Involuntary Commitment—Day 1, Part 2, Saturday 10 October, 1000

(...continued from previous post)
The holding facility—unbelievable. They brought me in the back door for all holding patients, rather than through the front door.  There were high fences with security patrolling the back entrance. I am “helped” out of the transport van by two of the ice cream men (the only thing missing in this picture so far was the handcuffs and shackles). After waiting about five minutes after they buzzed their arrival, someone inside finally got around to looking at the security camera feed and released the door lock (I guess retinal scanning technology hadn’t found its way there yet).

I was ushered in like cattle. They all but strip searched me and used a hand-held metal detector (as if I had a Sig Sauer stuck up my ass, puh-lease). I was so hoping they’d scan down to my feet as I have surgical screws in my right ankle. I just wanted to hear the detector go off so I could fuck with them. But, they didn’t scan that low. After all, I was Shoeless Joe Jackson here.

They walked me out into the hallway, pointed to a chair and told me to sit as a nurse’s aide came over to take my vitals. Well, lo and behold, my blood pressure topped out at 228/156. Never having had a history of hypertension, I was thinking that it was most likely situational. I mean, face it, it had been rather stressful up to this point (at least the part that I can remember).

I felt sorry for the nurse practitioner. She actually had to get off her lazy ass and do something about it. She started barking all of these questions at me and I just stared back at her in return and said nothing. The next thing I knew, someone was handing me two white pills. I told them I wasn’t going to take a damn thing until I saw them bring me the medicine over still in their own individual blister packs so I could see what the name of the medicine they were giving me. Then I demanded to read a print out about the medication to learn of its indications, contra-indications and side effects. Hell, up to this point, as far as I knew, no one had bothered to take a history on me and as far as I was concerned, they had no earthly idea of what medications I was already taking. Do I look stupid enough to blindly take 2 faceless white pills from someone who would much rather be somewhere else flexing their biceps with beer cans?

Once satisfied (each was 0.2mg of clonidine HCL), I took the pills and then they herded me into this day room with not enough chairs. I was rapidly informed of the rules (confined to the day room, if I had to hit the head, I would be escorted into the bathroom with a security guard, and a variety of other crap, which I paid little attention to). This place was a veritable prison. I wondered how long I would be in this hellhole until I was transferred to the actual psych hospital. Meanwhile, I found a place along the wall and just stood. Then they told me that they would be monitoring my blood pressure every 30 minutes (over the course of my stay, the clonidine would drop my pressure only about twenty points or so, so they kept feeding me the medicine).

Lunch and dinner came and went, neither of which I partook. At one point, when this other patient got up to go to the bathroom, I immediately grabbed his chair and sat down. I was cold, tired, pissed off and spoiling for a fight. For all I knew, he was some crazed maniac killer. I was so hoping he would challenge me for “his” char upon his return. I wasn’t disappointed. He walked right up to me, stuck his mouth in my face and yelled at me to get the fuck out of his chair (at least he didn’t spit when he yelled). I just stared at him blankly and grinned, refusing to move (I mean, I might as well be in an insane asylum, why not act the part?). I wanted so bad for him to do something even so benign as to poke me in my chest so I could stand up and beat the shit out of him, but one of the guards came over as soon as he started yelling. I just looked down at the floor and stared and said nothing…but I got to keep “my” chair.

At 2100 they gathered us all together and marched us through this maze—men to the left and women to the right (something about Nazi Germany came to mind right about this point). Oh goodie, a room full of bunk beds. We had 15 minutes before lights out (and no, up to this point, I had not even considered the fact that I would be spending the night in this five-star hotel). Another blood pressure reading followed by another round of pills. I lied down on my bed and just stared at the ceiling as they shut off the lights. Needless to say, I got no sleep with them taking my blood pressure every 30 minutes. 0600 finally came around with a start as the guards clamored in cranking on all of the lights. Yet another day to unfold in this never-ending nightmare. (To be continued…)©2009

Involuntary Commitment—Day 1, Part 1, Saturday 10 October, unknown time

This post begins a sequence of events that will be followed by additional posts as I upload them. For necessity’s sake, I’ve had to resort to keeping a handwritten journal, so it will take me some time to key it all in and upload each post. I’ve written a lot, so this may take me a few days to complete. Some of what is accounted for in this particular post is third-hand information for me as I have no memory whatsoever of how this fucking nightmare began.

Officially on this date at an unknown time, a probate court judge signed papers involuntarily committing me to a psychiatric facility because I posed a danger to myself as a result of an overdose. I have no memory of how the 911 call got placed, the paramedics coming to my home, then taking me to the Emergency Room, much less anything that took place while in the ER.

My first recollection was waking up in what appeared to be a hospital room except the one entire wall directly in my field of vision was glass. Anyone walking by could see into this room; I had no privacy. The clock on the wall said it was 0500. The only evidence of what day it was appeared on my hospital bracelet.

Being rather disoriented it took me a while to get my bearings. Where was I and how did I get here? Those glass doors were closed, but I did notice that there appeared to be what looked like a nurse’s station; however, no one seemed to be around. I looked around my bed and could find no call button to summon someone to my bedside. Additionally, I noticed that there was a phone on the rollaway table, but it was too far away to reach. I saw people dressed in various colors of scrubs and white jackets, but they were all on their way to or from somewhere else.

Then I noticed the oddest thing. There was a hospital security guard posted right outside my room. I hadn’t noticed him before as he was in a chair all the way to the right of that glass wall. He just sat there and stared at me.

Then I noticed that all my clothes were gone. I was in these Tyvek-like paper disposable scrubs. The clock on the wall said 0600. Absolutely no one had even come in to see me. At this point, I felt a little more alert and oriented. I thought this “silent treatment” was for the birds.

