My Return to My Church

Today I am gong to try to go back to my church after nine weeks. I am feeling very anxious about this. The anxiety has been focused just upon opening that door after all this time. I plan to arrive after the service has started to avoid anyone ahead of time. I know people will notice when I come in and I am also anxious about what to do after the service. Do I leave early the same way I came in? With my cane, I am not walking as quickly as I could. What happens if someone comes out to the parking lot after I leave as I walk across the street back to my house? My exposure is greatest at this point. On the other hand, do I stay until after the service and just get it over with and let everyone welcome me back? I have 45 minutes before the service starts and I am trying to use my tools to quell this anxiety—stay in the moment and not try to project—take it 5 minutes at a time if I have to…

(later)… About five minutes before leaving the house, I decided to do some deep breathing exercise to calm me. That seemed to do the trick. I walked across the street and approached the front door having no idea what to expect. I opened the door and the service was late getting started, but everyone was sitting in their seats. When one individual noticed me, she said rather loudly, “Hi Alix,” and that was it. The service started and no one paid any attention to me. The message that the pastor preached was a good one for me to hear. It was all on how a mighty God we have. At the end of the service, I stayed for a few minutes and it was the dénouement. No one came up to me. I think I was a little bit disappointed, but I did not have to deal with anyone. Maybe everyone was just respecting my space. Therefore, I stood, put on my jacket and walked out the door feeling a little lonely. It is odd, while I had such anxiety about dealing with everyone, when everyone had the chance to say hi to me to welcome me back, no one did. Maybe next week will be different. But, I finally crossed that threshold.©2009

How I Handled Yesterday

Knowing I was feeling very depressed yesterday (see post below), I was afraid to be alone in my house for fear that my suicide ideation would begin. I decided to be proactive during the day. I already know that my front porch does not offer me much solace as it once did, so I decided to try the backyard. I sat in my camp chair (very comfortable with two cup holders) in the full sun while listening to my iPod for the duration of the day until the sun went down. It was 61˚F/16˚C and absolutely beautiful. I was still very depressed, but not suicidal. When the sun went down, I went inside to bundle up and stayed outside until the stars cam out and watched the moon rise. I was out of my house and safe, and that is all that mattered.©2009

Momentum

This past weekend has been a banner one for me as far as decreasing my isolation and reaching out to my friends. Of course, you’ve read about my coffee date with K on Friday and my grocery trip with A on Saturday. Well, I discovered that I needed to go out once again, and to the mall no less where it was teeming with people. Mind you, I am not a mall rat; in fact, I cannot remember the last time I was there. However, there is one thing I need every year and can only find it when the independent vendors set up their kiosks at Christmas time. I use this huge grid calendar that I hang on the wall right inside my bedroom door. Each square is large enough to accommodate multiple entries and to write them in large letters so I can read them. Therefore, I called K and asked if she would mind taking me to the mall.

We were not sure at which end to park, so we picked one anchor store and went inside. The idea of walking all over the place to find this particular vendor was rather daunting to me. However, we spotted a mall security guard as soon as we got there. He did not know where it was, and upon spying a walking talkie radio, I suggested he call out and find out if anyone of the security guards knew where it was.

Now that we knew where to go, we started negotiating our way among the throngs of people, impatient kids running away from their parents, and a mass of strollers with shrieking babies. I hugged the interior wall for fear that someone would kick out my cane from underneath me. I was not handling the mass of people very well, but stuck to my guns as I looked at this adventure as a mission to complete. Having K there made all the difference as I could focus on her and keep up a running dialogue as we walked.

I espied our target and once acquired we headed directly there. I got my calendar and out we went. That said, I am still fairly sure I don’t want to return, at least by myself as the crowds were somewhat suffocating. However, I did accomplish my stated mission and nothing happened to me. A week ago you couldn’t have paid me to insert myself into that situation. K has been a valuable friend as she knows my boundaries and is more than willing to be there whenever I need her. Lesson learned: I can tolerate what I most fear, even if I have to have a friend walk me through the process. I am still not capable of doing these things alone; having someone with me allows me to concentrate on my continued conversation and ignore the people. I did not have a panic attack.

Afterwards, I invited her back to my house where we talked for about an hour before she had some things she needed to attend to. This is the first time I have let anyone into my home since that fated night. All in all, I feel as though I making progress as far as my isolation goes. Now I have something to talk about when I go to group later this morning.©2009

More Baby Steps

I have to start by saying that Friday afternoon, when I got home from going to Starbucks with K, I had an uneventful evening at home. I was not anywhere close to being suicidal as I sat in my house at home all alone and my depression did not seem to be as severe. I actually felt somewhat content. I am sure it all had to do with the fact that I got out of my house and went somewhere with an understanding friend where we just talked about normal stuff for two hours—what a difference 24 hours can make.

Well, I must be on the good vibrations roll this weekend. Friday, when I got home from coffee with K, I called my other friend A (who provided me with all those safety gadgets for walking late at night). Due to my limited mobility right now, I asked her if I could go grocery shopping with her the next time she went. She mentioned that she was planning to go Saturday around 1100 and she said she would be happy to take me along.

As it approached 1100, I began to feel the anxiety rising. I had not been inside a grocery store since I egged those patrol cars three weeks ago. I was not sure how I was going to deal with all of the people and noise. When A came to pick me up, I was somewhat calmer because I knew I could step outside the store if need be. It was good to see her again. I have never gone grocery shopping with a friend before. In addition, pushing the cart gave me more stability than my cane since I could hold onto it with both hands (no, and that is an emphatic no, I am not got to get a walker!). I was doing pretty well as we traipsed through the aisles until I forgot something and had to go all the way back to the beginning and retrieve it. I was alone, faced a slew of oncoming people, and had a mini-freak out session, sorta like a “deer-in-the-headlamps” experience. I just grabbed the cart, stood still and closed my eyes and took some deep breathes and just concentrating on standing outside in the sunshine. Well, it worked and I did not have to actually leave the store.

I found A and we were ready to check out. I was in a single file at the checkout lane, but I went first and gave some distance to the woman in front of me—talking with A helped keep my mind in the moment. The next thing I knew, we were back in her car riding home where she helped me carry in my groceries. I really enjoyed myself.

