Things are Tough

This is just a pointless angry rant. I wouldn’t waste your time tbh.
I’m finding it hard to write. It’s not that I don’t have lots of thoughts – or belly rumblings as my dad would call them. It’s that I don’t think they matter. Who cares? And I can’t make coherent sentences anyway so forget it.

I’ve been trying to write something about being a depressed parent but it’s too huge. It’s a load of waffle so I’ve left it. 

I don’t think anyone should have to be around me, talk to me, listen to me at all. Why are you reading this? Run away.

I keep trying to convince myself that everything is just super. Oooh look at all the positives!!! I’m so used to doing this to reassure other people that I’m not hopeless so they feel better. Do you do that? Tell people things are supposedly positive when, in fact, nothing feels good? The number of times I hear sentences begins like:

  •  “Well, at least you….(managed to go to the shop for example like I’m going to feel like a hero for doing something completely ordinary)”

or y’know 

  • Well it’s probably a good thing…(that you’re off work for example thus killing my career. Yip-Dee-do-da-day!” 

and 

  • yes but it’s important to remain positive”. 

I’M NOT POSITIVE I AM SEVERELY FUCKING DEPRESSED AND I’M SORRY THAT YOU HAVE TO EXPERIENCE A FEW SECONDS OF DISCOMFORT DURING OUR CHIT CHAT BUT HERE’S AN IDEA: why don’t you just fuck off if I make you so uncomfortable?! Do one. No seriously. Trying not to embarrass you is another problem I don’t need and I am POSITIVE about that. Happy?!?! No. Me neither.

  
*breathe angry lady, breathe*

This is a very dark place. You wouldn’t like it. I don’t.

Advertisements

A Change 

Something changed last night. I had accepted defeat and let work know I wouldn’t be in today. I’d taken all my various medications to battle depression and the cold and I was in bed. My antidepressant makes me sleepy it feels kind of fuzzy as it starts work. It’s quite pleasant actually.
Anyway, I noticed a change in how I felt. It may appear that I obsess over every little feeling and you’d be right. It’s part of mental illness I think and described quite well in this passage from The Shock of The Fall by Nathan Filer:

Worse than all of that is how I have become selfish.

Mental illness turns people inwards. That’s what I reckon. It keeps us forever trapped by the pain of our own minds, in the same way that the pain of a broken leg or cut thumb will grab our attention, holding it so tightly that your good leg or your good thumb seem to cease to exist. 

I’m stuck looking inwards. Nearly every thought I have is about me – “

  
So with this constant self absorption I do notice when changes occur. Last night some strength came back and it was very welcome indeed. This will not kill me I vowed. The change was a sense that it was about more than just survival, now some of the fight was back. Just a flicker but there it was. 

I lay in the dark and thought I saw something. I was a bit unsettled. It felt like a flashback might be about to happen but that little flicker of fight meant I was ok with that. If it happens then let it happen. It didn’t. Instead I saw myself. Not really. I wasn’t really there but I imagined my teenage self stood there and I felt calm. 

The Teenage Self – Kind of Creepy!

 
This was remarkable because a lot of the drive to kill my self is because I want to kill her. (Hey, what can I say? I’m complicated! So they tell me!) I was totally fine with her being there. I mentally (I think…maybe I did murmur out loud, don’t know) told her “it’s ok”. “You’ve done really well and now it’s ok. If you want to come and lie here that’s fine. Do you want a hug?” The weirdness of the whole thing is not lost on me. I reassured her “we can do this. We can hang on.” And just like that a whole load of fear went away. It was a relief to make peace with her. I hope it lasts. She really is the destructive self-harming, self-hating, dangerous manifestation of this illness so having her at rest, my own demon, can only be good.

  
There’s no denying it’s all messed up. I feel like she’s here now. But, of course, there is no ‘she’. Really it’s just personification of a feeling, a sensation. When I slept (as well as I could full of sodding cold) I dreamt of being cared for. It was bloody lovely. 
This morning I’m a mess with cold. It’s true about depression totally destroying the immune system. My sickness record will testify to that. Despite feeling total kak I went and got down the green box. I’ve kind of wanted to do this for a while but been too scared. The green box contains my past. Lots of photos. 

  
Confusing to look at now but here it is. 
And that’s the change. The teenage self can be soothed rather than exterminated and I can look at these photos that tell one story and know that it’s ok that there is a different story too. Not seen. One that doesn’t have any photos. 