I collapsed my right side bedrail, sat up and touched my bare feet on the cold hard tile. I felt a little woozy, so I just stood there for a minute holding on. Then I turned to make my way towards the glass wall only to realize I was hooked up to all this crap. I had two IVs, leads on my chest going to a cardiac monitor, oxygen, and a pulse-ox cap on my finger.

That just pissed me off even more. If I needed all this crap attached to me, why the hell haven’t I seen a nurse yet? I wanted answers right then and there. I tore the leads off my chest, ripped the nasal cannula off my face, threw the pulse-ox on the floor and went to grab at the IVs. But, I thought better about that one and left the IVs in place. So, I grabbed the machine the IVs were running through, unplugged it and headed for the glass. At this point, this super cop wanna-be jumped out of his chair, slid the glass door open and ordered me back in bed. What a little turd he was. I wanted to squash him like a bug. I was rudely informed that I was not allowed out of my bed and he just stood there until I ever so gracefully tried to climb back up onto the bed while wearing those stylish paper scrubs.

I shot at him a barrage of questions, practically yelling at the top of my lungs. God, I was so fucking angry. I wanted to know where I was, how did I get here, how long had I been here, where the hell was my nurse, and, oh by the way, what the FUCK is going on. He just gave me this dopey goofball stare and said I’d have to wait for my social worker. Why the hell did I need to talk to a social worker? I was in a hospital, wasn’t I? Again, I just got this glazed look from him as he turned and walked out of the room. Meanwhile, that stupid cardiac monitor was alarming, yet no one bothered coming by to check on that. Good thing I hadn’t really flatlined, huh?

OK, the clock now said it was 0745. All I wanted was to talk to a damn nurse, process whatever discharge papers there were to sign, get dressed and split. I was not in a generous mood. In fact I was itching to pick a fight with that small pea-sized brain dick outside in his chair. I yelled at him to come inside.

I made it incredibly clear that for the past three hours I had essentially been imprisoned with no one giving me any information. I told the little jerk to go and get someone with any medical authority for whatever unit I was on right that very minute or he would be very sorry. I came so close to just punching that asshole in the face. He actually got right back in my face (well, he tried—he came up to about my chin) and actually asked me if I was threatening him. Immediately, two more super cops appeared out of nowhere. It was like I was starring in my own Fritz Lang production, or something borrowed out of a Kafka novel.

Finally, about 20 minutes later, a guy dressed up in white came in and told me that I was just going to have to calm down or they were going to have to put me in restraints. Then he said (oh to my surprise) that he couldn’t discuss my case with me and that I was going to have to wait to talk with the social worker. I got the point and asked where the hell was I and why and when the hell was I going to see this damn social worker. He did verify that I was at the local trauma center in an observation area right off the main drag from the ER.

About 30 minutes later, FINALLY, someone came in with a clipboard full of papers. I was thinking that it was damn time I got discharged. However, as he started talking, the words coming out of his mouth didn’t even come close to what I was expecting to hear. The phrase “72-hour hold in protective custody” hit me like a ton of bricks. I just put up both of my hands and said, “Whoa, rewind.” (oh, yeah, and this idiot dick couldn’t have been more patronizing).

It was then that I learned that the hospital received signed legal documents placing me in protective custody for 72 hours to be transferred to a psychiatric facility yet to be determined. Upon arrival to the ER, my tox screen revealed Ativan and Ambien and my blood alcohol count was four times the legal limit. The court determined that I was a danger to myself as evidenced by my suicide attempt. I actually started to laugh, but mostly I was pissed off because I couldn’t remember a damn thing. Then this inferior prick went on to tell me that he thought my laughter was absurdly inappropriate as he scribbled something down on paper. I just laughed all the more as he shook his head, turned around and sashayed his skinny little ass out of my room.

I must have dozed off for a bit at this point. I have some foggy memory of a man sitting in a chair next to my bed, but I guess that was a dream. Eventually, three guys dressed up like ice cream delivery truck drivers (and yes, two security guards) came into my room. One of them was holding a plastic bag and I recognized my shirt, sweatpants and Birkenstocks. They were coming to “get me.” (I swear, this whole scenario could have come straight out of a Hollywood B movie, I kid you not).

As they grabbed me out of my bed, they told me I was going to be transferred to a holding facility until a bed opened up at one of the local psych hospitals (all I had was this image of a state mental hospital complete with Nurse Ratched!). As they walked me out of the room, I asked if I could at least put on my sandals and they told me I wasn’t allowed to wear shoes because I was deemed a flight risk (“Crazed woman, last seen in the vicinity of County Hospital, escaped today clad only in blue paper scrubs…film at 11.”). This was so fucking surreal. (To be continued…)©2009

Coping Mechanisms

I was suggested to use my various coping mechanisms when I get in these headspaces. I thought about some, and either they don’t work for me, or else, I don’t want them to work. Scalpels were often coping mechanisms when I was cutting, but that has long since been proved ineffective.

I have no recourse but to let this phase run its course—just don’t know for how long to prepare. Yes, it is true that suicide is more an upfront thought process with me lately. I spend more time grueling over the plan, if only to bolster my resolve. No, I am mot afraid to go through with it right at the moment; I rather like the idea—being anal-retentive that I am. It’s enough for me to just know that everything is ready to go when I come to this inevitable discovery.

I spend way too much time inside my head these days. That’s a very dangerous place to be as the thoughts come in racing so fast, that they just compound all of the thoughts that already existed.

My new coping mechanism: drinking enough to catch a buzz. The other day, I bought large bottles of 100 proof Southern Comfort, along with Ketel One Vodka, triple sec and Rose’s lime juice. I have always fancied Kamikazes and Vodka Gimlets. After just a couple of drinks, I was very lightheaded. My tolerance for ETOH is rather low. I’ve never had a drinking problem; in fact, I hardly drink alcohol very much at all. I wonder if this won’t yet be another harbinger of what is to come. I’ve known too many alcoholics that started out just this way; I want to avoid any possibility that the drinking could get out of control.

