One Long Year Later

For the past year I have wrestled with demons, good times, manic phases…you name it. I have been trying to fly below the radar…keeps things that much easier. I want so much to be anonymous, but in today’s climate, that is virtually impossible. I hate the fact that my fingerprints are in the system (not that I plan on going out and committing a crime, mind you).

This past year was a hard one at my job (let me say this right now…I am blessed with employment!). I was still on a learning curve. But what soon became evident were the issues plaguing me during recovery. I still have short-term memory loss and we don’t know if it will be permanent. Things got so bad that I was put in a sort of probationary 3-month re-evaluation subject to my work performance. I’ve lost four accounts because of the mistakes I have made. However, that period soon passed once they understood it to be the cause of a medical condition.

Ironically, I have had a great month at work so far for January. I’ve shifted my focus. I now get up at the crack of dawn (0400, to log on to the employer’s VPN at 0700). That leaves me with 3 hours before I have to be at work. Now, every morning, I am drinking my hot tea while doing my devotions and Bible reading and praying. I am also starting to record Joyce Meyer so I can pause it here and there while I take notes. I figure that’s about the best way I can start the day.

My beloved little church finally succumbed to lack of attendance, so the Pastor chose to close the church. I have tried a few and I have come across one that I am going to attend a few more times before I commit to anything. This is a much larger church and is not affiliated with a denomination which I like. Their praise & worship is a little different from what I’ve become used to, but that can change in time. What’s nice is that my pastor from the previous church and his wife, one other couple and a single dad have decided that they really like this church as well.

There is so much I want to say and I don’t even know where to start. My mom celebrated her 90th birthday last September and she is feisty as ever. She mall walks everyday, plays bridge twice a week and attends several social butterfly lunches. You’d never know it to see her. I have this picture of my Mom and I with our heads together and we have the same colour hair considering I am 36 years younger than she is. I sure hope I come from her gene pool!

Unfortunately, my niece and all of the “precious” great-grand children came with her. She knows she smells like a rose and can do no harm. That pure bull. While she can smile and laugh with the best of them, she is quite devious underneath. Just remember that she is the one who refuses to invite me to the family holiday festivities. I am the only one not invited. Well, after everyone had eaten their dinner and was just sitting around the table in the restaurant, I pulled K outside to finally end it all and call a truce even though I still don’t know how I ever pissed her off that much (hell, maybe she’s homophobic, I don’t know). I pointedly asked her why had I been excluded all these years and she said, “but I only invite my family.” Heck, I am her Godmother and her Aunt. What part of “her family” does that not fit? So what am I, chopped liver…LOL?

My Mom once told me to rise above the circumstances. So, regardless of what K said, I still decided to send her a 5x7 close-up of Mom already framed and a framed wallet-sized photo of Mom and Santa. I also happened to send it to my nephew (her brother) and my brother (yeah, I know, surprise, surprise). Today is 13 January and I have gotten a thank you from everyone except K. Well, now I can wash my hands of her. The next time I will see her will most likely be at my Mom’s funeral. My intention after my mother dies is to make no overtures towards anyone left in the family. If someone calls me, then that’s a different story. But I am an adult and I don’t have time for such foolishness. The only person I can see having a loose relationship with is my older sister P. We have been on good terms, but she is so much like Dad was. Always offering advice when none is asked, and always reminding me of how I could have done something better. Come to think of it, my brother L has the same rock to stumble over.

And so it begins—a new year filled with possibilities. Last October and the ensuing months were the absolute low point in my life. I don’t wish to be faced with the same set of circumstances that led me to attempt suicide.

I quit seeing the therapist I was first assigned to because her available hours conflicted with my work schedule. So she graciously referred me to another therapist she had good words to say regarding her, but I went to two sessions with her and she was a tad bit over the top. Look, I don’t care what time of day it is, I cannot deal with chirpiness. She was just wa-a-ay to happy a camper. So, I called the office, indicating that the second therapist was not a good fit and could I return to seeing the first therapist. The woman who answered the phone said they would have to check my medical records and have the request referred to the nurse and someone would get back to me. Well, it’s been a month and I haven’t heard anything. Yeah, I know, I should probably call and follow-up; I just haven’t had the energy to accomplish much of anything.