Between getting coffee with K on Friday, and spending time with A at the grocery store on Saturday, it represented the first two occasions when I got out of my house to do something with other people that also involved going to places where other people would be. It was not as bad as I thought it could be. Yesterday, after getting home from the grocery store, I felt content yet again. I had set a goal and followed through on it. The rest of the day went smoothly, and when nightfall came, the most fragile time for me when I am in my house all alone, it was not so daunting.

My severe depression seems to be abating somewhat. I don't think it's solely attributable to the Lexapro I just started taking; in fact, I think it has more to do with the decrease in my isolation.  I got 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep last night. I went to sleep at 2300 and rose at 0300, so it still makes for a long day ahead of me, but I felt rested when I awoke. So, today is Sunday, the day I used to go to church. Nevertheless, that is not going to happen today. I am still not ready to go, and I am not sure I want to anymore ever since I got that comment from Sharon on one of my previous posts. I have to ask myself, does everyone there judge me the same way? Do they all think that I am a fraud? I have to keep reminding myself that her comment only represents one opinion from one person and I do not have to accept it, but I cannot help but wonder if others feel the same way. No, I am not ready to face them and all their questions, aside from the fact that it will be a room filled with people (albeit a small number, but people nonetheless). Right now, I’m just please with my baby steps forward.©2009

I Miss My Church

Gosh, today is absolutely beautiful outside. It’s 64˚. The sun is shining brightly with a piercing blue sky. I’m out here on my front porch just listening to the acorns pelt my roof and driveway (yeah, I know I should be out there sweeping them—they’re as dangerous as ball bearings as you try to walk among them. Here it is two weeks into November and only now the leaves are starting to turn.). There must be some truth about the sun’s effects on depression. I always feel more peaceful sitting out here, even with the noise of the steady traffic. If only I got suicidal during the daytime. The first couple of times I felt suicidal after I came home from the psych ward, I tried to retreat from inside my house to the porch, but the darkness was still around me. It’s a shame that my porch is only a safe haven for me during the day.

I’ve been out here most of the morning and afternoon. This morning I watched my church parking lot fill with cars. This whole issue about going back to church really has me confused. I want so badly to attend, but I still cannot deal with all of the people and the eventual greetings and questions. How I wish I could sneak in where no one would see me.

Even before my world came tumbling down around me one month ago, I had already begun to isolate. I’d still attend church, but I started planning my entrance just around the time praise & worship had begun. Most didn’t see me as the doors are on the side. They sat in front of the doors, so I wasn’t immediately noticed when I’d take my usual seat. Then I began the habit of leaving the building immediately after the service was over to avoid everyone. The last time I even sat further in the back to make the getaway a little faster.

There is a row of chairs right by the door I always use, but there are a couple of folks that sit there. I cannot sit next to anyone. If I sit back too far, it just takes that much longer to get away. No, I’m not ready to go back my church. So, here I sit on my porch watching my church to which I so much want to return.©2009 (continued above...)

Outpatient Therapy, Day 7, the Gift Bag at My Door, & My Attempt at “Radical Acceptance”

I do not have much to say about today’s session. The therapist is concerned that I am not eating except a small snack to take with my Geodon. She is also concerned about my insomnia. I did not have much to share. Not much had changed from Wednesday, but I was able to report that I was not having any suicidal ideation Thursday night. Very depressed, yes, but I was able to leave it at that. She pointedly asked me if I could remain safe through the weekend and I could only tell her that I have demonstrated successfully one tool, and that was all I could promise her. I also told her that my psychiatrist has requested me to call him for a check-in call on Saturday and Sunday. She seemed rather pleased with that.

In actuality, my blogging has actually helped me with the ideation Thursday night. I spent a good deal of time writing, reading others’ blogs, and keeping up with my LGBTQ-oriented Facebook account (OK, a translation for you straight folks: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgendered, Queer/Questioning), along with my Twitter feeds.

Something weird happened at break. One of the folks in my small group came up to me and wanted to know why I ignored her after trying to say hi two times. I had to honestly tell her that I really had not noticed her (remember me; I am all about blinders around other people). She started crying and I did not what the hell to do as she did this in front of everyone. Then everyone stared at me. Well, I am sorry that I must have hurt her feelings (I can recognize that from classic BPD symptoms), but I am not responsible for her feelings, only my own. I felt, with everyone staring at me, that I at least had to apologize. I really didn’t want to have to interact with her at all, but what was I to do? It is not as if I go around intentionally trying to hurt someone, or be rude or uncaring. I just simply want to be left alone. Soon enough, break was over so I went inside where both groups join and found my seat on the far wall. I also asked the therapist if I could crack open the emergency door right beside me in case I had to leave the room (I do not want to make a spectacle of getting up and walking by everyone to leave through the normal door). She said that was fine (no alarm attached to the door)

I came home and found this gift bag by my front door inside my porch. Curiously, I picked it up and brought it inside. The attached note said, “For your walks around the neighbourhood…a few things I thought would come in handy.” It was signed from the only church member (outside of my pastor and his wife) that I had been relatively honest with about some things. Evidently she has been reading my blog and noticed my entries concerning with my dissociative states while walking or driving. Inside the bag was some pretty neat stuff. It contained an atlas with very detailed set of maps of my city along with a street index finder. I found my house (conveniently already marked with an icon as there is a large city fire department up at the corner. Nevertheless, I am going to put an X right where my house is anyway because with a past dissociation, the fire department’s presence did not mean anything to me. I’ve even post-noted my relevant pages). It also marks subdivisions and schools—things I pass by on a regular basis. In addition, there was a device with a red blinking LED visible to one km with a range of 180˚. It came with a strap and three batteries. I can attach this to myself to make me visible when I take my late-night walks. There was also an LED pen light with a magnifier lens that only weighs 38g and has a metal clip attachment. The last thing in the bag thrilled me to no end—a new tool. This seven-in-one tool is only 12cm long. Get this—it contains an LED light, compass, thermometer, clock, safety whistle, safety mirror and a 2X magnifier. It comes with a lanyard I can wear around my neck. Now I can be all decked out in LED!