So, here I sit on a Sunday afternoon just waiting for the time to pass. Monday is looming too close for comfort.©2009

Suicide Is Painless

I woke up with a start at 0500 this morning. What a bite. It’s Sunday, a day when my alarm is not set. Why do I have to be awake so early? The nicest thing about sleep? My racing thoughts are quelled; the anxiety, the terror and the state of panic are at bay.

When I wake up, especially far earlier than intended, I can never go back to sleep. I just lie there and my thoughts just go to town. I can’t shut them up. All I could think about this morning was all the crap I didn’t finish before I logged out of the network Friday and all of the unread (118) emails still in my inbox. It’s SUNDAY for God’s sake…my supposed day off from work.

My thoughts quickly gravitate to suicide once again. I keep hearing the lyrics to M*A*S*H in my head, “That suicide is painless, it brings on many changes, and I can take or leave it if I please…” Right now, suicide is the painless option. There is too much pain just trying to eek out my day-to-day existence. I am so tired physically, emotionally…just too much crap. I just want to close my eyes and let everything go. I just don’t give a damn about anything. There is nothing to hold on to in my life that can make the difference.

I made a grave error in judgment about a month ago. I knew I was off my meds. I knew I was spiraling down big time. Tried my old DBT efforts of “mindfulness.” Didn’t work. Then I thought, you know, I could try to be responsible, for a change, with my bipolar. I could try being accountable to someone about how I am feeling. Way big mistake there. I actually called up the one friend I have and made the biggest mistake ever. I told her how I was feeling. Not that I was going to commit suicide, but that my depressive state was so bad that this is where my thoughts were taking me. Oh God, how I ever wish I had never made that phone call. I actually forgot that she has a key to my house. To make a long story short, she made it quite clear that if she couldn’t get in touch with me and if I wasn’t answering my phone at some point, she was going to march her ass right over to my house. I eventually convinced her that I was really OK (of course I was lying through my teeth), so she finally backed down. Now I have to pretend that everything is always FINE to her, the one person I thought I could be honest with about my feelings. Now I have to decide if I am going to go through the ordeal of changing all of the locks on my house.

Why is suicide so attractive? I don’t have to worry about the pressures from my job. I don’t have to worry about the awful pain I feel from being alone. I don’t have to worry about all of the things I do to myself when the pain of living exceeds my tolerance level just short of suicide. I don’t have to worry about living The Great Lie to the entire world (you know, that wonderful façade). That gets incredibly wearisome over time. I no longer have to be accountable to anyone (especially family) for what is going on in my life (yet another continuation of The Great Lie).

I have managed to keep the thoughts of self-mutilation at bay for quite a while. The function it served no longer works. There is no release in the pain felt. There is no release in watching the bloodletting. It’s like, “skip Go, do not collect $200.” I now just simply gravitate straight to suicide. Very bluntly, I am oh so ready just to lie down and quit. I am just so tired of it all. These racing thoughts are taking over everything and I can no longer control them. They won’t shut up. I can’t shut them out. They are taking over everything. I JUST WANT TO TURN OFF THE FUCKING NOISE IN MY FUCKING HEAD. Suicide equals silence.

Everything is ready to go. It’s all in the other room. All I have to do is set everything up. All I have to do is insert the butterfly syringe. Once that is in place, instant access to my veins. The bolus of KCl is waiting for me. Or I can opt for the insulin. Too much of either and it’s all over. Oh, sure, I have plenty of pills I could swallow and chase with alcohol, but there is always the chance I could vomit. The IV solution is sure fire…no accidents. The desire right now is so damn attractive. It too damn easy. I am angry that I am even having this discussion with myself. I’m wasting time sitting here and talking about it. What is holding me back from just walking into the other room and being done with it all? That pisses me off more than anything else right now.

I used to think if I could just take the time and capture all these feelings and write them down that it would provide a release for me. Writing no longer provides that catharsis. Sure, it gives me the chance to capture the thoughts, to force me in examining what emotions I am really feeling, but it now only boils down to realizing one thing: I’m empty. There is nothing left.

Yet at the same time, my mind is not in the same space it has been when I have attempted suicide before. I really haven’t made all of the preparations this time. The last two times the house was ready to go. Anyone coming into my house after the fact would have found everything neat and tidy. No, I’m not talking about making sure my house is clean. I’m talking about making sure all of the necessary paperwork is out in the open for anyone to find so that whoever will have to be responsible for picking up the pieces can take care of all of the arrangements. All my paperwork is in its lockbox right now. I have no idea who will ever discover me after the fact, or how much time will have to pass before someone comes knocking down my door. Sad to say, it will probably take quite some time before someone finally figures out that something might actually be amiss.

Sure, when my body is discovered, there will be no problem identifying me. Nevertheless, I have no emergency contact information anywhere except in that lockbox. Even my friend would have no clue as to who to call to make any announcements. I’ve always kept all of that information to myself for obvious reasons. I have nothing on file anywhere else (doctors, hospitals, etc.).

This is the worst part about suicide ideation…the pure desire and the means are there…yet something is holding me back at this exact moment. That really pisses me off. I have no reasons whatsoever NOT to do it, so why don’t I? What the fuck is holding me back this time? That only makes me more angry. Yeah, like I’m making a whole hell of a lot of sense right now.©2009

Survived Another Week

As you may note, the majority of my posts occur during the weekends. I am so busy during the week at work that I am usually too bushed to write anything at that point. Ironic, though, that it is experiences during the week that give me my fodder about which to write.