I am still seeing my psychiatrist and now my visits are once every three months—more of a med and status check than anything. Nevertheless, he is quite concerned about my lack of attention, focus and my short-term memory issues that have had a measureable impact on my job. He wants me to go in for neurophysiologic testing to see if we can pinpoint either the cause of the problems or if it’s temporary or not (it’s been over a year now…sounds kinda permanent to me). My psychiatrist is worried that I may have caused some injury to my brain when I attempted suicide (God only knows what flowed through my veins that night). Then, after the results are in (I have no idea what tests they would be performing), I may have to do neurocognitive rehab. I have no idea what that is all about either.

Well, I’ve now had my car for one year and I am still happy with it. But get this, I only have 3900 miles on it. I just don’t have long distances to drive around the city. Almost everything I do except for grocery shopping is within walking distance. That’s my effort of getting off my lazy ass and generating some energy burn. I found out yesterday from my Mom that the Honda Fit made Consumers Reports their best value, and Car and Driver put the Fit in their top ten for five years in a row.

OK, shift in focus. Sunday night it began to snow heavily here (I live in the southeast US). We usually don’t get snow, but ice storms instead. At night, it was so serene and picturesque. It was like looking at a huge Ansell Adams mural. When all was said and done, we ended up with 10 inches of snow. I had so much fun. However, I did learn one lesson…don’t attempt to make a snow angel in 10 inches of snow. When you fall back, it’s a longer way down than it looks, and then, once you’ve landed, all the snow falls in and buries you (my most graceful move yet). 4 days later, only the streets are finally cleared, but all of our yards are still covered with the leftover snow. The fact that the temp hasn’t risen above freezing all this time is making it harder for the snow to dissipate. But it sure was peaceful and beautiful. That, most probably, will be our big storm of the season.

I can tell I am losing some of the ground I gained when I was in that outpatient therapy program for 3 hours a day Mon, Wed, and Fri that lasted for three months. I feel the BPD becoming an issue again. I am isolating again and at the same time having a pity party that I don’t have more friends, then I take solace in my aloneness (I prefer that to loneliness). When I really think about it, I love living alone so much that I don’t even entertain the idea of dating much less having a girlfriend move in. I love my privacy. I love not answering my door (unless I know already that someone is on their way…I make them call me when they get in my driveway). I had fun with the Census Bureau. I did not fill out the form and mail it in. I feel it’s an invasion of privacy despite all their protestations that ALL information will be kept confidential. HA! They started coming by the house, first one, then another for a total of five visits. I ignored them completely. They even went to my neighbours twice (they had already been coached to answer in such a way that it did not reveal gender and number of people living in my house). I just don’t want someone knowing my business. While I applaud the medical community and their HIPAA regulations, we could sure use some of that stringent guideline in the private sector. Face it. Too many people know too much information on everyone. All it takes is this wonderful Ethernet world.

I promise, I promise to get back into my blogging on a regular basis. I guess too many of you are sick of listening to Santana. I left it as my playlist for this past year. Today, when I post this entry, I will change the music (I promise). It sure is nice to be back again.©2011

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

How My Family Treats Me on Thanksgiving

How my family treats me on Thanksgiving—I am not quite sure where to begin. Usually, the feast is held at my nieces’ house with everyone in attendance, some of whom (as in my mother and my sister, the mother of my niece) have to travel about four hours to attend. I myself just live two-and-a-half hours away.

However, several years ago I found out that I was not welcome at my niece’s house. I just happened to call my nephew (who lived in the same city as my niece) to wish him a happy Thanksgiving where he, in turn, ask me what I was planning to do. I replied that I had no plans and he asked me to come with him to my niece’s house where everyone in the family would be attending (he seemed surprised that I knew nothing about it—while I knew my mother and sister would be attending, no invitation ever came from my niece). I told my nephew that I did not receive an invitation, but he just replied that that was nonsense and everyone was going to be there and wasn’t I part of the family? He insisted to the point that I agreed to meet him at his house and go with him.

When I arrived, my niece answered the door and when she saw that I was with her brother, she was clearly not pleased, but couldn’t say anything in front of all of the others. During the course of the appetizer conversation, it became evident to me that I was certainly not welcome by anyone, and my mother looked rather displeased as she must have known that I was not specifically invited. Of course, no one came out and said anything, but clearly, I was uncomfortable at my reception and the duration of the day.

