Yesterday, my father figured out I wasn’t kidding when I called myself crazy

fuck depressionSurprise, Dad! And step-mother! And whoever else is foolishly reading this blog.

I went out to lunch with my father, my step-mother, and a friend. My father noticed – possibly not for the first time – the semi-colon I have tattooed on my middle finger. (It seems appropriate to me to have it there). He asked me about it, and I told him the story of the semi-colon and why I have it: how I want to put a semi-colon there and keep going instead of putting a period there and stopping it.

He laughed at first. Told me that I had gotten it from my mother.

And I said, yes, I did. And I told him that I applied for disability because I haven’t been able to function.

And I explained to him what it’s been like.

My brain is broken. Seriously broken. I take medication. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Because without it, I can’t function. Even with my medication, I have problems functioning.

I spent over a week trying to convince myself that death is not actually better than life. I’m still not convinced, but I know that if my medication is working, I would probably feel that life is worth living, so I’m working on it.

I went to see my psych because I knew there was a problem – and because my husband convinced me that there was a problem – and he jumped up both my medications (depression and anxiety) as soon as I told him how I felt.

When I explained that I couldn’t get out of bed, I couldn’t get any work done because the minute I saw I had work to do, it overwhelmed me, and then I’d want to just get back into bed, and then I’d notice that there was even more work to do, which then overwhelms me worse, and then I’d get depressed because I hadn’t done anything, which then made me want to go back to bed and not work…well, you get the idea. It’s a fun cycle that refuses to stop itself.

I’m in a jewelry making class. We had two projects to do. Neither of mine are finished.

I’m also in a marketing class. My projects have all been due for a while now. I still have one that I haven’t finished, and I don’t know that I will finish it.

I told all this to my psych, and he decided to increase my medications. So I went out to my car and cried because I was crazy.

Because I know I’m crazy. Because I know I’m anxious over everything and depressed about anything.

I had a half-hour panic attack because I had to take a new medication for some hip pain. It’s a simple anti-inflammatory. A NSAID. But after I took it, I freaked out and thought I was dying.

I ate a salad. Found something crunchy in it. Decided I had eaten glass and was going to die. So much fun.

I love Christmas. Normally. The minute it hits Thanksgiving, I’m all about decorating for outside. I’m all about not being able to wait to put up the tree. I love Christmas.

I still haven’t been able to do any of it. I just can’t get myself to care about it.

I’ve been on new doses of my meds yesterday and today. The increased dosage made me sleep. A lot. I slept until 10 a.m. Got up long enough to take more medication and eat breakfast, and then I went back to bed. Woke up at 2:30, took a shower, made sure my son got off the school bus and got some juice and a snack, ate my lunch and took my other medication, and wound up falling asleep again. I finally actually got up around 8 p.m. But I’m tired already.

I know my drugs will eventually work. They will kick in. I will not spend all my time thinking about ways in which death is better than life. I will not consider methods of suicides and rank them by their likelihood to success versus the amount of pain suffered. I will stop sleeping all the time. I will feel better. I will be able to do things. I will be excited about Christmas. I will decorate. I will bake cookies. I will read. I will write. I will see people. I will make jewelry. I will make blank books. I will be happy.

Until my drugs stop working again. And then this will all start over again. But I can hope it doesn’t, once I feel better.

 

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