Some Final Words

Today is counseling appointment day.

Hopefully I will have the guts to walk in and tell my counselor not only am I not going to see my psychiatrist any more but I won’t be seeing him, at least for a while.

I see no point in continuing with counseling. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about stuff, but the harder stuff I really need to talk about, I simply can’t open up to him about. Hell I can’t talk to anyone about it. Plus I know a certain person who would like to spend the extra time with me.

How do I feel about this? Alone, totally and utterly alone. I feel bad for leaning on my Twitter friends, no matter how much they say I can. I feel bad for leaning on my non-Twitter friends. So I am facing this and know there is no one out there that I feel I can trust with everything. I sit down to write this and a part of me doesn’t want anyone to know even what I write now. I literally just want to curl in to a ball and die.

I’m crying again. I started the day crying and it’s been off and on ever since. I’m exhausted and have no hope whatsoever of getting better. I have fought this for years, and don’t know how much energy or patience I have for continuing the fight. I’m considering taking down my blog, or at least not writing in it any more. What’s the point? No one wants to listen to someone whine about how much she hurts despite all the great stuff she has in her life. I feel like a selfish horrible person. A failure. That’s me.

How I feel

Well, it appears my new psychiatrist isn’t on my upcoming health insurance plan. SO this means I will be cancelling the appointment. I’m not going to start over with someone new. I’ve already decided that. I guess it’s not a total loss, as last appointment all she did was go down her handy dandy list of antidepressants and ask if I had tried a particular one yet. The first one I hadn’t tried, she decided to prescribe for me. A primary care person could do that if I so wished. Plus she keeps asking me whether I want meds in the first place, like why else would I be sitting in her office wanting someone to oversee my medication management if I didn’t want medications?

I’m not even sure I’m going to keep seeing my counselor. It’s just I’m tired of fighting this. Of putting energy in to being better, but not getting there. What’s the point of wasting what little money I do have extra to talk to someone? Is talking about what little I can make of the emotions going to make a big difference for me? Doubt it. I’ve suffered through the feelings too long to even believe that my life could change. That I could wake up one morning and be happy to be alive.

How much do I have to endure before dying is justifiable? I’ve always wondered that. I guess in a way it doesn’t really matter. I don’t believe God would want me whether or not I was killed by someone else or whether I was killed by me. So in a way, it doesn’t matter to me. While I don’t want to hurt anyone here, I really don’t want to keep on struggling. No, it’s not just not wanting to continue struggling, it’s physically and emotionally not being able. I feel drained, empty, alone, hopeless. It’s really hard for me to keep going. To keep pretending everything is okay. To know that no matter what is going on in my life, I’m going to feel like shit. To know no discernible difference between the best and worst day of my life.

Even though I know I’m not, I feel so very alone. Like no matter what, no matter how many people care about me, I will still be alone. It’s hard for me to reconcile this feeling with the fact that I know there are supposedly people out there who care. It’s hard for me to know that I feel one way, even though the reality can be completely different.

I feel like self injuring more and more. Why? I don’t know. I don’t even know if it helps. I just want to feel the pain though. I guess in a way, it’s one of the few ways I can put into physical form how I am feeling emotionally. I don’t expect that to make sense to most of you, or even to some of you. Hell, it doesn’t even make sense to me.

Today tomorrow and forever

Today I have an appointment with the psychiatrist. I have written a letter, but that doesn’t take the fear of possibly having to talk about everything away. I’m afraid of having to talk about stuff, not just because I don’t know her that well or whatever, I’m just plain afraid of talking about it with anybody. It’s like I have these things I want to say, but I get so dizzy and afraid of talking about them.

I’m still taking the medicine the doctor prescribed. I’m groggy 24/7 and I have a constant headache. I’m exhausted, and the depression has actually gotten worse. I’m tired of having to fight the side effects of the antidepressants, the medicines that are supposed to be helping me. I’ve lost all hope of ever getting better. I honestly don’t want to keep doing this. I don’t want to keep trying. What’s the point in putting so much energy in to something when it just seems like I’m spinning my wheels? I feel like a hamster on one of those wheels that just spin and spin. No matter how much they run on it, they’re still where they started at. That’s how I feel. No matter what I do, how much work I put in to it, I’m right where I started at, except exhausted. I know I’m just spinning my wheels, that I’m not going to get better. I have just been fighting this for several months or several years. Almost 20 years now. The thought of having to face this for quite a while longer is hard. For so long I’ve been fighting this, and trying to get better. What happens if this is as good as it gets?

One of the side effects of this new antidepressant seems to be wanting to die again. No not wanting to die but wanting to actually do something about it. But this is okay. I’ve been here for such a long time in my life that it’s a normal feeling for me. At this point, there have been just as many years suicidal as not. In a way, I want to stay on the new antidepressant causing this feeling. I want to explore it more; to actually come up with a decision I can accept.