Never did complete my Six Sigma Yellow Belt this past Tuesday. I was told that the four-course series and final exam (and oh, how I loathe CBT-note-not the therapy…LOL) would take about 5.5-6.0 hours. Well, the first module took me almost eight hours and by the time I finished the second one, I was whipped. I hope to finish it up this coming Tuesday.

Since starting my blog, I’ve had the opportunity to “meet” other bloggers with similar backgrounds to mine. A few of particular note evoke much of the same BP and BPD history. Often, it is like holding a mirror up to my face when I read their posts. I sometimes wonder just how far I’ve wandered off the beaten path only to realize that there are others who wrestle with some of the very same issues.

One of these bloggers, SI, posted an entry with thoughts on the concept of “normality.” I even posted a response that I no longer tried to define what “normal” is anymore. Suffice it to say that it doesn’t apply to me. However, she further went on to discuss contentment and that really gave me pause for thought. This entire past month has been an incredible rollercoaster ride for me. In full throes of both BP and BPD, I was really hanging on by a thread. There were a few times when I was finally ready to just chuck it all. One of my favorite posts by another blogger I read today talked about suicide. In it, Patrick wrote, “People choose suicide when the pain of living is greater than the pain of leaving.” Patrick, I can tell you that I know only too well just how completely reasonable that sounds. But, getting back to contentment—today I feel content. At least it is the word I choose. However, when I look up the actual definition (reasonably happy and satisfied with the way things are), that still wasn’t right. I’m not happy; I am not even sure if I know what that feels like. And, I am certainly not satisfied. However, for me, being content is akin to ebb tide. My emotions have receded momentarily. I’m not manic, nor am I spiraling. I can breathe. Today I am experiencing what I call my pause button. I have no earthly idea what comes next: fear? panic? mania? desolation? euphoria? terror? I have no clue. I just know that for right now, I feel none of those. And that is a good thing.

Moments like these don’t last very long; more often, they are only the harbinger of another phase shift. Bur for now, for today, I’ll take it and sweat the bullets later.©2009

Paralysis

I can’t explain this sudden, overwhelming, heart-gripping panic that I am riddled with right this very minute. I was in the other room, sitting on my sofa drinking tea when I noticed the time: 1935. It’s Sunday evening. In less than 12 hours, I will be at work. I can’t do this. I can’t log on and open my email for fear of what is waiting for me. The requests, the questions, my clients wanting all of me all at the same time. I don’t know what I am doing. I can’t answer their questions. There is so much expected of me: project deadlines—everything becoming due all at the same time. The details, the minutiae—my desk is piled so high with stacks of minutes from meetings: actions items required of me, follow-up details I am responsible for. I can’t do this any more. I have a training class all day on Tuesday to complete my Six Sigma Yellow Belt requirement consisting of four separate courses, each to be completed with an 80% passing score (with only 10 questions each made of “choose the best answers of the following…” format meaning I can only miss two on each) followed with a final exam of 25 equally-formatted questions again at a pass rate of 80%. There is too much fucking crap all hitting me at the same time. I can’t breathe. I’m afraid to go to sleep knowing that, in the blink of an eye, I will face what terrifies me the most. I can’t do this job. I don’t know what the hell I am doing. Everything is going to blow up in my face. It’s now 1947. I can’t stop time. Tomorrow is coming, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Oh, my God, what the fuck is happening to me? Where is this terror coming from? I can’t move…©2009

Joy in the Face of Circumstances?

Well, I did not throw up and I did go to church. I was sweating bullets through Praise and Worship while standing; I had no energy whatsoever and was hanging on to everything I had just to be there. My exhaustion is so overwhelming.

Pastor preached on maintaining your joy despite whatever circumstances you are going through. I’ve been there before. After I was laid off, I knew in my heart that the Lord would provide for me and just pressed onward. Sure, there were many times when I was curled up like a baby on the floor of my bedroom in utter agony not knowing what the next day would bring, yet I was still able to focus on all of the good things with which the Lord had already blessed me. That focus brought me the strength I needed to endure the unknown at the time. And that strength was my joy. Sometimes it was just enough to know that I could trust in Him to make it through.

The scripture referenced this morning was found throughout Philippians 4. Key points: 1) learn to avoid comparisons. There will always be others that fare better than you. This will inevitably spawn the “fairness” questions back to God. One comment that hit home is that the mortality rate for the human being is 100%. So, what do we do with ourselves in the meantime? What do we set our eyes upon? 2) It is a myth that I must be liked in order to be happy. Well, that’s a hard one with which to grapple. I am alone. I am unhappy. No, not everyone I will come across will like me. Truth be told, I easily piss off most people. And you’ve read my rave reviews I’ve received from my immediate family in Birthday Cards. Pastor said that all I should be concerned with is that I please God. Well, I’m in trouble here. I acknowledge that I am a lesbian (albeit celibate, although I’m not sure if that isn’t just splitting hairs). Certainly that isn’t looked upon as being pleasing (no, I’m not going to drag all the biblical references to prove that one). I also run right smack into the two verses that I have really tried so hard to pattern my life after. So, where am I really as far as the conforming and the transforming? Am I really just a poser? 3) Pray for what can be changed and accept that which cannot be changed Phil 4:6-7. Again, another sticking point. I don’t believe being queer is a choice, so what can be changed there? Also, what about the whole bipolar shtick? It’s not something to be cured. Do I believe that God has the power to heal? Yes, I do. Will He cure me? Who knows? All I do know right now is that I am bipolar which drives to the very heart of so much that is wrong with my life. 4) Learn to accept God’s power in that there are circumstances that I can’t face alone 2 Cor 12:9.  5) Learning to allow for God’s provision Phil 4:18-19.  Both points 4 and 5 I’ve experienced first hand. I have seen God’s fingerprint on my life in such a way that it defies all other explanation (see My Own Personal Miracle elsewhere in this blog). 6) God will give you all you need if you put Him first in your life Matt 6:31-33.  This point comes with that great caveat: IF you put Him first. Do I? I am consumed with the by-products of being bipolar. I am consumed with wrestling with the concept of being Christian and queer. Am I just wrestling with the concept of being queer? Is it internalized homophobia? No, I don’t think that’s it. If anything, all of my life I’ve been a radical, in-your-face butch dyke.

