible, stop eating, start making not-so-good plans in my head. Level 5, full on meltdown, refusing to speak even to Dr. C, thoughts totally consumed with suicide and self-injury.
Today, I am at Level 4. Not good. Not good at all.
I have been taking my morning meds, although I HAD to stop the Latuda because the side-effects were overwhelming. I have an appointment with Dr. H in a week, and hope that he can find an alternative. I don't think the Wellbutrin alone is working.
I have had major issues bot yesterday and today with eating. I just can't do it. I feel sick to my stomach and the thought of putting food in there makes me want to gag. And this is from a chronic over-eater. Not good. Not good at all.
I have two more days before I have an appointment with Dr. C. I am trying to avoid e-mailing her, sometimes it just seems like the e-mails are a pathetic waste of time. I am sure they come across whiny and juvenile, and besides, I don't have the energy for it.
T-minus 3 hours and counting until I can get back into bed, put ArmyWives on Netflix, and just forget about the day. Right now, it can't come soon enough.
Working away the depression
It's 7:30AM and oddly quiet in the house. Usually by now Little A is awake and asking for breakfast and RescueBots on the living room TV. And it's not like they did an extensive amount of exercising or playing yesterday that has exhausted them. Weather in Chicago is being, well, it's Chicago weather. It's never predictable and usually off-season. Meaning, it's July 3rd and the high is 72 with rain all day. Shouldn't we be into the 90's by now?
Yesterday marked the start of my diminished work-week. When I was hired at the local Community College as an academic advisor, my position was called "Casual advisor", meaning less than part-time. Two months ago when I started, I was thankful that it would be about 9-10 hours a week. Since I had been out of work for 18 months, I thought this would be a great way to slide back in. Then my supervisor offered for the position to go up to 25 hours a week due to it being a busy registration time, and I thought about the money I would make and agreed. But, part of the deal is that I would go back to 9 hours starting July 1st, the new fiscal year. So, I didn't work yesterday. And it drove me CRAZY!
Before all this happened, and I don't know if I have talked about it here or not, I was both an adjunct faculty member and an academic advisor for a nation-wide, for-profit university. I taught my classes, Critical Thinking, on-line and it fit in perfect with my schedule. I could work all day, come home, do dinner, put the kids to bed, and then teach. But everything dropped with the depression. And I was pretty sure that I would never be able to get my career back on track. Starting work at this college was a step in the right direction. And while I was concerned that mentally I wouldn't be able to handle working, it turned out to be so good for me that I was busy again. I didn't have time to think about depression so much when I was working. I was getting out of the house which was forcing me to shower and dress on a daily basis. I was meeting new people. And, as luck would have it, my job is literally 5 minutes from where J works so we were able to do lunches together. I know that that helped bring back so intimacy that our relationship was lacking.
But now I am down to 9 hours a week, and being home all day yesterday was, well, odd. Not that I don't enjoy being with my kids, but I have been fighting the Depression Lion this week and the last thing I needed was a day in pj's watching ArmyWives. I did get up and shower about noon as L and Big A had their annual check-ups, but I also still had the nanny come and she spent the morning and the remainder of the afternoon with them. And then as I crawled into bed at the same time as the kids, about 8PM, I realized that I had broken my thou-must-blog-every-day command. I was disappointed in myself, but did not have the energy to get up and post.
So, here I sit, early morning, alone (still! I am shocked) with my computer in the kitchen. I see a stack of last night's, well, honestly, the last two night's dishes on the kitchen counter and I know I need to get those in the dishwasher before the nanny gets here. I am pretty sure that I need to do a load of laundry if my kids are to have clean clothes to wear. I am positive that I need to do laundry for me if I am going to have clothes to wear to work. My mind is spinning on the amount of cleaning that needs to be done before we host a 4th of July BBQ tomorrow. And I have zero motivation.
Sigh.
Depression sucks.
Yesterday marked the start of my diminished work-week. When I was hired at the local Community College as an academic advisor, my position was called "Casual advisor", meaning less than part-time. Two months ago when I started, I was thankful that it would be about 9-10 hours a week. Since I had been out of work for 18 months, I thought this would be a great way to slide back in. Then my supervisor offered for the position to go up to 25 hours a week due to it being a busy registration time, and I thought about the money I would make and agreed. But, part of the deal is that I would go back to 9 hours starting July 1st, the new fiscal year. So, I didn't work yesterday. And it drove me CRAZY!
Before all this happened, and I don't know if I have talked about it here or not, I was both an adjunct faculty member and an academic advisor for a nation-wide, for-profit university. I taught my classes, Critical Thinking, on-line and it fit in perfect with my schedule. I could work all day, come home, do dinner, put the kids to bed, and then teach. But everything dropped with the depression. And I was pretty sure that I would never be able to get my career back on track. Starting work at this college was a step in the right direction. And while I was concerned that mentally I wouldn't be able to handle working, it turned out to be so good for me that I was busy again. I didn't have time to think about depression so much when I was working. I was getting out of the house which was forcing me to shower and dress on a daily basis. I was meeting new people. And, as luck would have it, my job is literally 5 minutes from where J works so we were able to do lunches together. I know that that helped bring back so intimacy that our relationship was lacking.