Later on, the following day I queried my mother (the patron saint of protocol) and sister and asked them what the problem was. I was totally clueless. My mother said I shouldn’t have gone since I did not receive an invitation (it sounded as if she knew more, but didn’t say anything). Then I asked my sister and she replied in kind. I asked whatever did I do anything to my niece to warrant such treatment, and the reply I received was that my sister didn’t really know, but that it was my niece’s prerogative and that I should respect it. I was hurt beyond compare, not just at my niece’s reaction, but also by the fact that both my mother and sister appeared to support my niece’s position. On one Thanksgiving, it was actually held at my mother’s house instead (and of course, my niece and her family would be there). Stung by everyone’s long-standing support of my niece and her decision to completely cut me out, I told my mother I would not be attending if she was going to be there and my mother, fearing a scene, thought that would be advisable.

Thanksgiving has always been an important holiday to me as it represented the one time that everyone would be there. Even when my son was a little boy and travelling would make it hard to travel to my mother’s house, I always made a big deal about Thanksgiving, as I wanted to make memories for my son. We always made an ordeal about it from the cooking of the meal to our special outing afterwards to his favourite park he liked to play. I always took many pictures and was pleased that I was started my own traditions with him. As he grew up, we began to travel to my Mom’s house (five hours away) to be with the rest of the family (long before my niece had her own family).

Well, this year the holiday celebration is to be at my nephew’s house instead. I held out hope that maybe I would finally be invited, but no call ever came. I just cried, as it only firmly cemented the fact that I really don’t have a family outside of my son, who now lives on the west coast and celebrates it with his birth father and his grandmother. I cannot afford to fly out to be with them, although I know I would be welcomed.

I did receive a message from a couple at church to join their family at Thanksgiving, but having not attended church for quite sometime, coupled by the fact that her extended family (whom I really don’t know) would be there would make me very uncomfortable. I am sure, out of respect to me, I would not be peppered by questions as to my continued absence from church, but being around a bunch of people, some of whom I do not know is too much for me to handle right now. Following in my mother’s footsteps on proper protocol, I called back, thankfully to have her daughter answer and I just told her to give her mom a message where I thanked her very much for the thoughtful invitation, but I would be unable to attend.

So here I sit, all alone on one of the most important days of the year only to be reminded that I am not wanted by my family.©2009

Utter Contempt

This post was never meant to be. Late last night, with full resolve, I put into place my deeply rooted desire to carry out my intended plan so foolishly done with exacting ineptitude only five  weeks earlier. However, quite obviously, this did not transpire.

Instead, I have been up all night, in my castle without a drawbridge, inspecting and taking inventory of how fucking miserable my life really is. I am fuming, livid if you will that, I have been unable to carry forth my intent. I sat there looking at everything and just wailed at my utter, incompetent nature to go through this and curled up in fetal position and cried all this whole time, getting even more enraged at the stupid lack of action (spinelessness, my Achilles' heel) which only proliferated my feeling of being a total failure. Despite the fact that I actually carried out my intent 5 weeks ago, I am fuming that I was unable to go through this in view of the knowledge of the abject uselessness of my desolate life. I am quite numb at the moment, steeling myself from all other emotion. I cannot understand why the fuck I cannot go through with my actions now—so easily attainable such a short time before. I take back the feeling of being numb—I am enraged beyond all comparison. All I heard was this loud voice that kept yelling over, “Go ahead, kill yourself, I dare you to have the balls to do this, you inept asshole,” over and over, covering my ears and yelling at it to shut the fuck up as if covering my ears would make such a difference. I cannot believe, nor do I have the words, to describe the contempt in which I hold myself. My utter failure at my most piercing desire only proves to myself how stupid, miserable and useless I am.©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

Outpatient Therapy, Day 6

I couldn’t resist this video. It actually had ME chuckling a bit! It’s well worth listening to for you group therapy gurus out there!.

Yesterday I was a little more active about filling information on the daily check-in sheet we use for “sharing” (gag). I was able to verbalize and demonstrate (what they are looking for according to my treatment plan) three skills I have been using to further my treatment.

You know how I mentioned that I can be out driving my car and all of a sudden I don’t where I am, how I got there or how to get home? (which only causes an anxiety attack to no end). Well, what I’ve come up is this plan: I Google the map from house to location (and also do a return map) and I keep that in my car. I study the map so I know what exits to pay attention to if I’m on the interstate. I have been using “mindfulness” (skill #1) by concentrating hard on where I am at all times, mentally checking off the exits. In addition, I will call the location ahead of time (even if it’s been a place where I have gone before) and ask for prominent landmarks that I can start looking for as I approach the location. I mark these landmarks on my map.

