I’m not supposed to apologise. But I’d like to. This blog used to be Fucking Awesome. And now it’s all my brain-mad-bullshit. After a few weeks of being ok, something has slipped. I’ falling back again. And I’m mad as all hell because I’ve done Every Fucking Thing Right.
I’ve taken my medication without fail. I’ve given up drinking. I’ve gone back to work. I’ve eaten healthy, I’ve exercised more than regularly. I’ve lost more than two goddamn kilos FFS. But since last Friday I’ve known something was wrong and it’s gotten steadily worse.
I can’t get in to see my doctor until Tuesday but I got a cancellation with the psych for tomorrow. I hate my brain. I fucking hate it like a motherfucker. I can’t control this any more than I can stop the sun from rising. That’s what people without mental health/illness issues cannot understand. I have done EVERYTHING (apart from the stupid meditation on “mindfulness”. arse to that) that I could have done and yet I am falling back again. Hopeless, helpless, awful. I haven’t cried in weeks. I am crying because I can’t stop it, help it, do anything. I am holding myself together with seams and thread.
It’s probably a medication issue. Middle of last week I was high as a kite – actually dangerously so, driving a bit erratically, in a rush, running through everything, a bit manic. Then this.
So I bought wine tonight. To try and make it stop for a little while. It hasn’t helped so I’ve uncharacteristically shoved it back in the fridge. So what if I was a day off four weeks? What does that actually matter when I feel like I am disintegrating inside?
I’m scared because I was over-confident. I thought I’d beaten this. I’d finally been diagnosed properly, accepted it, took the medication, did all the shit and all the stuff, felt so, so, so much better, reveled in what “normal” felt like. Over-confident. One for the autobiography I thought, not realising this is probably something I will have to deal with for ever and ever. Not something I can just take my pills for every day for the rest of my life and forget about it.
Mental illness is not like diabetes or hyperthyroidism or a broken arm or high blood pressure or a wound. Those things your body clearly tells you you’re getting better. you’re getting worse, it cries out for help or rests with the salve.
Your brain, when it’s not right, affects your reality, your emotions, your actions, your perception. Every Goddamn Motherfucking thing. So you’re not sure what is real or imagined (I don’t mean hallucinations here). It is so hard to trust your moods and your heart and your emotions when your brain is fucking with them. Am I ok or am I not ok? Is three days of feeling this normal or does this mean another crash? Do I need more medication? Am I just a fucking idiot? Why can I not turn this off? Why can I not think myself better?
This is the crux: self-control. Of course I have self control. I can choose whether to have a drink or not have a drink. I can choose what to have for lunch. If I should take a phone call. When I go to bed. But I have no control whatsoever over my brain and if it chooses to, it will stop all the chemicals from going to where they need to go. It will fire off (or not) at random and I will sink into the depths.
Major depressive disorder/melancholic depression/some bipolar symptoms/psychotic paranoia/anxiety disorder/mild OCD.
And if you met me you wouldn’t have a fucking clue. Because I am an expert at holding it all the fuck together. Especially if I am distracted. But dealing with this shit for more than 12 years is very tiring. And just when I thought I was getting better (hey normal fuckers, stop complaining, because feeling normal feels AMAZING) it’s gotten bad again.
I’m angry and sad and low and so, so disappointed. But I can’t fall apart. Not now after I’ve come back to work and I’m all like normal and shit. I can’t be seen to be weak or flaky or rubbish (actually, in some ways that’s been good cos I’ve had to, had, had to keep it all together in the workplace which can be stressful).
And I suppose I’m lonely. I’ not the only person who lives alone, whose last relationship ended a while ago, whose family lives overseas. But there’s the thing; those essential people, the ones whose JOB it is is to make sure we’re ok, to love us no matter what; I don’t have them or have them here. I have wonderful friends but there is only so much you can want or ask or need. And what I need I can’t always get from them, no matter how wonderful they are.
Anyway, I’m going to stop writing shite and apologising and fucking things up. All I’d like to say is during my travails I have found so any people who have suffered from depression, other mental illnesses, panic attacks, biological conditions. If you haven’t, you might be one of the lucky few. We don’t talk about it, don’t empathise, don’t realise others are suffering as we are. But they are. We are. We’re good at hiding it though.
Knowing this has humbled me and made me feel less alone but I still feel like shit.
Ms W (psych) better earn her $190 per 50 minutes tomorrow. Otherwise I’m playing doctor and I’m upping my medication on my own until my Dr (who is lovely) has finished having a super long Easter weekend (which journos don’t get) and can advise on all matters medicinal.