But now I am down to 9 hours a week, and being home all day yesterday was, well, odd. Not that I don't enjoy being with my kids, but I have been fighting the Depression Lion this week and the last thing I needed was a day in pj's watching ArmyWives. I did get up and shower about noon as L and Big A had their annual check-ups, but I also still had the nanny come and she spent the morning and the remainder of the afternoon with them. And then as I crawled into bed at the same time as the kids, about 8PM, I realized that I had broken my thou-must-blog-every-day command. I was disappointed in myself, but did not have the energy to get up and post.
So, here I sit, early morning, alone (still! I am shocked) with my computer in the kitchen. I see a stack of last night's, well, honestly, the last two night's dishes on the kitchen counter and I know I need to get those in the dishwasher before the nanny gets here. I am pretty sure that I need to do a load of laundry if my kids are to have clean clothes to wear. I am positive that I need to do laundry for me if I am going to have clothes to wear to work. My mind is spinning on the amount of cleaning that needs to be done before we host a 4th of July BBQ tomorrow. And I have zero motivation.
Sigh.
Depression sucks.
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....
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....
Monday, June 17, 2013
Last Link of Pain
I cannot remember if I have mentioned it on here or not, but my family and I aren't speaking to each other. It's actually been almost a year since we talked. There was a blow-up and misunderstanding over me being hospitalized last year and it all just fell apart. And the consequence of that is that we are now not speaking.
This weekend was Father's Day. Kinda painful. Like picking at a scab that has almost become full skin again, and it stings even when you are not touching it. I miss my Dad. He was my everything. My biological mom left when I was 2, and even though I saw her on and off until I was 12, my Dad was the only stable adult figure for most of those years. (Not to discount my step-mom, but that's a blog for another day.) Anyway, my greatest fear in life was that I would loose my Dad, and it has now happened. Only, I always thought it would be due to death, not that he is 5 miles from me and just refusing to talk and mend fences. So I was not looking forward to the day.
I was more than happy to host J's family on Sunday, and we had a great time, but the only way that I got through it without a breakdown was because I drank. I drank a lot. So much that my voice sounded like Mickey Mouse and passed out about 8:30. Thankfully, I had an appointment with Dr. C this morning and was able to process some of this. Not a lot, I had to go to work after and didn't want to be a big ball of tears, but process enough to get through my day.
Anyway, the last link that I have to my family is Facebook. And seeing all the pictures that they are posting about the weekend and how much fun they had hurts. It hurts a lot. I miss being a part of that. I miss the security of knowing that I had such a large extended family around. I grew up pretty close with my cousins, and was hopefully that my kids would have had the same experience. I am now in the debating stages of whether I should "defriend" my family so that I don't have to see the pictures or see the updates. I was not able to verbalize this to Dr. C at our appointment, so I sent her an e-mail to ask her thoughts and opinions. I am also going to post the question on DepressionForums.org to see what my peers say....
In other news, I made another step in the right direction today, and since I am learning to celebrate little achievements, this counts! I talked with a co-worker about my depression and found out that she has struggled with depression herself since she was 11. She, too, takes medication on a daily basis....OMG....it's so nice to know that there is someone in the office that I can go to if I am having a rough day who will truly understand what I am going through! I didn't go into great detail with her about what the past 2 years have been like, but we talked meds and therapists until I had to see a student (don't you hate it when work gets in the way of the fun?). I was already very friendly with her and I think this just makes me feel more comfortable in my new work space! What a great way to end a bad weekend......
This weekend was Father's Day. Kinda painful. Like picking at a scab that has almost become full skin again, and it stings even when you are not touching it. I miss my Dad. He was my everything. My biological mom left when I was 2, and even though I saw her on and off until I was 12, my Dad was the only stable adult figure for most of those years. (Not to discount my step-mom, but that's a blog for another day.) Anyway, my greatest fear in life was that I would loose my Dad, and it has now happened. Only, I always thought it would be due to death, not that he is 5 miles from me and just refusing to talk and mend fences. So I was not looking forward to the day.
I was more than happy to host J's family on Sunday, and we had a great time, but the only way that I got through it without a breakdown was because I drank. I drank a lot. So much that my voice sounded like Mickey Mouse and passed out about 8:30. Thankfully, I had an appointment with Dr. C this morning and was able to process some of this. Not a lot, I had to go to work after and didn't want to be a big ball of tears, but process enough to get through my day.
Anyway, the last link that I have to my family is Facebook. And seeing all the pictures that they are posting about the weekend and how much fun they had hurts. It hurts a lot. I miss being a part of that. I miss the security of knowing that I had such a large extended family around. I grew up pretty close with my cousins, and was hopefully that my kids would have had the same experience. I am now in the debating stages of whether I should "defriend" my family so that I don't have to see the pictures or see the updates. I was not able to verbalize this to Dr. C at our appointment, so I sent her an e-mail to ask her thoughts and opinions. I am also going to post the question on DepressionForums.org to see what my peers say....
In other news, I made another step in the right direction today, and since I am learning to celebrate little achievements, this counts! I talked with a co-worker about my depression and found out that she has struggled with depression herself since she was 11. She, too, takes medication on a daily basis....OMG....it's so nice to know that there is someone in the office that I can go to if I am having a rough day who will truly understand what I am going through! I didn't go into great detail with her about what the past 2 years have been like, but we talked meds and therapists until I had to see a student (don't you hate it when work gets in the way of the fun?). I was already very friendly with her and I think this just makes me feel more comfortable in my new work space! What a great way to end a bad weekend......
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