  

  

Yesterday 

All my troubles were not far away. It was a toughie that’s for sure. It was just like OD day in many ways except I didn’t OD. I actually bought 32 paracetamol (my weapon of choice) but texted a friend in work and took them straight to her. It satisfied that urge, that compulsion, but kept me safe. I do not want to die by paracetamol OD. It’s an utterly horrendous way to go.It’s been a difficult few hours. This will be quite long. Even longer than normal. In fact I’m going to say it’s a short story. A short, true story.

It started on Thursday night. After an amazingly normal day the darkness crept back, overwhelming every molecule inside me one at a time. My husband and I discussed how he is at breaking point, exhausted. I said sorry, hated myself and we talked over some ways he could access support – he won’t do it though. I admitted to him that me being such a burden to the family increases my suicidality. He told me that was wrong. It was fine. But I knew it wasn’t fine or he wouldn’t be at breaking point. I said I wasn’t sure we’d make through this and we both sat silently contemplating the future.

I knew on Friday morning that the depression was back full force. Just opening my eyes was a mammoth task. Well, no one likes mornings so I dragged my carcass through. It took 30 mins to do my makeup, it normally takes 5. I lay sprawled out on the bedroom carpet imagining how lovely it would be to just go to sleep forever. I spent a long time like that. I imagined the officers perhaps processing the scene. Our carpet is long overdue a Hoover and I wondered if they’d have to process the gazillion fibres on the floor to ascertain no foul play. I just did not want to exist. I looked at the ceiling light and imagined it falling on to me. It’s heavy. I found it ironic that if it fell I would instinctively move out the way. Stupid survival instinct.

Eventually I peeled myself from the floor, got in the car and drove to my GP appointment. I dread these. They make me feel pointless and hopeless. I didn’t need that today but I also knew if I rang my support line about how I felt they’d only tell me to see my GP anyway so how convenient that I had an appointment booked anyway.

Usually he runs super late but there was only one patient in front of me. I felt for her. I recognised her anxiety. She had her arms wrapped around herself, her head down and her foot tapped continuously. She looked distressed and I recognised and empathised with it. I’ve been her. She’s in for 25 mins. I feel a pang of jealousy. I used to get the time too, not now. She makes another appointment at the desk. Ah! That’ll be the monitoring appointment either 1 or 2 weeks. Then it’s my turn.

I go in awkward. I’ve seen him so many times now. It just feels utterly futile. At least he used to be nice to me. Really nice actually. Not any more. I’ve had my niceness allocation. It’s all used up now and I’m still not better so it goes to someone else – like the lady who was before me. I hope she gets better. I hope that I am not her future. Anyway, I used to be very honest in appointments because I trusted him. He was the only person who ‘got it‘ – about my mum. He’s the one who said PTSD and made sense of everything. He had listened and understood about my past. It gave me incredibly important validation. The teenager in me had finally told a grown up in authority and he had taken it very seriously indeed. I wrote something to that effect in the apology/ thank you card I gave him. You might remember it? I checked the wording with some people make sure it wasn’t weird and stalker like? Despite my admissions of self-harm and attempts to get a gun there would still be humour in our appointments. I really felt listened to and it gave me important validation. I got attached and it seemed a shame that the one person who got it was a hcp – someone paid to understand. Anyway all that changed. I think it was 2 things: the thank you card (clearly was weird and stalkerish- cheers advisors!); and the OD. After that appointments changed and became very short, businesslike. Which is fine but is hard for someone like me (massive issues with rejection and abandonment) to take. I don’t mind the appointments being businesslike. At the end of the day all I want is to get better so, although it’s difficult that the friendly dr has been replaced by the cold Dr, it’s ok. 

Except…

Well, except the cold Dr doesn’t really seem to concern himself too much with details that I think are important. He did not explain the side effects of mirtazapine to me and, yesterday, when I told him I didn’t want to exist anymore he didn’t question or follow up at all. A known suicide risk walked into that room clearly a bit emotional and said she didn’t want to exist anymore and…nothing. Not even a question. I explained that I hadn’t started the mirt when instructed because of the weight gain side effect but then had decided that things were bad enough that I would. ‘Bad enough‘ meant that I was avoiding train tracks scared I would throw myself on them or that I had purchased a special knife just for cutting but I didn’t tell him this and he didn’t ask. The purpose of the appointment was to evaluate how the mirt and return to work were going but he didn’t ask. Instead he asked me for the 2nd time how I got on with my CPN. I told him the same as last time – good, I like her. They know each other my GP and CPN. I don’t know in what capacity, it seems largely professional but certainly friendly too. They have both admitted it and it feels all a bit weird tbh. Anyway having not asked me about side effects or work he asks me when I think I should see him again. This annoys me. ‘You’re the fucking Dr’ I think. He suggests 3 weeks. Fine I agree but I know I’m not coming back. At this point I’m not sure whether I’m not coming back as I’m about to kill myself or I just won’t bother.