I wish I could talk to my husband about what is going on. I wish I could tell him how I am feeling. Hell, I wish I could tell anyone how I’m feeling. The words escape me, though, when I need them to be there. I’m left wondering how I’m supposed to tell someone I love how deeply depressed I am when I don’t understand the feelings. All anyone can see is what is going on on the outside, which apparently I appear okay. No one understands how I feel inside. I want them to, but I don’t know how to convey everything I’m feeling to another human being.

Right now, as babyish as it sounds, I just want someone to hold me when I cry. Not to ask questions, but tell me, even if they don’t believe it, that I’m going to be okay.

Day 1 of the new med

So, day 1 of Celexa/Deplin mix: I am in a complete fog and have a headache.

Day 1 after the Celexa/Deplin mix: The foggy like feeling has gone away, well sort of. The headache, unfortunately, is still there. I’m exhausted too. I went to bed with the headache last night; and woke up with one. I can’t ever remember doing that in my entire life.

I will try again tomorrow night. I think. I want what I did take out of my system so I can ascertain whether the headache was caused by the medicine or change in weather. I’m leaning towards medicinal caused though; it’s just too coincidental. It also occurred to me that I will be still trying this medicine while on vacation. Won’t it be fun to drive 3,000 miles while my head is in a fog? Should be even more interesting as we are planning on going north on vacation. Snow + foggy brain = fun times, no?

Or I guess I could just reschedule my appointment for after I come back from vacation, and just start the medince then. Really, after 19 years of depression, what’s an extra month? Or I could just go back at my regularly scheduled time and just tell her that Celexa sucked and Deplin is as expensive as hell. Or I could just not go back. Every time I start on a new medicine, I suddenly remember the reason why I hate medicines. Side effects that I hate. Or if no side effects, then knowing that what ever I’m taking has absolutely positively no friggin effect on me kind of gets me down. Well, lots more than kind of.

I have a big deadline tomorrow. I haven’t eaten lunch beyond a couple of cookies in the last two days. You would think I would be losing weight, right? Nope, all I’m doing is getting used to not eating. Somehow the familarility of not eating is um, comforting. How sick and twisted is that? Though that hamburger and fries do sound good right now. So, great I now am starting to lose my appetite.

Oh yeah, and the depression: it’s still there. The only good thing about the Celexa was instead of focusing on how depressed I am, I focus on how much pain I’m in AND how depressed I am. Sort of like that old trick that my dad used to play. Oh, you skinned your knee, here let me punch you to take your mind off the skinned knee. Didn’t work then; doesn’t work now.

Random thoughts

So, I have a question, why do doctors in general want to reinvent the wheel? Why is it I can’t go in a doctor’s office and tell them I’ve had a test done, and they believe me with the results? Why do I have to go and have it redone, me and my insurance company paying the bill? Hmmm… and people wonder why medical costs and insurance costs are high. When I have to have a test redone each time I start a new doctor just because with no other reason than that, it starts to get danged annoying.

Why should I trust doctors if they won’t trust me? Everytime I trust them, I get hurt. I put my heart in to it, just to be hurt. For once someone else has to go out on a limb for me first. Someone has to prove to me that there is a reason for me to trust them before I will trust them.

And then again, maybe I should just start lying and say I’ve never seen anyone before about the depression besides my current counselor. If I do that, then at least I’ll be taken more seriously. Nope, I have no problems with any of my previous doctors, because after paying all this money for services, I don’t actually ask anything of the doctor. Maybe it would be just better if I never inquired about test results (it’s not like anyone would call me up if something was wrong anyways, so what’s the point in taking the time to keep badgering them about it). After all, I want to die anyways, why keep making sure I’m healthy? Why take an active role in my care, when it’s held against me when I do?

I don’t know why I feel so bad all the time. I was asked that last night. Apparently I’m supposed to be an intelligent young lady, and therefore know this answer. So, therefore I should know why I can go from deeply depressed but stable to not stable in a matter of milliseconds. I guess I should get used to being dumb. I think I’m comfortable with that.

I guess if nothing else, this whole thing has allowed me to be a bit more open with my husband, even just a teeny bit. It’s still hard to tell him some things. How do I admit to someone that I believe genuinely loves and cares about me that I want to die? How do I admit that I’m that selfish, that horrible of a person? How do I tell him about the self-injuring? How I don’t remember a lot of what leads up to being upset?