If I try to follow my heart, I know His word tells me that so much of what I am internalizing are just the lies of the devil, but the bipolar keeps getting in the way. I can’t keep all these racing thoughts straight in my head. So, I end up not knowing what’s real and what isn’t. It’s information overload. I am drowning in the sea of “oughts” and “ams.”—who I should be vs. who I am. Am I who I should be? Why can’t I answer that question?©2009

My Head in a Vise

So far, since being off my meds, my sleep pattern hasn’t been too off-kilter. The only time it appears that they are affected is when I am experiencing my short-acting manic phases, which, I guess, is a good thing. The “good” part in that the manic phases are short. I thought I was back to rapid cycling, but this time I am not too sure. My manic phases approximate a 36-hour interval between anything else—anything else being the rapid descent into hell, where it seems I am now having the wonderful fortune of spending greater periods. Given my options, despite the personal drawbacks, I’d much rather be manic.

The kicker, sleep-wise, has been the depressed phase. Ordinarily, while it doesn’t amount to anything close to refreshing, at least I do spend some time asleep. However, in the last three weeks I’ve noticed a new wrinkle. Every morning, far earlier than when my alarm normally goes off, I suddenly awake with a bone-crunching headache. The pain is searing and tears spring to my eyes. At this point, despite however exhausted I still may be (whether I’ve had three or even five hours of sleep), I simply cannot roll over and turn off the light. I’ve tried popping a few Exedrine (the one OTC that usually works), but, of late, it hasn’t made much of a dent. Due to some relatively recent oral surgery, I have a few Vicodin laying around, so I tried a couple of those. Mixed bag of results: the headache eventually wears away; however, I am left feeling rather drowsy which is often compounded by the fact that the quality of sleep I did experience wasn’t great. That won’t do during the work week. Can’t log onto the network if I can’t first log into myself!

I don’t normally experience headaches, so I am rather concerned at the turn of events. I also don’t appreciate the nauseous feeling I end up with after taking any meds so early in the morning on an empty stomach. I even tried eating a few Phenergan with either the Execdrine or the Vicodin, but that just compounds the ensuing drowsiness—hard to look sharp as a tack at work if you can’t talk without a thick tongue!

I don’t think it’s anything organic. My last major BP crisis in 2005 resulting from a failed suicide attempt that landed me in a psych ward for quite some time resulting in some rather uncommon after effects. This admission bought me a new diagnosis to add to the BP: borderline personality disorder. Oh goodie, yet another tag. Didn’t know so much about it at the time, but after doing some research, it sure did explain why I was so heavy into the self-mutilation for a while, even at the later years of my life. One new symptom I began experiencing (not that I hadn’t already—it’s just now that I know what to call it!) was states of dissociation. One particular incident brought EMTs to my house, ones I evidently called myself according to the taped recording of my 911 call.

I don’t remember most of what happened (hence the dissociation). I have fleeting memories of being on the floor in my living room trying to reach for the phone. That’s it. The next thing I can remember is getting into a taxi after being discharged from the ER the next day (according to 911, I called around 0200 in a panicked state mumbling something about passing out after bouncing my head off my heavy glass coffee table). When I got home, the house was a wreck. There were pieces of pizza all over the floor between my kitchen, dining room and living room. When I got into the kitchen, after following the trail of pepperoni and mushrooms on the floor, I found what appeared to be the dough from a frozen pizza tightly bound into a mangled ball. Whatever happened had been extreme…I just can’t remember any of it.

The ER did a CT scan that proved no injury. All of the medical notes from the intake nurse to the doctor’s comments proved inconclusive. The ironic part is that they all referenced having a normal conversation with me in that I did not appear too distraught and was able to answer questions. Mind blowing to me since 1) I can’t remember any of it, and 2) what the hell threw me into such a frenzied state in the first place that resulted in attacking a frozen pizza…a frenzied state that must have lasted a long enough time for the frozen dough to have become malleable enough to shape into a crumpled ball while traipsing through three large rooms of my house resulting in passing out and hitting my head on my coffee table. The level to which I attacked this pizza is mind blowing enough in and of itself.

The next day (or maybe it was two days later), armed with my medical records from my ER visit, I went to see my doctor. It was then that I began experiencing some dizzying headaches. My cause for concern was that the CT was clear, so why the lingering headaches? I was referred to a neurologist is fairly short order and over the next two weeks MRIs and EEGs also proved inconclusive (however, during this time period I evidently had a single-car accident which I cannot remember, although the front end of my Civic will tell you otherwise, so something was still going on).

To make a long story short, nothing organic was ever proven. After consulting with my p-doc, I decided to transfer from my current mode of therapy, CBT (cognitive behaviour therapy), to DBT (dialectical…a story in and of itself). I learned more of the impact of borderline personality disorder while now learning to handle these fugue states of dissociation—each event always accompanied by extreme panic disorder according to the wreckage evidenced in my house at a later time along with a headache and, of course, the absolute memory loss. The one precursor to the dissociation was the headache, and then easily handled by the Exedrine. After months of DBT, I never got anywhere with learning the cause-and-effect of the dissociative periods (the memory blackouts were distraughtful enough), much less anything BPD- or BP-related, so I quit. The dissociative states, after a while, disappeared (no, the memory loss is still permanent) and the lingering headaches eventually did as well.