OK, time for an honest reality check here—my perception vs. my reality. This person does want to be close to me—not because of the gifts, but because of the intentions behind them. I wrote her a long email thanking her (I did not feel prepared enough to actually talk with her at that point). In the same email, I told her everything. I even attached two documents on bipolar and borderline personality disorders to help her understand the effects these have on me. She responded with such a kind email; it gave me some contact with another person who now knew me the way I wanted her to know me—no pretence about anything. She let me know that she clearly knew what my boundaries were and that she was not going to be in my face, but essentially would let me make any contact. Fearing that I would lapse into my normative state of isolation, I told her that it was OK to call me, but if I felt I was not capable to talk, she could leave me a vm. I was OK with that, so after reading the email, I actually felt better prepared to call her. I am trying so very hard to reach out, but I can only take baby steps. I fear rejection; I fear abandonment.

Now, onto my next hurdle—trying to use “radical acceptance.” The principles are 1) solve the problem, or, 2) change how you feel about the problem, or 3) stay miserable, or 4) accept the problem. It takes away the “judgements” and removes the “shoulds.”

The hurdle—all of the anger and resentment I have felt toward my pastor for placing the 911 call and coming by the house to show the police my text message. My perception? That he was disappointed with me, angry because I did not call first and ask for prayer before I got in that state, and that he would think less of me. Therefore, I took a very deep breath and wrote down everything I wanted to say before I called him so I could focus and concentrate on what I really wanted to say.

I called his house and thankfully, he answered. I am not really sure what I would have said if his wife had picked up instead…I wasn’t prepared for that scenario. I told him who I was not knowing if he would recognize my voice. Then I told him I had something to say and would he listen to me without interrupting me until I was done. I asked him if he would meet me because there were some things that I needed to say to him alone, that we could meet in a public venue of his choosing as long as I would not be seen as making a spectacle of myself if I got emotional, and it had to be a place where I could smoke (damn these city ordinances banning smoking to even include many outside venues). We settled on standing in the church parking lot (right across the street from me) for this Tuesday at 1630. When I finished what I said, he asked if he could say a few things. I hesitated momentarily—this wasn’t a planned two-way conversation. I wanted to say what I had to say, set the time and place and get off the phone, but I ended up saying OK. He helped fill in some more of the blanks. Evidently there were already three or four police cruisers and the EMS there across the street in the church parking lot before he arrived (I had been told earlier by one of the first responder cops that they parked there with no lights flashing on purpose so as not to alert me in case it was a situation of “suicide by cop”). The cops asked him who he was and he explained that he had placed the 911 call as a result of my text message. They asked to see the text message, but they would not let him cross the street to my house at any point. He told me that the only reason why he came over was that he was very concerned and worried about me. He said he had tried to call me after receiving the text message and I did not answer. Again, the problem with my perception vs. reality.

Am I ready for this conversation? I do not know. I have to find a way to let this anger and resentment go. While it is by no means my only trigger, I have obsessed over this a lot—primarily because I have always respected him. He is a WYSIWYG (what you see is what you get for you non-computer geeks) kind of guy—shoots straight from the hip with no guile. From the very beginning, he has accepted the fact that I am a lesbian and never has judged me. I owe him the same respect.

Well, I still have two days to process this. I am also going to discuss during my group therapy session on Monday. I also have my second appointment with my individual therapist on Monday afternoon as well. My question is am I sufficiently prepared to handle this type of conversation at this point so soon after everything has happened? I need to protect myself and not set myself up for failure. I am trying so hard to reach a point in my life where everything is in balance, but I have to put my needs first—a concept that never existed in my “I don’t give a damn” mode.©2009

Appt with Psychiatrist Week 3

My calendar said that we had our second appointment on the 29th, but I don’t remember that one. I can tell my meds have changed because I found his instruction sheet. He always writes everything out because he knows I may not remember. This visit was on 05 November.

My meds have changed again. Now my Geodon has changed from 240mg at bedtime to also include taking an 80mg dose in the morning along with a new drug called Provigil @ 200mg in the morning to help sharpen my focus and concentration. Its primary use is for the treatment of narcolepsy, shift work sleep disorder and excessive daytime sleepiness associated with obstructive sleep apnea. Other potentially effective, but similarly unapproved targets include the treatment of depression, schizophrenia, and disease-related fatigue. I guess my disease-related fatigue is the insomnia due to the depression

His primary concern is that I can keep myself safe. He has always been the only one with whom I’ve been able to be completely honest. I have been seeing him since June, 2000 when I was first diagnosed with BP (BPD didn’t become diagnosed until 2005 after my previous attempt at suicide). Aside from wanting to keep me safe, he is very concerned over my lack of sleep. He told me that I couldn’t expect to see measurable progress until I can overcome the insomnia. He’s also concerned about my weight loss. I’ve lost eight pounds since 28 October because I’m not eating. The only thing I eat is a small snack when I take my two doses of Geodon because it has to be absorbed with food.

Today he increased my Lamictal to 200mg QD. My short-term goals are 1) work on severe depression with medication changes as needed, 2) directly deal with my persistent suicide ideation as depression lessens and while my coping skills are still effective, 3) work on my rage issues as my depression lessens, and 4) work on my isolation as the depression lessens. He knows I am in the OP Therapy program Mon-Wed-Fri, so I am to call his office on Tuesdays and Thursdays and request a call back so he can check in with me. He also wants me to call his service on Saturdays and Sundays for the same purpose. He wants to keep me safe, and feels with this constant monitoring, if needed, he can make a med change on the fly. I couldn’t ask for a better psychiatrist. He gets me. And he said that once my bipolar balances out, he wants to work on my borderline personality disorder. He is more than just a psychiatrist. The time he spends with me and what we talk about is better than any individual therapist I’ve ever seen. I’m very grateful that the circumstances back in 2000 brought us together.©2009

For Sharon—

Sharon, from the comment you made to my post below, I know you must feel that you mean well by passing along “the perfect scripture” and to remind me that the people at the church are my friends. However, while on the surface everyone is nice—and I acknowledge that they have been there when I have needed them during trying times by praying for me—as soon as I walk out the door, that’s it. Yes, A and I actually had lunch the Thursday before my debacle; she brought me my cell phone before I was transferred to the psych ward, and has texted me a couple of times since (which I have patently refused to respond). D did call once after I missed the second service wondering if I was OK or sick, or something; and no, I did not return her call either.