Underneath the smiles and strongness, the craziness of the thoughts inside…

At a loss…

I had a counseling appointment yesterday. I didn’t get much accomplished in it; and therefore feel like I’m wasting his time. There’s so much I want to say; but the feelings and intensity are hard to describe. Sometimes I just want to sit there quietly crying, knowing there’s some sort of safety there. Don’t ask me to describe that in more detail; I can’t.

My husband reminded me last night that I can talk to him. Yes, I know that, but what am I supposed to say? The feelings are so overwhelming that trying to pin down what’s wrong right at this moment is hard. What am I thinking about? Hell if I know. What can you do to help me? Hell if I know that one either.

And what’s more is I can’t connect the feelings I have when I’m really down, like crisis down, to when I’m “normal” – or as “normal” as I’ll ever be. It’s like I myself can’t even comprehend the pain, the thoughts, unless I’m feeling them right at that second. All I can do is write and hope that someone somewhere down the line can understand me. And when they understand me, let me in on the secret, because I’m at a loss too.

So I’ve made an appointment with the psychiatrist. December 1st at 5 pm. Well at least I won’t have to miss much of work to go. I’m tired of having to take off time just to go to counseling sessions. I feel bad for taking off work, but at the same time, I feel upset that these people won’t work with me. I mean, why can’t I work from 7 to 4? These are the only people that I interviewed with that insisted on an 8-5 schedule. Unfortunately they’re also one of the few that offered me a job.

So, back to the psychiatrist thing. I don’t know why I’m going. Actually, yes I do: because my counselor told me to. That’s the only reason I do believe. I have no faith that the medications will help any more this time than they ever have (which is none). I don’t know if I can keep pushing myself to get better when it seems everything is going against me. How does one keep going after they lose all hope? Or better yet, WHY do I keep going after I’ve lost all hope for peace on Earth? I guess I keep going because of others, but that doesn’t quiet the rage I feel sometimes.

Yesterday’s Session

It was an interesting counseling session yesterday to say the least. I had written him a letter and given it to him the session before last. It was written on a day I was feeling particularly bad, so it was rather um, well, intense (if you scroll down a few weeks in posts, you will find the post where I typed it out here). He started out that he was worried about me. What a coincidence, I’m starting to get worried about me too… But seriously, sometimes the emotions are scary, and very so intense. It’s hard to think about anything besides how deeply depressed I am and concentration, and thus work, are hard. Tears come so easily now, and even being around my husband isn’t cheering me up as much as it used to. If I can stay busy, like really busy, then it makes things a little easier, but I’m still having problems. I’ve gotten through worse, yes, I know, but that doesn’t make the feelings any easier.

So, counselor suggested a psychiatrist. I had every intention of asking him for a referral yesterday, but just the fact that he brought it up first, made it harder. And I wasn’t even surprised that he suggested one. It just seems like defeat in a way. That I can’t beat this by myself, that I have to turn to medicines to help me get through the day alive. It feels like I’m a failure for not being strong enough to pull myself out of this.

I guess it doesn’t matter. Even if I wanted to, I’m not going to be able to go. I would have to miss too much work. I’m guessing about 1.5 to 2 hours every 4-6 weeks. I can’t afford that time. I only get five sick days a year. If I do happen to get sick, well, no more sick leave. And I don’t want to have to go through questioning as to why I’m having to miss so much. I already miss 30 minutes every other week. Given a choice between counseling and going to a psychiatrist, I would rather use what little time I can afford for a counselor over a psychiatrist. I know, a psychiatrist could make all my problems go away with the swallow of one pill. Maybe, or maybe not. I’m not willing to take that chance. I would rather fight this with the help of a counselor than to fight it with a psychiatrist. And I don’t have time to do both.

Meanwhile I’m looking for another job. One with enough flexibility that would allow me to go to these doctors appointments without having to ask for time off. In a way, it’s also not so much about the time I need off, as opposed to actually having to ask my boss for it off. I don’t want questions, and we have to send an email out to everyone every time we leave the office. I just don’t want any questions. I don’t want to have to reveal how much I’m struggling to everyone, to make my boss question whether I’m too much trouble to keep.

How far would I go?

I was recently asked if stigma wasn’t an issue, how far would I be willing to go for help. It’s a good question, a reflective one. One that requires me to figure out what I want from life… do I want to get better, or do I want to die. If no one would judge me because of my “problems” would I be more willing to be hospitalized and get help or would I take a different route. This has been a question I have struggled with since I was a kid. Counselors have tried to tell me, oh I don’t really want to die, I just want to pain to stop. I’ve always questioned that. I guess I believe that even if the pain did stop for some strange reason, it would only be temporary. What’s the point in struggling to get better, if I am just going to fall again? I can’t remember the last time I was happy; so in a way, it’s kind of one of those things where I don’t know what it’s like to be happy. So what am I missing? Heck if I know, or care…

It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that some day I might get better. I might get better, really? What’s that like? Who will I be like if/when I get better? It’s always been something I’ve thought about. I’ve dealt with the depression for so long, that in a way, it defines who I am. I know people say that depression isn’t who I am, but I think that is wrong. Depression affects so much of my personality, who I’m willing to reach out to, who I’m willing to put up with, that to say that depression doesn’t define me is wrong. Even IF I do get better, depression has still defined my life. I have struggled with it for way to long for it not to have.