When it comes to more locally centered destinations, I can zoom in on Google and it will note landmarks (restaurants, gas stations, churches, etc). It’s still up to me to study them ahead of time so I don’t have to be looking at them while I’m driving. I’ve have even had to resort to do this when I plan to take a long walk around my neighborhood. The other night, when I just wanted to get fresh air, I Googled the diameter of the area usually a minimum of a two-mile stretch (residential, no populated landmarks) and made notes on the map with regard to street addresses to go with the street names and would place arrows to make sure I would know how to get home. In addition, I take my walks when it is very late at night—no traffic, no noise. You might wonder if I’m taking a risk doing this so late. All I can say, pity the fool who wants to fuck with me whether he has a gun or knife. Besides, you’ve heard the phrase, “suicide by cop,” well, couldn’t this be just as easily “suicide by rapist?”

The other immediate issue I have been working on is facing being around a large group of people. When our whole group therapy rejoins us for the second session (we always split into two smaller groups for the “sharing” session), I can’t handle the room that is now filled of people. All of the chairs are taken. I can’t sit next to someone, or even be in close proximity. My coping skill has been to “retreat” (skill #2) where I find a chair alongside the wall, as far as away from the table that is possible. Again, I use “mindfulness” when I start freaking out and the walls feeling like they are closing in around me. I simply close my eyes so I don’t have to see anyone and just zone on what the therapist says. Sometimes I have to use my “deep breathing” (skill 3) when I actually have to open my eyes and look at the white board, or have to participate in the discussion (my extent of participation is usually having to ask her to repeat what she just said because I don’t understand something, or my poor concentration is acting up).

So, I am using three skills so far that seem to be working to an extent. I’ve developed quite a lot of neighborhood maps, by the way. I’m not one to retrace my steps every night. Since I am still alive writing this, the severe suicide ideation I experience on an all too familiar basis, what I have been doing for that one is to get out of my house, because it seems that being all alone in my house has become a trigger, so I “retreat” and take a long, hard walk. The exertion helps dissipate the wrathful rage I am experiencing at the moment, so by the time come home I am usually spent and exhausted. I simply take my bedtime meds knowing that they will knock me out for about two hours tops. When I wake up, the suicide ideation is usually at bay, even when I go into the other room and put all my “instruments” back in their lockbox for no one to find. I’ve carefully labeled it quite prominently Bank Statements, so no one would even bother looking there if the cops ever had the probable cause to search my house.

I am missing a time block from the time I left group therapy this past Friday from about 1215 until I woke up @ 0135 (you know, when I eventually go back to work, there is no point in having to set an alarm!). However, what concerns me most about the dissociative states is wondering what I do when I am in that headspace. I have to ask the obvious question: what happens if I become suicidal during a dissociative state? Will I have the frame of mind to attempt to use my coping skills? I only have this as a vital concern because the last time I committed suicide I cannot remember almost nine hours (which of course could actually have been precipitated by the incredible amount of ETOH I consumed along with the benzos).©2009

Outpatient Therapy, Day 5

This morning was rather interesting. Did the usual sharing, but when I commented that I couldn’t remember anything from the time I left group last Friday (but that I remembered Saturday and Sunday) she asked me if I remembered calling her Friday afternoon. I drew a complete blank. She said I wanted to meet with her afterwards today to discuss my treatment plan. It was news to me (as she scribbled).
Well, we did discuss my treatment plan. I asked why, under master problem list, it listed merely “depression” and no indication of persistent suicide ideation. She explained that I had not been honest from the beginning about that on my daily check-in sheets, and only just started mentioning it. I tried to explain to her that the ideation isn’t just something I think about here and there, but that I struggle with this almost every evening. The only thing that has kept me alive has actually been using one of the coping skills. I am discovering that my house…my fucking house (or rather, being in it all alone), has become a trigger. I have to leave the house and I end up going for a walk—a long walk. My reasoning? It’s late at night, and walking releases so much of my energy. When I finally get home, I’m worn out—physically and emotionally—utterly spent.

She looked at me and told me that she thought I needed go back inside the Big House—that this outpatient treatment program, in her opinion, wasn’t going to be sufficient to keep me safe. I pleaded with her not to make that recommendation (i.e., have me committed again), that I had shown that I was successful in using my skills. I practically begged her to let me go as long as I made the commitment to her that I would use my skills when I was in that head space. I tried to stay calm, although my heart was banging so hard. However, she relented but there was this look in her eyes that scared the shit out of me. All I kept thinking to myself was to just deep breathe and stay calm. I didn’t want to trigger any action on her part.