OK, so now it’s 2009. No more dissociation (at least no evidence of it!). But, now, I’m being jolted awake with these piercing headaches. The quality of my sleep has lessened; I always awake exhausted even if I am lucky enough to have six hours of it. My almost-regular popping of Exedrine while I bolt down my morning hot tea helps me orient somewhat to my workday, but now I am beginning to question the headaches, their causation. I thought about going back to see my regular doc, but I’m not sure where that will get me. While I’ve never presented myself with drug-seeking behaviour, I certainly wouldn’t want him to think I’m just hitting him up for more scripts of painkillers. No point in pulling in another round of neurologists—that’s already proven useless and far too expensive. There are no other underlying processes going on to further define this malady. It’s just damned inconvenient and, truthfully, quite bothersome. So, now I face my bleak spiraled-down states of depression with a constant state of exhaustion. It’s truly as if I haven’t had any sleep whatsoever. Yes, my depressive states are always associated with exhaustion, but the state of exhaustion has worsened suddenly with the onset of the headaches.

This morning I have only enough energy to drink my hot tea, sit here, and write. In a few hours, I will go through the motions of getting ready to go to church, but even this morning I question why I will go. My mind won’t be where it ought; it hasn’t been for a couple of weeks. Yet I still feel compelled to go. I can’t escape the fact that God has blessed me quite graciously when I was laid off earlier this year. Regardless of what anyone wants to think, I know the circumstances that took place that resulted in my new job—to me, personally, is nothing short of miraculous, say whatever you will. But, my focus is shifting. My attention is drawn to the BP that is consuming me along with all of the questions suddenly surrounding me of who I really am. The queer question. The Christian question. Right now, I just don’t give a damn. My head hurts, I feel like I am going to throw up, and I just want to crawl back into bed and shut out the world. If only all these racing thoughts in my head would just shut the fuck up.©2009

Rainy Days and Mondays (Thank You Karen Carpenter!)

The weather is changing here. I was at the grocery store today, rummaging through my pocket for my wallet, when I felt a chill run down my spine. It had starting raining when I came into the store earlier, and now that I was waiting to cash out at the register, a breeze from the doors blew past me. My first thought was, “how odd that it’s so chilly.” Then it occurred to me that it is the end of September, the autumnal equinox has passed. Where has the time gone? Only last Sunday I remember thinking that the a/c in the church wasn’t on and I was rather warm.

I work such long hours during the day at work from my home office. When my eyes have finally had it, my lids as sandpaper against the sclera, I merely transmit from one room to the next and my workday is over. By the time Friday comes, it’s as often as not that I’ve not even left the house for the entire week. I never notice the sun; I’m in artificial light the duration of my waking hours.

There are no reminders of passing time. Outside of phone calls on my office line, no one ever calls me. My doorbell never rings and I have no need to see what exists on the other side of my front door. The season has changed and I missed it. Again. Now I have to look at the calendar to see when I have to turn my clocks back. Was it that long ago I reminded myself that I needed to turn my thermostat down so I wouldn’t roast while I slept?

My life has become a winter river—frozen along the edges with slushing movement in the center. The passage of time becomes the function of my employment. I exist because I have a job. My weekends are barren gaps—forty-eight long hours of emptiness. I don’t watch TV or read the paper. I’m embarrassed to admit that Ted Kennedy had been dead for two weeks before I found out. At this stage of my life, the concept of time is taking on a new meaning for me. I make no plans, I go nowhere. There is no longer any sense of urgency or expectation of anything. When I log off on Fridays, I wish I could just close my eyes until Monday

Experts will tell you that who you are has nothing to do with what you do. In other words, your life is not defined by your career. I used to believe that. That must have been during a period when I actually had a life—you know—places to go, people to meet, thing to do. Now? I only have my job. I make note of only two specific days of the month: the dates of my direct deposit. It’s the only real time that I plan for in order to pay my bills.

This is an odd feeling now that I am actually trying to put it into words. I’m only 52. Essentially, my life is only half over. But, do I have the patience to wait out the rest of the years? There is nothing to look forward to. I have no goals left to attain. I’ve accomplished everything I thought I was supposed to do with this life. Now what?

So, here I sit on a Saturday evening…waiting for Monday.©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

I'm Tired of Coming up with Titles

The spiraling is consuming me. It’s all I can do to get through the day. I can’t concentrate at work. I can’t focus or even remember important stuff. I had an important meeting with one of my clients today and it was all I could do just to get through it. Thankfully it was a remotely-managed meeting (thank goodness for integrated audio/data conferencing platforms). Today is only Wednesday. What will Friday bring? I can’t do my job. I feel like a deer caught in the headlamps. When will someone finally discover that I am merely a poser in this great, wide world?©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

Queer-Who Dares to State That This Is a Choice?

I am so tired of right-winged Christian fundamentalists decrying that being queer is a “lifestyle choice.” Watching this video should only further convince an intelligent person that this simply is not so. I have to ask…Why in the world would people CHOOSE to live their life knowing that its very being would pit themselves up against the potential for attacks in any form. Everything was different pre-Stonewall. It was all behind closed doors, yet as the times changed and more lesbians and gays ventured into their underworld to meet together among themselves, they only faced dire retribution from local police departments that had nothing better than to raid these establishments where the sole intent was to beat and humiliate the patronage. These weren’t merely situations where the cops raided only to “rough up” or scare the queer patrons. The focus was to cause pure physical torture. The cops took delight in trying to catch anyone in drag (there was a stupid rule on the books about the minimum number of “female” clothing pieces a woman had to be wearing at all times). If she was dare caught dressed in drag, she was violently yanked from the assembled, pulled into the house and stripped by the cops, often ridiculed, but more often raped by their batons to “teach” her a lesson. Males dressed in drag were treated with equal torture. This was allowed to go on with the complicit knowledge of the police administration in an effort to “clean up the streets.” Queers were beaten and tortured within inches of their lives to the sick pleasure of the police. I’ve place the link from Wikipedia that clearly captures the culture change leading up to the Stonewall Riots and its aftermath http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stonewall_riots.