Back to the question at hand though. What lengths would I be willing to go to if the stigma wasn’t there? I’ve thought about hospitalization for some time, as in years, um, lots of years. Unfortunately, even if the stigma wasn’t there, I would still have to leave my husband and dog behind for the length of the stay. Yes, I know, lame, but still. I would have to leave work for this length, and if I don’t have the sick days, then I would have to take a cut of pay. I would have hospital bills. A five day stay I have little hope for helping, as I am always so slow to trust, and I have no hope medications would work in that short time span. Even a thirty day stay I have little hope for helping. So, what’s the point?

Suicide won’t work either. How fair would it be to leave everything behind, including bills, work, etc just because the pain was too great? How fair would it be for someone to have to find me dead because I couldn’t handle everything everyone else seems to be able to handle alright? So I keep trudging along, wanting the pain to be over, and knowing it won’t go away.

So the bigger question, finances and stigma aside, which choice would I chose. Well, both are there, and aren’t going away, so I’ll just leave that up for you to guess.

Having a hard time… again

So it’s another one of those days when I’m left wondering what’s the point. I do the best I can. It seems that best is never good enough. I have a counseling appointment on Wednesday of this week. I am pretty afraid of it. I know I’m way down, even for me. I’m having a hard time at work, at home, just not crying. I put a fair amount of energy just getting through the day half way sane. I don’t know what the problem is, why all of a sudden I’m struggling again. Maybe I’ve always been, but just not had the insight to know until I sit down and think about how much I’m spinning my wheels just to stay afloat. I have no idea what to tell my counselor this week. Yes, I want to die. No I don’t have anyone to talk to about the feelings in between counseling sessions, at least face to face. Sometimes I think being lonely is the best though. Trying to explain the intense emotions to someone else usually winds up with me being told to snap out of it, or that I’m smart enough to control my emotions, or some other crap that is supposed to make me feel better, that only makes me feel worse.

Work isn’t helping either. I changed jobs just over a year ago because I thought this type of work would make me happier. It hasn’t, and I’m bored with it. I’m ready to go back to construction inspections. At least then I was having to talk to and be around people a lot. While I didn’t feel like it alot, at least I had to pretend in front of them. It’s harder when I’m in my office and don’t really see anyone all day long. I’m more apt to know that I can cry and get away with it, and so I do. Which means my emotions are all over the place during the work week, and I just want to go home and go to sleep. It was never this bad at my last job. I don’t know if it is because of the structure I had there, or whether I just really hate this type of work that much. Either way, I’m struggling here.

We at least got some work done this weekend. We planted a redbud tree, an apple tree, some blueberry and blackberry bushes and some mums. We still need to plant two butterfly bushes, but we ran out of top soil. We were tired on Sunday. Didn’t make it to church either, which is a whole other blog post. I mostly enjoy my time home with my husband. The depression isn’t as hard to fight. I wouldn’t go out on a limb and say it’s easy, but it’s more manageable, well until I stay up later than him, then I’m back to having problems again.

My birthday

Remember the blog post from yesterday? Well, more of the same today. I’m exhausted and deeply depressed.

My birthday is coming up soon. Sooner than I would like. 11 days from today I will be 30. Turning 30 isn’t really depressing. I don’t care one way or the other how old I am. I know I’m a failure; and guess what: I’ll be one when I’m 50 too. So, what difference does it make as to whether I’m a 30 year old failure or a 50 year old one?

Having my birthday is depressing for another reason. When I was younger, it was the day that most of my “plans” pivoted around. I always thought it would be cool to die on my birthday. To have both the same start and stop dates. The chances of that happening are pretty slim … though my grandmother did die the day before her birthday, so maybe there is hope for me yet.

I guess having my birthday reminds me of how cowardly and weak I was when I was younger. Of the one thing that I still want to do so badly, but can’t.

What’s interesting is that so many people have told me over the years that I don’t want to die, I just want the pain to stop. I’ve concluded this is untrue. I don’t care whether or not the depression stops. I want life to stop. To say that things are going to get better is just patronizing anyways. They aren’t. I lost hope in that years ago.

If you’re worried, I’m safe. But that doesn’t make the feelings any less overwhelming. It doesn’t make them any easier to deal with or to handle.