When I got home later, I looked at my entries on the blog and, sure enough, there was my entry about Friday that I posted on Sunday morning. Evidently, I did remember at that moment actually coming home, but it doesn’t say anything else about the rest of the day. And today, the last thing I could remember was someone making a comment about the fact that I actually smiled for the first time just before we left group. My mind is so fucked up. I swear there are times when I don’t know what is real and what isn’t.©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

Yet Another Decision

Today is a day off for me. No appointments with anyone. Yesterday evening I made another decision, diametrically opposed to this one only made here.

I had nothing but time on my hands yesterday after my first encounter with my therapist. I spent much of the time playing catch-up in reading the many blogs that I follow and reading comments made to my posts, along with some personal emails I actually received from truly caring individuals. As the day progressed, I did feel the intensity of my rage lessen somewhat (certainly not from anything purposefully done on my part, I assure you)

I had already made the decision to come back and see the therapist for a second appointment—a commitment that I didn’t think I was capable of making, much less caring about. Early evening it occurred to me that if I am going to make an effort with this therapist, I should at least be responsible enough to go back on my meds (a value judgment?). I went back to my bedroom and lined up all the containers (three of which are for blood pressure since it seems I’m having an issue there as well and swallowed them all (I always feel I have to add the caveat: as prescribed LOL). With my history, making the statement “swallowing them all” takes on a whole other connotation!

Went back to my living room and spent the evening listening to some really fine jazz (John Klemmer, Stanley Clarke, Chick Corea, Miles Davis, Jean-Luc Ponty, Al DiMeola). As the evening rolled onward, I made a concerted effort to also start trying to structure the time I try to go to sleep (an ephemeral experience to say the least). Even though I felt far from tired, I took my bedtime meds, crawled into bed and tried to read a book. I am so frustrated with this last action. I opened up to where I had last read (just the previous day) and I had no memory of what this book is about (I’m only about 12-15% into the beginning). This repeated problem really pisses me off, because, if given the chance to be focused enough to read, at least concentrating on that action temporarily quells all my racing thoughts. *Sigh* I return to the first page and start over.

After a few minutes, I realized that I had made an error with one of my blood pressure medications, a mild diuretic (hydrochlorothiazide HCL, hereafter referred to HCTZ). This one, for obvious reasons, taken once a day, should only be consumed in the morning—certainly not just before going to bed. When I hopped up to hit the head, all of a sudden I did not feel so well. No, I wasn’t dizzy per se, but I felt as if I couldn’t catch my breath and also somewhat disoriented. It occurred to me that perhaps the blood pressure crisis I experienced while incarcerated was indeed situational after all. Was my blood pressure now too low? I walked around for a little bit and found myself having to sit down. Very weird feeling.

So, as potentially stupid as this action could result, I decided to drive up to the nearest CVS and use their BP machine. I had much difficulty driving; it required far more dedicated concentration and focus that what I am used to. When I walked into the store, the lights were too bright and there were too many people milling around. Without asking, I blindly walked to the rear by the pharmacy and found the machine.

Now, mind you, when I was first put on the initial does of medication, my BP had skyrocketed to 228/156. When I was released 11 days later, I immediately saw my primary care physician and my BP was still elevated (165/110). What was eerie in both measurements was the fact that my heart rate was only around 56. My PCP decided to alter the medication I was discharged with from the hospital. He effectively doubled the dose of one (clonidine HCL from 0.1mg to 0.2 mg, but dropped it from, 3x/day to 2x/day), increased to dose of another (lisinopril from 30mg to 40 mg 1x/day) and added the HCTZ at 25mg 1x/day).

I sat in front of the machine and it turned out that my BP had dropped to 137/61, HR 72. The diastolic measurement concerned me as I thought that was a bit too low which might have explained how I was feeling. I drove back home, still trying to catch my breath and thought about calling my PCP in the morning. Went back to bed, read a little and actually experienced the feeling of being sleepy (hooray for me). Perhaps adding the Geodon to my bipolar cocktail might have made the difference. I actually got about five (count ‘em FIVE!!!) hours of uninterrupted sleep. I cannot even remember the last time that happened.