I encourage you to read this to glean a true understanding of what we have all gone through and where we have arrived.  Such as it is, we are all still fighting for the very simple right to peacefully co-exist and have access to the same rights and privileges of straight couples—rights and privileges often mandated by protected legal rulings (health benefits, pensions, tax credits, recognition of family status, death benefits, the list is endless). We are not asking for special rights, merely equal rights currently being denied under the guise of the Christian right-winged fundamentalist’s push to decry that queer couples openly defy the word of God, and by that very statement, must be denied any rights conferred upon what is automatically given by virtue of a marriage license. I won’t exhaust all of the arguments that have been far more eloquently argued elsewhere, but suffice it to say that this country’s categorical stance on Family Values (thanks in part to the horrific diatribes by James Dobson of Focus on the Family with his queer-bashing campaigns over the many years), is tearing at the very fabric of what makes up more than 10% of our population. You can’t read that link or the video above and still come away with the idea that to be queer is a choice.

While a few states have enacted their own rulings that would confer upon same-sex couples certain rights and privileges as straight couples, there are still only a few (see those listed below). Almost as soon as some individual states began seeking same-sex partnership status of some fashion (civil unions, marriage, etc), other states quickly jumped on the bandwagon to place laws into effect acknowledging marriage as existing only between one man and one woman, thus disavowing the ability of one state to accept with full faith and credit any rulings and legal decisions made by other states. Moreover, you still have the Federal DOMA (Defense of Marriage Act) hanging over our heads. No matter what a state may decide, it is not accepted at the federal level. Therefore, while I might qualify to file a joint state return with my spouse in Massachusetts, I cannot file a joint federal return (or reap any federal benefits).

1. 10/10/08: In a 4 to 3 decision, the Connecticut Supreme Court overturned the state's ban on same-sex marriage, making it the third state to allow legal gay marriage.

2. 6/15/09: The D.C. Board of Elections and Ethics rejected an effort to hold a referendum on whether Washington should recognize same-sex marriages performed elsewhere. The move is a victory for gay rights advocates. If Congress, which has final say over laws approved in Washington D.C., doesn't weigh in on the city council vote in favor of same-sex marriages granted outside of the District by July of 2009 the measure will become law.

3. 6/3/09: New Hampshire became the sixth U.S. state to legalize same-sex marriage. The legislation includes a provision that allows churches, their employees and religious groups to decline to officiate at same-sex marriages. The law takes effect January 1, 2010.
4. 10/25/06: New Jersey lawmakers were given 180 days to draft a bill that would give same-sex couples equal rights of marriage. The mandate from the State Supreme Court was clear, but lawmakers were challenged with what to actually call the new gay unions- marriage or an equivalent term with the same rights. Less than 60 days after the landmark ruling, the New Jersey legislature approved a bill that will create civil unions for same-sex couples. Democratic Gov. Jon Corzine singed the bill, making New Jersey the third state to offer civil unions behind Vermont and Connecticut. The law took effect February 19, 2007.

5. 5/13/09: The New York State Assembly passed a bill on Tuesday with a vote of 82 to 52 in favor of same-sex marriage. The vote is one of two needed to legalize gay marriage in the state. The bill must pass the Senate, which has a slim Democratic majority.

6. 5/6/09: Gov. John Baldacci signed a bill legalizing same-sex marriage in Maine, making the state the fifth in the U.S. to allow gay and lesbian couples to marry. The bill authorizes marriage between any two people rather than between one man and one woman. Gov. Bladdacci previously opposed gay marriage, but switched his position citing fairness and equal protection for all citizens in Maine. However, this November, there is a question o the ballot that in part will read, “Do you want to reject the new law that lets same-sex couples marry?” Maine faces a potential problem with their new bill being voted out.

7. 7/15/08: With the repeal of Bill 1913, which prohibited out of state residents from marrying in Massachusetts, both same-sex couples that reside in Massachusetts and out-of-state couples can legally marry in the State of Massachusetts.

8. 9/1/09: A new statewide same-sex marriage law took effect at 12am, making Vermont the fourth state in America where gay marriage is legally recognized.

9. 4/3/09: The Iowa Supreme Court made history on April 3, 2009 with a unanimous ruling, making Iowa the 3rd state to allow same-sex marriages. The state county attorney has stated that he will not seek a rehearing. In the case, Varnum v. Brien, the court says, "state laws prohibiting marriage on the basis of the partners' gender are unconstitutional." Tom Head over at About: Civil Liberties gives the top questions and answers about the same-sex marriage ruling in Iowa.

10. 8/3/09: Gay and lesbian couples began registering for domestic partnership in Wisconsin, granting them 43 rights associated with marriage including hospital visitation and estate planning. The measure was included in Governor Jim Doyle's biannual state budget that was approved by lawmakers. Voters banned same-sex marriage in Wisconsin in 2006. August 21, 2009: Wisconsin Attorney General John Byron “J.B.” Van Hollen said he would not defend the state's gay-inclusive domestic partnership registry, calling it unconstitutional. Wisconsin Family Action (WFA) and the Christian-based Alliance Defense Fund (ADF) have asked the state Supreme Court to strike down the law.

11. 5/9/07: Under Oregon's domestic partnership law, signed by Governor Ted Kulongoski, gay and lesbian couples are eligible for all the state-wide rights and benefits of marriage. The law went into effect on February 4, 2008, after a court delay. Oregon also outlaws discrimination based on sexual orientation.