It’s not that I believe they don’t care. I believe there is an intrinsic obligation from Godly Christians to feel they “ought” to care because it is their duty. There is no friendship base there. There is no level playing field. I have nothing in common with anyone. I am the only single, queer, mental case of the lot. How could anyone possible begin to relate to me—to be able to truly “get it?” A friend is someone who is there no matter what whenever you need them. And I can’t operate with just one friend because, realistically speaking, one person may not be able to be “there” due to his or her own personal obligations at that time. Everyone at the church is married and has (or will be having) children. They are all wrapped up in their own lives and obligations. I am a mere blip on the radar screen. With the exception of A and D, there has never been any interaction outside of church (and those were limited at best and the one time A and I actually made plans, I had to initiate the action—something that I am extremely uncomfortable doing). OK, yes, A was truly there when I needed her as she did bring me my cell phone. But as with all of the couples, my only down time is after 1900 on weekdays and weekends—the time they all spend with their spouses/family. I feel as though I am an intruder taking away from their time together. And I don’t want to be the fifth wheel, either—easily the situation since I am the only single person there.

There are just too many people at the church right now. When I walk through those doors, I feel paralyzed for fear that someone will speak to me. I have felt, crossing that threshold of just wanting to stand there and quietly walk out the door, hoping that no one notices me. I can’t be myself, so I put on my façade and pretend that all is well. What should I say? That I am full of uncontrollable rage; don’t forget that I am queer and missing being a part of that community I so desperately want to belong; oh yeah, and by the way, I tried to commit suicide—and most likely will again (it’s all I think about. But have no fear, I will not make the same mistake I did last time)? I don’t want to have scripture quoted to me; I don’t want to be prayed for. I just want to be left alone. You see, that is the conundrum that bipolar and borderline personality persons face. I ache so much for contact, yet at the same time, I am repulsed by it. I can’t walk into a room full of people without feeling so full of fear and anxiety. I don’t expect you, or any of the others to understand that.

So, that brings everything back full circle. No one at the church can possibly understand what I am going through, much less know who the real “me” is. All interactions have been and would continue to be quite superficial at best. I am tired of the façade I must present every single Sunday. Sure, I let my hair down when I was facing that strike, being laid off, and that Six Sigma training I was terrified of taking—but those issues in and of themselves are also superficial. I won’t share anything about who Alix really is for fear that I will become someone to avoid so that they don’t have to deal with my “issues.” Then when that happens, everything has boiled to the surface and, once again, I will see their subtle detachment slowly begin to occur as I have seen with other people to whom I have attempted to reach out over the years of my life. Very simply put, I am tired of the rollercoaster ride—my life such as it is. I’m done with it all.

Surprised as I am, I appreciate the time you took to make the comment. I am not trying to trivialize your effort, but the simplistic approach of dashing off a scripture and telling me of course that I still have a group of friends only validates my perceptions, hence this post.©2009

Despair of Loneliness

Today is another off day for me. I actually set a goal last night. Laundry. Well, I’ve done that, along with moving all my summer clothes to my armoire. Winter, what a dreary thought. I hate the fact that we go back to standard time zone on 01 November. Crap, that’s this Sunday. Sunshine is important to me. There are periods of time when I will spend huge gaps of time on my front porch. Before I started working for my current company, I also worked from home. I can’t tell you the advantages of being able to work from home. Think about it: dress code (I am always in a tee w/sweatpants and barefoot), I can smoke (which probably explains why I am up to two packs a day), and talk about multitasking— I can pop in a load of laundry during the day, etc.. Anyway, at my old job, I did not have a company-paid business landline coming into my home. So, I snaked a patch cable under my office window that looks out onto my porch. I’d take my laptop, cordless phone and cell and just sit out there all day. It was wonderful. Whenever I had to unmute my phone during a conference call, the damn birds or a siren passing by would always give me away, but no one ever made a big deal about it. Hell, the birds were a pale intrusion compared to some assholes who worked from home and had constant barking dogs or a damn baby shrieking in the background.

I digress. I don’t even want to talk about work while I am on medical disability leave (for how long has yet to be determined). Getting back to today. It’s absolutely beautiful outside. Do I go anywhere? No. I can’t think of any place to go. I have no friends I can call up with whom I can make plans. I had one friend with whom I thought I could be upfront about my mood swings and I made the huge mistake of admitting to her during my last crisis earlier that afternoon that I was so depressed that I was feeling suicidal. BIG MISTAKE. She started crying and going on and on about how she couldn’t bear to lose me; think about all the people I’d be leaving behind who love me and care about me (I had no idea who she was talking about); how could I possibly do that to everyone. She never got it that she was my only friend). Then she told me that she wasn’t leaving me alone that day. Boy did that piss me off. As I got out of her car I told her that she could sit in my driveway all damn day, but she sure as fuck wasn’t coming into my house. Ultimately she calmed down and I finally got her to leave. (She was the one I thought had called 911 later that night). Then, not too much later she texted me and wanted to make sure that I was still OK, followed by a phone call which I did not answer. I texted her in all caps to leave me the fuck alone and not call back. Needless to say, I ended up with a bunch of texts and missed call entries that I had to delete.

I have quit going to my church (I’ve now missed three services in a row—something I’ve never done). One person had called and left a vm the other week that I just deleted. (What is nice about having an actual answering machine at home vs having your vm as part of your landline package is that you can screen your calls.) But, no one ever calls me. I’m serious. I have no friends. I had to use that one friend as part of my “safety list” upon discharge from the psych hospital to indicate that I had a support system. I actually used her and one person I knew at the church. I had to put in at least two names and phone numbers (no, they didn’t bother to call them to verify it; otherwise, I imagine one or both would have tried to contact me specifically about receiving that type of call). It’s ironic that, after three weeks now, she pinged me on my cell only twice (which I ignored) and hit my facebook account once (and I immediately blocked her). She actually hasn’t tried to call me. I hope she got the message finally. I don’t want someone around who feels they have to "fix" me.

So I am sitting on my couch once again (now listening to U2, the Stones and Jethro Tull) and there is absolutely no one I can call with whom I can talk. No one. I never understood just how much loneliness could hurt. I don’t have to worry about intentionally isolating myself. There is no one from which to isolate. And the most desolate part of all of this is that I have been like this for so long. Even looking at my past blog entries, I can see going back to April 2007 I made this entry.  So here I sit. All alone. Why bother?©2009

Why Bother?