When I woke up, I decided to get my BP measured again before calling my PCP. Weird. It was back up to 150/95 HR 61. (I decided to purchase a BP wrist monitor while at CVS this morning to save on having to drive each time. The first reading, while still at the store, calibrated closely to their BP machine, so I was at least on a level playing field) Knowing it was still slightly elevated, I decided not to call my PCP and took all my meds this morning as prescribed. It has now been one hour. My BP is 112/66 HR 71. Perhaps my BP meds are stronger than they need to be. I’m going to take the rest of the BP meds today and monitor this closely and then possibly call my PCP tomorrow and ask if I should perhaps reduce my dosages.

Speaking of tomorrow, I have my second appt with my shrink. As far as he knows from the phone call he received from my therapist yesterday, I have been off my meds since last my discharge. While I did fill the scripts the shrink gave me on my first visit with him post discharge, I never bothered to take any of them (still in the “I don’t give a damn” mode). I am sure his first response is going to be along the lines of “Why won’t you help me be a better doctor to you?” What can I say? I am now willing to take my meds, continue with this outpatient program for this week and next, and then pick up with my individual therapist the following week.

Is this progress? I don’t know. I still feel resistant. I’m still in my “don’t give a damn” mode. I still face abject loneliness, utter sense of no worth, absolute pain over all the consequences arising from my actions throughout my life, and above all, I have no reason why I should be forced to continue this existence from which I want to be finally relieved. Nevertheless, in reality, what do I have to lose except my life, upon which I still place no value?©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

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

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

The Absence of Being

Tension fills the still air
The cigarette left unattended
Smoke fills the sterile clean room
The coffee grows cold in its cup

The woman sits all alone
Unaware of her own surroundings
Left to her own devices
She absorbs the thoughts in her head

No where to go
No one to see
She’s left all alone
With no one to help

Emotions abound to process
Too many to cleanly develop
Overwhelmed by the flood that washes
And coursing through her maddening mind

She looks for answers to come
And discovers there are none to be found
She sits there and ponders her life
She’s immune to the outside world

She desperately seeks the reality
Trapped by the pieces in her brain
She lights yet another cigarette
And drinks from the cold bitter coffee

Nothing to stare at before her
Blank walls fill the entire room
The quiet cannot stop the madness
That fuels her desolate space

She gets up to open the door
To the world that has nothing to offer
She stares at the blank cloudless sky
With hopes of a future to come
©2007

Sadness vs. Depression?

For many of you following my blog, be it by reading my prose or my poetry, you can see the battle I am waging with my bipolar disorder. For financial reasons I decided to do the unthinkable for a bipolar patient—wean myself off all my medications. I understood all of the implications and ramifications of this decision yet I felt I had no choice.

Within two weeks of my careful and conservative weaning protocol I did a crash and burn. I was more motivated to commit suicide than at any other time in my life. In fact, in the middle of that two-week window, when I saw my shrink, even he said that he did not recognize the person who walked through his door. My crash also resulted in hearing voices in my head dictating to me to break off all my relationships with my immediate family whom, for the most part, have been very close to me. What I said was harsh, mean-spirited and angry, all of which were on the eve of my phone being disconnected. I never bothered to wait for any response; I simply hung up when I finished my invective.

The break that hurts me the most is the fracture I created between me and my son—my son whom I love with all of my heart, who has always been there for me no matter what, and has made sacrificial decisions in his past to meet my needs. My whole being aches for that action. This morning I finally mustered up the courage to call the ones I hurt and ask for forgiveness. The only person I could not get in touch with was my son and my heartfelt voicemail will have to suffice until repeated attempts can be made that will result in a real-time conversation.

I am still not in a space where I want to have a regular dialog with anyone except my son mostly because of the emotional energy that it requires of me. I don’t want to put on a façade with my family, yet at the same time, they do not deserve my dark ramblings when I am in this space. The only exception is my son because I feel I can be myself and still be loved unconditionally and without judgment. I feel loved by most of the rest of my family, but judged by some.

The dynamics of my family of origin is a strange one and proves the point that blood is not necessarily thicker than water. I have three siblings only one to whom I am particularly close. One I never talk to because she won’t initiate or sustain a relationship with me (for some unknown reason—I’m always told by other family members to simply accept it because that is how she is with everyone). Another I rarely talk to and it is always brief spurts of email, dry and inconsequential. At best, I am an enigma to him, one he will never understand, but has no trouble repeating the sins of the father—nothing I do is ever good enough. At best, what it is that I do is always considered suspect as if there was a better way to accomplish the same thing with the attitude that I wasn’t smart enough in the first place to have already thought and considered any suggestion he might have had, but I had already rejected it for sound reasons. I am treated as a child that, for some reason, needs to be approached in a cautious and questioning manner. Nothing I do or any decisions I make are simply accepted at face value; everything always has to be questioned.