12. 4/15/09: The Washington State Legislature expanded domestic partnership laws to cover "everything but marriage." 4/21/07: Washington's domestic partnership bill, State Registered Domestic Partnerships (SRDP), was signed into law. The measure succeeded by a vote of 65-35 only a year after the state Supreme Court upheld Washington's Defense of Marriage Act banning same-sex marriage.

13. 5/26/09: The California Supreme Court upheld Proposition 8, reinforcing the ban on same-sex marriage, but ordered that the marriages of the 18,000 couples married prior to the gay marriage ban be recognized.

14. 8/24/09: Same-sex couples began pre-registration for domestic partnerships in Nevada for a period of one month, as announced Secretary of State Ross Miller. Registered domestic partnered same-sex couples are granted limited rights such as hospital visitation rights, estate planning and shared responsibility for debt. However, employers are not required to offer health care benefits to same-sex partners.

15. 9/17/09: A group of Congress members introduced a bill this week in the U.S. House that seeks to repeal the federal ban on same-sex marriage. U.S. Rep. Jerrold Nadler (D-N.Y.) introduced the Respect for Marriage Act in the U.S. House Sept. 15 along with 91 cosponsors, including openly gay lead sponsors Reps. Tammy Baldwin (D-Wisc.) and Jared Polis (D-Colo.), making this the first time legislation has been introduced to repeal the Defense of Marriage Act since its 1996 passage.

So, help me understand that word “choice” again?©2009

If I Could Just Turn Off My Brain!

I’ve been off-line since my last entry five days ago. I almost feel guilty to have let so much time pass considering the content. Yeah, I’m still here. The BP is becoming so consuming. I’ve swung way back to the manic side again. I’ve been awake since 0400 and right now it’s 0040. Give me almost four more hours and I will have stretched “today” into a 24-hr marathon. Tired? Not at all. I worked for 13 hours straight—no breaks, no lunch. When I logged off the network, I called my mom to wish her a happy birthday. I talked a mile a minute. I barely let her get a word in edge-wise. Towards the end of the call, she actually told me that she was glad to hear how happy I sounded. Geez, mom, get a grip. It’s called being MANIC, not happy…LOL. Then I called my friend and did the same with her. At one point she begged me to shut the hell up. She said, “My God, you're manic, aren’t you?” Then it hit me. Another cycle. How long will this one last? It’s a bite to stay awake for the whole weekend. By the time Monday rolls around, I’m gonna wonder what the heck happened to my weekend OFF. You’d think after working on my laptop all day the last thing I would want to do is get on my personal computer and start banging away at the keyboard. My eyes do feel like sandpaper, but I can’t shut my mind off. There are all these jumbled, random thoughts just racing through my head. I can’t just do nothing. I don’t watch TV and right now, I don’t have the patience to read anything. And even though I am wired tighter than a drum (that metaphor just doesn’t sound right), there is nothing else to do at this hour (try to remember that I do not live in a major metropolitan city…hell this state doesn’t even rate that…LOL). After having lived in Atlanta and DC, Greenville, SC is quite the sleepy community. Well, despite all the stupid, racing thoughts, I just plain don’t have anything else to say. ©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

The Queer Rollercoaster Ride

I spent a good deal of time thinking about where my life was even only three or so years ago. I was a hard-living, radical, in your face, out and proud Dyke, an absolute butch from the word go. I was as politically active as I could be. At that time, there was an amendment up for vote that year to recognize marriage in this grand southern state of SC of being only between a man and woman. Never mind that DOMA already exists at the federal level. No, SC has to insert its Bob Jones spin all on its own. This amendment would also deny any rights conferred upon queer couples from other states. Yes, the amendment passed on a landslide scale (no surprise there). Yes, folks, I am so proud to be living in this bleeding red state.

I’m back to my state of unknown identity. Who the hell am I? I have been butch all my life. It’s how I have always seen myself—how I’ve always presented myself to the world. Now, I feel like I’m back in this no-man’s-land. My struggle to reconcile being queer and Christian rears its ugly head today. One day, I can so clearly seem to make a decision on what I want to do about that, and yet today, I do a full 180. I miss who I was, my friends, my politics. And there isn’t a soul who could possibly understand this conundrum. Anyone I knew back then has already told me that they thought my decision to turn my back on my queer identity would only cause me grief…a true forewarning, to be sure. To hear “I told you so.” is not something I want to face. I knew they were all right then, and now, look at me, they still are.

One dear friend back then, my closest political ally, looked me right in the face and warned me that if I didn’t stand firm and embrace my queer identity, I would only end up back where I find myself right now. I wonder what she would tell me now. Was my choice to turn away from my queer identity in order to accept the mantle of my Christian beliefs only fueling the BP? Now, mind you, this isn’t the first time I tried to make this decision. The only other time I walked away from the queer community, my identity, my everything in order to accept of what I believed to be the tenets of the Christian way of life I believed to be right and true only landed me right into the psych ward, BP in full-blown mode, with a suicide attempt under my belt.

I just can’t sort out who I am anymore: a lesbian? someone with BP? A Christian?

Despite how some of my previous blogs have reflected what amounted to having finally made up my mind regarding who I am, this morning, the questions rear their ugly heads once again and I feel as though I am back to square one. In utter honesty, I grieve over the loss of my butch identity, my place among my gay social networking group, and yes, even being able to explore dating once again.

After doing exhaustive research online, and recalling conversations with other Lesbians, every queer person I’ve known or read about publically affirms their Christianity. They believe that they can have both. Why can I not arrive at the same decision-making process that allows me to conclude the same position?©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

Yup, It Has Started

Well, I've been at this keyboard now for most of the day.  It's now 0430 and I am just grateful that today is a holiday.  No, I won't get any sleep...way too wired for that.  But I guess it's official:  I'm converging into my manic phase.