I can tell that I’m circling the drain again. Friday has finally come. What a horrible week it has been. Sometimes I absolutely love what I do—the part about connecting with my clients—that’s the best, when it’s one-on-one. They know that I will always go to bat for them and do everything in my power to give them the best service that I can—the highlight of my day.

I have been waiting for Friday since I woke up Monday morning. Pretty sad state of affairs.

I am censoring myself less and less in my blog. Not that I ever censored any topic, but I was always careful of the language I used. I try to be respectful when I write something that someone might actually take the time to read. Our language is chock-full of appropriate choices and not having to resort to epithets, but sometimes I plain don’t fucking care what I write when I get in this space.

Language is a good thermometer of someone’s faculties. I’d like to think that my vocabulary was worthy of at least a twelfth grade read, yet I often feel compelled to be rather base in my approach. No, it’s not because I’m a good girl and I was taught that nice girls don’t talk like that (fuck whoever came up with that inane saying), I just prefer to use what seasoning is needed only at the appropriate times so as not to abuse the effect.

One more of my week gone out of my life. Nothing accomplished. I left no fingerprints anywhere. So, I keep coming back to the same age-old question: why bother to press onward? Why put myself through this misery day after day? Why wrestle with these emotions and demons? Why put myself through this continuous cycle of questions about myself when I can’t even come up with the damn answers anymore? There is a part of me deep down that probably knows where I could go to get the answers that might buy me some peace, albeit temporarily. But, therein lies the biggest question of it all. I’m not even sure of what is real any more. Are my beliefs real? Or are they a subset of a system of beliefs that I’ve let sway me?

What do I know for real? That I live alone, that there is no one in my life, that I have no friends, and there isn’t one damned person in this godforsaken world who gives a fucking damn about me. So, again I pose the question: why the fuck bother?©2009

What's The Point?

I don’t even know why I bother with anything anymore. I’m getting so sick of always having to be the one who makes the calls, sends the birthday cards or other type of “thinking about you” type of cards. With the exception of only one other person in my life, my one friend, no one ever calls me.

After not hearing from my son for almost a month now (we used to talk2-3 times/week for about an hour each), I finally decided to call him. It was such a non call. Hell, he’s 26 and lives in Mesa in the same city as his father. All he talks about is how much he and his father gets together, how much his father supported his endeavors with the band. I’m just second banana these days. He dropped a bombshell on me by telling me his is no longer in the band, something he has, to date, invested all of his time and money. I never knew him to be happier. I asked him what happened and he said it was a serious of things and now they are looking for a new bass player. I asked him exactly what happened and he just repeated the same thing, so I said, “Is that all you’re going to tell me?” and he that was pretty much it. I was bothered by the fact that he had just plain quit calling me all of a sudden, and now he just doesn’t want to talk to me about the one most important thing in his life. So, I guess I’ve just been trivialized down to just a “somebody.” I’m tied of dealing with the way he treats me. I figure, I called him after not hearing from him for a month and now he won’t talk to me. Sounds too much like how the rest of my family treats me…like I don’t count. My son never even bothers to ever take the time to actually ask me how I am doing when we do talk, or take any interest in me whatsoever. Well, I’m not going to intrude in where I’m not wanted. I’ve pretty much already resigned myself to not having any family to count on, reply upon, or even pretty much to have a relationship with.

So much for being manic. That cycle lasted just over 36 hours. Now I’m downward spiraling again. You know, to just be plain blunt, I am pretty fed up with the way everyone treats me. I just seem to be an after thought with everyone. About the only one I can count on is myself. It’s ironic, if and when I do decide to end it all, there won’t be one fucking person that I would have made a difference enough to that would actually give a damn that I am no longer around. So what’s the point in going on. I hate my life, because I don’t have one. I work 10-12 hours a day alone in my home, and then just gravitate to another room in my house. I never have any plans to do stuff with anyone. I just sit home and stare at these four fucking walls. Is that the way my life is to be? Because that’s not what I call having a life. With the exception of one other person, I really don’t have any friends. There is no one for me to even call to make plans with. And my concept of family has disappeared.

I am damn tired of always being all alone. I’m just stuck with all these stupid thoughts in my head. It’s a pretty sad state affairs to realize that I don’t make a difference to anyone. I haven’t made one single contributing effect on anyone’s lives that I can remember. So, what’s the point of even dealing with others.

Went to church today. Snuck in right after the service opened up and scooted out the door before anyone could flag me down. Hell, if anyone was so damn interested, why the hell don’t they just pick up their fucking phone and call me? I missed last Sunday and no one bothered to even ask why. Well, I take that back, my pastor’s wife texted me just wondering where I had been and hoped I was doing OK.

I have no one to lean on, no one in my corner, no one who cares. And I’ve reached the point where I no longer give a damn. If I mattered to someone, I’d know it. And I don’t.

When I get into conversations with people about suicide, those who have never been in that space, can’t comprehend the multitude of reasons why someone would resort to that. They always seem to take a selfish stand. They always comment on how their actions were selfish because of what their actions did to everyone else. Well, fuck everyone else. It isn’t about them, it’s all about the person who is in that space.

Why have a seriously contemplated suicide before? There isn’t one exact answer, but it basically boils down to not caring about anything any more. I’m sick and tired of living this stupid life, such that it is. I really just don’t see the point of wrestling with these emotions any more. Nothing is ever going to get better; nothing is ever going to change. Hell, I’m 52. I can certainly see the handwriting on the walls. Nothing has changed for far too many years. The last time I recall actually being happy with my life was when I was in a relationship with someone. I wasn’t alone ad I had someone I could share my life with. That’s all gone now.

Having God in my life should be sufficient enough for me, but right now, that just doesn’t seem to fill that needed hole. All I’ve thought about today was just chucking my relationship with God and returning back to my old life. I already know that the two are mutually exclusive. I can’t imagine that God would want me to be as miserable and alone as I am, but there is nothing he can do about that, unless the bible is re-written removing any references to my life being an abomination before him.

I question everything in my life right now: what’s important, what counts, what makes the difference. I’m just so tired of being all alone with no one with which to share my life. No one to come home to. No one to make plans with, being with one person who knows me better than anyone else. Face it, I’m damaged goods. Who in hell would want to be saddled with someone like me anyway. My BP has become all-consuming and I am no longer capable of riding out these storms. And I would have to be a rapid cycler. At least if my cycles would last two-to-three weeks at a time, I could settle into a groove, but this time around he BP is all off the map.