Now, mind you, to be fair, being one of the middle kids, I was a pain in the ass to be around and was always considered to be the black sheep of the family. I know my behavior and actions surely colored my relationships as we were growing up, but for goodness sakes, my youngest sister will be 46 this year. Are we not all adults at this stage of the game? Even I eventually grew out of my need to show my ass as frequently as I did.

Do you want to know what my mother’s biggest fear is? She is afraid that once she dies none of the rest of us will keep in touch, and I think she has a very real reason for thinking that. I happen to agree with her. With the exception of my oldest sister, the other two apparently have no need for me; that is quite obvious in our current state of relations (or lack thereof). Perhaps the oldest two might stay in touch as they are the closest in age, but I doubt it would be a substantive relationship. The fact that my brother and I do not live in the same part of the country as my sisters will probably have some bearing on the future of any relationships.

I guess I went into some detail about these dynamics because it only further points out to me just how alone I really am in this world. Since leaving the gay community I do not have any close friends here in the same town I live in (I do have two that live away). I have some relationships with individuals that fall into the acquaintance category, and one budding relationship that has all of the earmarkings of turning into a fine, durable friendship as I am taken at face value, respected for who I am (and who I am not) and we both give what we get. But that doesn’t really leave me with much as a whole. Truth be told, seriously, with the exception of my family (and I will be honest about that), if I were to drop dead tonight, there would be no one in this world to miss me. Oh, sure, my death would have an immediate impact on a couple of people as death always does, but after the initial shock, life goes on and I will never be thought of again. I guess it boils down to the fact that I have never really done anything in this world that has had any measurable impact on someone else. And that is my own doing as I have always kept everyone at arms length, never letting them see the real me, and always having whatever face I needed to put on depending upon the situation I was in. Imagine being in a room filled with 100 people and feeling all alone.

I have said all of this to preface the title of this discourse: when one is bipolar, how can one tell the difference between true sadness or the madness of depression? I have yet to determine where that fine line lies. I am a very binary individual. By that, I mean that everything either is or it isn’t; it’s on or it’s off—very black and white. My life is a series of ones and zeros (trust me, the zero column is stacked a bit higher). Certainly, I should have the capacity to be able to experience the normal emotion of sadness without all of the trappings of depression. I think I felt that once when I close friend of mine died. I was able to feel the pain of the loss and mourned him for quite some time, but it was of a different caliber than how I feel when I am depressed which is a cold, calculating numbness.

Being bipolar has robbed me of the normal ranges of emotions that most people experience. For me, I have two: mania or depression. There is no middle ground (again, think binary). Well, no, I take that back. There are two other emotions that I can be honest enough to say that I feel. One is a level of love so overwhelming that sometimes it catches my breath. That is what my son means to me. The other emotion that I am bridled with, that I do think is a consequence of bipolar, is abject anger. Not feeling a tad pissed off about something, but true black anger. I think I have always had this anger even as a child. They say that bipolar is most likely hereditary. I am constantly trying to figure out which gene pool mine comes from. Some in the family would say without a doubt that it is from my father—someone that I really never knew well. Yet, sometimes I think it could be my mom because of so many of the traits I see of her in myself (mom was always the master at The Façade). For me, there is nothing so disquieting than looking in the mirror and have absolutely no idea who is looking back. And the eyes—always these deep, black pools of emptiness.

After I saw my shrink the other day, I agreed, mostly because I had enough meds to do this for a little while longer, to go off of my weaning protocol while he tries to see what kind of volume samples he might be able to get to help me along. I hate what my bipolar has taken from me. It’s not enough just to be bipolar, but to be so treatment resistant that two weeks of dropping the dosage of one of the six meds I am on caused me to go into a tailspin that truly scared even me. I know that at some point soon my finances are going to preclude the ability to continue my meds schedule. I am not eligible for any financial assistance. Believe me I have tried everything under the sun. The sad part is that I look great on paper if you just look at the gross income. But no one ever considers the outgo. When the meds are gone for good, what will happen then?©2007