I leave and sit in the car. I don’t know what to do. The rain pelts the car and it’s soothing. What the fuck do I do now? I really, really want to hurt myself. Perhaps not to the point of death but close. What can I do? I look at my kids’ picture on my phone. Ok, suicide is out (but it won’t go away because I want to do it but I won’t). Right, other options. Ummm go to work? No, I’m in no fit state to teach and I’m unsafe. I shouldn’t be near a school so that’s out. Well then go home sick? No, I shouldn’t be alone. I will hurt myself and it will be bad, life threatening maybe. Ring the support line? No, I know the script by heart. There’s nothing they can do. This has to come from inside me. I have to fix this. I can’t call my CPN. She works 3 days a week so they’re the best days to be suicidal on. Sadly this isn’t one of them. I just sit and listen to the rain. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck. I can’t drive as I don’t know where I might drive to. I consider just driving, heading north and seeing how long it is before anyone notices. I like that option but I imagine the combined worry and anger of my husband and that stops me. Unlike suicide I would actually have to deal with the consequences. I feel like the most pointless speck of dust on the planet. I don’t understand the conundrum: suicide is a very serious thing yet I could tell any number of people I’m close to killing myself and I’d still just be on my own. How can it both be serious and not serious enough? Maybe it’s just me. I’m such a joke. They know I’m not worth the concern. I won’t throw myself in front of a train. Thoughts like those make me want to do it even more. FUCK. No one can help. No one. I get paranoid then, sat in the Drs car park, so I need to move.

I go to the nearby Tesco as that was always the plan for the day. Plan for Friday: go to dr, go to Tesco to buy lunch, go to work, go home day done. I buy a wrap for my lunch and then Rolos and fruit pastilles and mints and coke (I need some serious sugar). Then I find myself standing in front of the paracetamol. Ah fuck. You are not going to do this. An idea! Buy enough to kill you and then give it to someone else. It’s risky but yeah! It might work. So I add 16 paracetamol to my shop and go pay. Once I’ve paid I go straight back and pick up another 16 being sure not to swipe my club card 2nd time round. Oh god the elation! Ha! I’ve done it! I have enough to kill myself nar nee nar nee na na! I text my friend in work to tell her to expect delivery of these pills.

I arrive at work. Put the pills in a document folder and breeze into her class. ‘Hi! Just need you to look after these for me!’. I pop it in her bottom drawer and breeze back out again. She catches up me as soon as she’s free. I’m hyper from all the sugar but otherwise fine. I am safe. There’s a lot of anger there so I’m punching things, like my poor classroom board, when in private but otherwise yup, fine. At lunchtime I crash again. I do not want live let alone teach bottom set Y10 on a Friday afternoon so I go hyper again. A kid in my class asks if I’m drunk. I fucking wish I was drunk I think but the lesson actually goes pretty well. Phew! I’m so behind on paperwork. It’s a nightmare. I try to plough through some of it but struggle because I just don’t care. Fuck it all. Fuck everything.

At home the exhaustion overwhelms me. I make a pretty decent dinner and go to bed about 630pm. I’m still here now. It’s, what, 15 hours later? And trust me, I’m not in any hurry to shift. Obviously I feel guilty about being a shit mother and wife. However I feel like there’s a heavy weight pushing on me, stopping me from getting up. Last night my husband was worried. He came up to see me. You see when I took the OD I did it in bed. He tells me that he looked through the Tesco receipts (from the stuff I bought for dinner) to see if I’d bought any paracetamol. I momentarily panic. Shit! The 32! But no, they were transactions this morning. Their receipts are in school. Phew. Thank goodness.

And here I am. In bed. Typing up my little story of yesterday. Unfortunately there is no ending or conclusion. I WILL get up today. I might even have a shower. And there you have it. Another day of depression. No end.