Even going to church today meant nothing to me. The ironic thing is the topic the pastor was preaching could have been specifically for me considering what I’ve been wrestling with for the last four-six weeks, but the scripture references really didn’t do much for me. After we finished praise & worship, which is such a special part of the service for me, I just sat down and stared ahead counting down the time when I could get back home. And here I sit, back inside my four walls staring at nothing.

So, why bother any more? What’s the fucking point? ©2009

Suicide Watch #1

Please note, this carving action discussed in my earlier post was not a harbinger of things to come. As with past attempts of suicide, I would never cut my wrist. I know many folks who’ve survived. When I decide to end it all, I’m not going to simply OD on pills (note to self, I have well more than is needed to finishing it all off (which can theoretically be intervened with forcing that patient to down activated charcoal which causes many of the toxins to be immediately absorbed.).

No, this time, I a plan that is fool-proof (once before I was faced with these options and saw the red flag for what it was and called my physician which resulted in my immediate confinement to a psych ward). I’ve obtained injectable potassium chloride (KCl) which is third component of lethal injection (followed by Sodium Thiopental, a short-acting barbiturate, and then Pancuronium Bromide, a paralytic agent). I have also horded injectable insulin. Both of these drugs will certainly allow me to obtain the results I desire…with no turning back allowed. The upside is, if I prep everything just so because of the sudden reaction to the KCl and insulin, these drugs would not show up on a standard tox report if I were ever posted. No suicide action = life insurance policy for my son.


My suicide ideation is becoming a finely-honed. When the time does come, Ill be ready go. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have severed all ties with the gay community and my family. My answering machine at home is off and I’ve disabled the vm feature on my cell. I’ve never had someone just pop over to my house; I only get one call from a friend of mine (who knows I am entering into this BP zone) from time to time. I work from my home office. Frankly, initially no one will miss me. My son hardly calls anymore, and since I had left the gay community, I have no strong social networking base. I could be dead for a week before someone would notice. That is what I am shooting for. No one will miss me except for one friend who had seen me through thick and thin this year. Yet, despite her many pleas to call her whenever I hit this crisis mode, I won’t. What folks don’t realize is that once your mind is made up there is no turning back. And the last thing I want to do is argue the unarguable.


It appears as though I am already embracing the task to end my life. I know in my heart that I can no longer handle the roller coaster ride and the abject despair and loneliness. This time I am going to be bold and set the motion is in play, whenever that moment comes to pass.©2009

9 Days In the Hole

Well, it’s been 9 days since I’ve been off my meds. Oh, yeah, the red flags are just awaving’. At first thought I’d bounce right into a manic phase, but that was short-lived. I am in a persistent mixed-state for the time being. The is the horrible catch-22 of BP. Racing thoughts accompanied by utter desolation. My sleep cycle hasn’t been affected except by voluntary action on my part. Late in the evening, I grow weary and should take the opportunity to just call it a day. However, I push back the eventual bedtime farther and farther back. It’s as if I don’t want to surrender even when I can barely keep my eyes open. I finally crashed at 0200 this morning and awoke at 0830 feeling sluggish and blurry. Certainly not refreshed. And, with me, once I’m awake, I’m outta bed. No snuggling in for me.

So, it’s Sunday morning. My day to go to church. I go because I need it for myself, but I’ve grown weary of having to put on my Ms Feelgood façade and interact. I will arrive about 5 minutes after the service should have started, but sometimes I am caught by surprise. The pastor doesn’t always start on time, and then sometimes I am forced to actually say something to someone. I wonder just how adept I will be at scooting out the door afterwards in my attempt to escape yet another interaction ordeal. I can’t, in all good conscience, be rude as I do care for these folks. However, they just don’t understand how badly I have to escape even 5 minutes of dealing with someone else. (well, I avoided Church altogether this morning. I had forgotten that today was their Fall Picnic. Too many people to deal with and I am so far out of my social skills that it would only create too much anxiety for me to actually socialize for 1.5-2.0 hours).

I should have seen the warning signs even back then. I was self-mutilating back then in my own attempt to mask the incredible pain I was feeling. And that time I really did quite a number on my arms I Am Bipolar, So Who Am I? I simple could not wrap my head around the desolation that led to self-mutilation. The pain I was experiencing was so very real, yet couldn’t handle it. The upside to self-mutilation allowed me to deflect the overwhelming, abject pain stemming from my emotional pain. Looking up-front to the horrific carvings, my mind no longer fixated on the emotional pain I could not understand and process.

My doctor raised a red flag of concern and I wouldn’t discuss it, so he quietly slipped me a script for an ant-depressive med (well before being diagnosed with BP). Little did he know that the anti-depressant would only open yet another opportunity to catapult me into my manic state) and upgraded my tetanus vaccine.
 I feel fortunate that my whole approach to this carving process was anal-retentive as it was, with my medical background for some years before, I searched and found all of the sterile scalpel blades and holders that I had accumulated over the years. My initial though process was that these blades would make excellent exacto blades. The day I was compelled to carve on my arms (winter time…long sleeves), these were the first instruments I sought out. Mean, face it, these blades (#11 and #15 specifically). Even a that moment of insanity, I chose a solution with minimal side-effects (e.g, no infections!).

I still have acute reflections of that whole process. I’d laid out the various blades still wrapped in their sterile wrapper, took of my shirt (heaven forbid I get one bloody) and prepped all of my forearms. You still see the hesitation marks that slowly built upon a level of determination to begin slicing and dicing. They were in parallel lines first, then went back to cut back crossing those brand new cuts now from a perpendicular fashion…I knew that these would be deep and sure. It simply did not phase me to see so much of my own blood. It was almost all I could to do to keep up with the pooling of blood.  In order to have a sense of control over this horrific direction I was headed. I called my then-counselor and asked her to come over my home so I could get rid of my instruments of destruction. I explained that my house had to a free-zone for me. Thus ending my illustrious history of the self-mutilation.©2009

Unimagined Sense of Loss

I sit here, unable to sleep even though I need to get up at the crack of dawn because I am so far behind in my work. And all of sudden I am hit by such a profound sense of loss... At the end of the day, I can take stock in my life and it really adds up to one big zero. I guess I’m not getting to experience the manic phase after all. Seems as though I am sliding right into the pits. It’s actually a mixed-phase for me. I can’t sleep, yet the wholly encompassing envelope of loneliness engulfs me, while at the same time of fighting off all these racing thoughts that never amount to anything. It’s as if my brain has been stuck in 11th gear with nowhere to go. The utter randomness of the racing thoughts are probably most disconcerting. It’s absolutely amazing that I can be in a room filled with people I know and still feel so estranged.

I feel that when I am in a room of people, especially those with whom I have a relationship of sorts, I am always on the outside looking in. I feel invisible. This is the beginning of my downward spiral, and I never know each time just how bad it will get. Suffice it to say, that now I am in this space, I will do nothing to extricate myself from it. I will only continue to burrow further down, keeping everyone at arm’s length. My rather cognizant brain has the capacity to tell myself that I can remove myself from this environment by choosing to engage with those around me. But, the sad fact is that there just isn’t anyone out there with whom I can engage. I really do not have a real friendship base.

The walls slowly begin to close in; my options slowly cease. I am left with nothing but the four walls of my house. Is this what I really have to look forward to as my life as I know it? I don’t know if I can survive my life like this one more time. I’ve been in this spot before and the solutions presented then to help me crawl up to the land of the living really didn’t offer me much hope. The majority of me is quite content to just sit in my four walls and never venture outside or interact with anyone else. And, at the same time, that realization causes me so much emotional pain. To feel all alone can be the most frightening feeling. Every day I find myself just slipping a little further from reality. My reality is what is inside these four walls and nothing else.

I feel myself slowly shutting down—distancing myself from everything. My answering machine is off; my cell phone vm is disabled. I have effectively begun to build my walls where I can keep everyone out. I have completely cut myself off from my family of origin to even include my son. I just simply want to be left alone. I find it to be quite an oxymoron. When there are those who are hurting at church, it’s all I can do to just want to take them into my arms and show them God’s love. In those moments, I want to give of myself to help someone else.

But my disease is invisible. No one can perceive the profound loss and sadness I feel. No one understands bipolar for all its implications and trappings. I just want so much for someone to see the pain I feel and reach out to me, but part of the façade is to never let anyone in. Catch-22. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

Maybe I’m just a phony. Maybe I really don’t have anything to offer someone who is hurting. I want to, but would it ever be received? As I sit here tonight, I feel hopeless, unable to help myself, unable to help anyone else, and most importantly, totally unable and unwilling to receive anything from someone else. What can they offer me? No one knows the dark corners of my mind, and the room dims with every growing minute.©2009

A Stupid Decision, Yet a Decision Nonetheless

Well, I have done the unthinkable yet again. I’ve had to wean myself off all of my bipolar medication. I have lived with this disease for more years than I care to remember; I know full well what the upcoming consequences will be. I will begin rapid cycling once again. To tell you the truth, I’ve missed the manic highs. No one seems to get that. I feel on top of the world. I feel like I can do anything. And sleep? Who needs it? I am always at my creative and productive best while manic. Everything seems so perfect.

Nevertheless, not too far away is the downward spiral that, for me, is catastrophic. We’re not talking about just dipping down to a depressive state. For me, I become totally intractable. I cannot function—the world ceases to exist. I pull so far inward that I see nothing that is going on around me. I completely disconnect from the outside world. While my job performance is at its peak while manic, the destructive forces that drive me when I hit rock bottom can seriously threaten my job.

Do I care? Certainly not when I am in this state. I lose all hope; I withdraw from everything completely. Last night I took the last doses I had left. I knew this was upon the horizon; I did not stop suddenly. I carefully measured out the dosings starting six weeks ago and carefully began weaning myself slowly. It was the best of choices knowing that I only had so much medicine left.

Medical insurance? Sure, I am covered through my employer. Once I meet the deductible, it’s a great policy—it covers 90% of most everything. The prescription part of my plan kicks in and I can obtain my medications at a reasonable rate. The only kicker here is that damned deductible. Mine is $1150. I am a very healthy person. I’ve had no need to see my own medical doctor in almost two years. Since I am so healthy, I will never meet the deductible. The nasty part is that I receive no discounts or caps on my prescriptions until that deductible is met. Just one of the three medications I take costs $800 for a 90-day supply. I simply don’t have that. Sure, one could argue that if I’d just pay the at-cost price of my medications at the beginning of the year, the deductible will be met, but the total for the three meds for a 90-day supply is close to $1800…and get this…it’s not like they charge me full price until I hit that $1150 ceiling and then start capping the remaining scripts left when I first send them in. I have to shell out the full at-cost price. Even if I sent then in separately, no one drug costs the $1150 deductible, so as long as there is any amount remaining towards my unmet deductible, I will be charged the full price. So, yeah, I have medical insurance, but what good does this policy really do me? I just plain don’t have enough money to shell out for the upfront retail price of the meds.

I’ve not even bothered to see my shrink. I already know what he is going to say to me—trust me, been there, done that. Besides, what’s the point? It’s not as if he’ll be able to do anything about it. Sure, he can give me some samples, but certainly not enough to underwrite all that I need.

So, here I sit just waiting for the cycling to begin. I can tell that I’ve actually started as the levels in my system have slowly decreased when I started weaning six weeks ago. I’m getting by with about fours of sleep each night. Soon enough, there will be no sleep and then I’ll kick into high gear.

And the really cruel function of my bipolar is that I can be in a mixed phase. I can be manic and feel suicidal at the same time. That’s not fair. I should be able to enjoy the manic side for its duration, then just hunker down when the spiraling begins. I’ve already begun withdrawing from everything. I’ve cut myself off from everyone. I turned off the voicemail feature of my cell phone and turned off my answering machine at home. CallerID is such a fantastic feature, isn’t it? The sad part is that I really don’t many calls anyway. Since walking away from the Gay community (discussed many times in previous posts), I’ve left behind my entire social structure. And I don’t have a relationship with my family of origin (think about that phrase—family of origin—I think that phrase was coined at the same time as the phrase “dysfunctional family”).

So, I’m left with pretty much nothing.

Oh, I have a good relationship with the people I know at my church. They have stood right beside me when I have gone through the darkest of hours this year when I was facing potential unemployment. And I know that I could reach out to any one of them if I needed to and they would be right there. But, in reality, everyone at my church are all coupled families. With the exception of one recent arrival, I am the only single person in this church family. While they welcome me with open arms, I feel as I am standing on the sidelines watching. I’m really not a part of everything. They all have their own lives they live and I never interact with any of them outside of church. When I was in the midst of the worst crisis I’d experienced, a few reached out occasionally. Nevertheless, when all is said and done, I’m the one who initiates any of the phone calls. I can’t remember when someone called me up just to say hi. I know they care for me, I really do, but I can’t escape this feeling of a separateness there that exists. I have nothing in common with anyone. There are no shared experiences. They all know that I’m a lesbian, even though I’ve walked away from that life, yet I can’t help but wonder if that might have something to do with it. I feel as though they just can’t possibly understand exactly how walking away from that life utterly took away from everything I knew to be true about myself—everything that defined my identity. It’s ironic. I can be at the church on Sunday and go through all of the motions of the usual greetings and pleasantries, but that’s as far as it goes. They don’t really know who I am. Moreover, I don’t think they have a clue as to how being bipolar defines me. The vast majority of the world looks at it as if it was just a bad case of having a bad hair day. They can’t see its crippling effect on my life.

I will admit that I have played a part in this feeling of isolation. They have home groups twice a month as a potluck gathering on Sunday evenings. For the most part, I couldn’t always go because I would end up staying past my bedtime and altering my carefully scheduled medicine dosing. But, truth be told, on the few occasions I did attend, I felt so out of my element. I would stand apart emotionally watching everyone interact and I just felt like I didn’t belong. I had no common thread with anyone. Moreover, I know that they have no clue that I feel this way. I mean, what would I say?

I know this isolation is a function of being bipolar. And I guess this is how I know I am entering into my crisis stage. It’s so easy for me to isolate. I work from home, so when I get off work, I simply walk out of one room and go into another. Aside from going up to the post office and picking up my mail or going grocery shopping, I can go weeks never leaving my house. I have nowhere to go, no one to visit—my castle without a drawbridge. My church is literally right across the street from me. And I am finding that I am coming through the door later and later just to avoid interacting with anyone, and at the end of the service I just pray I can get out the door without anyone stopping me. I am once again perfecting my façade of “Hi, how are ya doing, I’m fine, it’s great to see you, OK, have a great week, see you next Sunday.” Yeah, I’m beginning to cycle. I can see the signs.

How is it going to show its ugly face this time? How long will I be manic? Will it be a continual mixed-phase process, or will there be defining moments of absolute mania followed by abject despair and pain? There is nothing I can do to prepare myself. The last thing I am going to do is tell anyone about it; the deeper I fall, the more the charming façade when I cannot escape being around others. Yet, I’m not going to let this keep me from going to church (at least I am saying that right now). My purpose for being in church is personal, not social. I have the opportunity to praise and worship God where, during that time, it’s just Him, me, and no one else. I also want to hear the pastor preach. I am always fed by hearing God’s word, and I can always see an application to my life by what is being preached. During the week, I have my own personal time with God throughout the day, when I’m praying or reading His word. Most of the time it’s just the two of us having a continuing conversation. Yet, I still have the need to be in that church on Sundays. The praise and worship segment of the service is so very special to me. I wish they would sing more songs. Everything seems so scripted…4 songs, requests for prayers and praise reports, receiving the offering and the sermon. Sometimes I think the pastor is more time conscious than he should be. I don’t care how long the service lasts. I am there to meet with God. I wish there was more freedom during Praise and Worship. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if the Holy Spirit just wanted to take a service and spin it on its side…would there be room for that? There have been so many times when I just wanted to keep singing my praises.

My eyes are open and I’m gearing up for the battle I’m beginning to fight. While I have some shred of sanity at the moment, dare I wonder how it will end this time. The last time I went off my meds I ended up in the hospital (certainly not voluntarily. Had I refused, it would have been court ordered. That’s just because the person I was living with at the time came home far earlier than she was supposed to and found me unconscious. And I was so close that time in finally succeeding. Waking up in the ER certainly was not part of the bigger picture then).

My living arrangements are different now and are quite conducive to a successful final solution. I live alone. No one ever stops by my house to visit. No one ever calls me. Because I work from home, seeing my car parked in the same position in front of my house for long periods of time would raise no questions. No one has a key to my home. My neighbor has just move out and I am going to make sure I don’t get to know whoever finally does move in. And I don’t know any of my other neighbors. What a perfect situation. My absence will trigger no alarms with anyone. I like the way that sounds.©2009

My Castle Without a Drawbridge

The pain I feel is visceral
It tears at the very fabric of my heart
The loneliness has crept in and surrounded me
Before I had the chance to even sense its presence

The choices I have made for my life
Have always been dictated by some outside force
And in the end I’ve been left holding the bag
While the world spins around me without me

I keep telling myself that I want to be alone
When in fact that couldn’t be further from the truth
The human animal was never designed for isolation
But those are the cards I have been dealt

I am not living my life; I sit on the curb watching it spin around me
I want off this merry-go-round façade that everything is fine
It’s not and I’m too afraid to admit that to myself
If I speak the truth to myself, then all of a sudden it becomes real

I lie in wait of something to come by
Anything that will break me out of this mold
I grow weary of this lie that I call my life
When I can’t even orchestrate its finale

I am tired of being alone
And angry at the choices that put me here
I’ve been forced from the very heart of who I am
For reasons that no longer make any sense

So, in the end I am without companionship
No one to share with who I really am
Instead, I am locked away in this loneliness
My life in a castle without a drawbridge ©2007

The Maze

Circles

Squares
Triangles
Rectangles
Where does it end?
Where does it begin?
I’m bound inside these walls
Walls that bear no end
This one is a circle
Smooth walls
But it only opens up
Another cage
One that also has no end
Long walls, short opening
I am suffocating
There is no light
I can only go by texture
The air is stale
Am I alone in this labyrinth?
I hear absolutely nothing
Isolation deprivation
The walls close in
The circles become smaller
The rectangles become square
The squares become triangles
There are no more openings
No end to this madness
I just sit on the floor and wait
This, too, shall come to en end.
©2007