Monday, April 27, 2015

Bolide.




\BOH-lahyd, -lid\
noun
1. a large, brilliant meteor, especially one that explodes; fireball.
2. They can be human too.

These are the people you meet in life who sparkle, and shine, and light up your world, but then poof: they spontaneously combust, and disappear into the ashes of your memories.  And you taste the heat;  and you smell the smoke; and you feel the burn.

Their flames seem to consume you, yet most of the time you end up okay.

But, sometimes you are caught in the blaze. You get burned up. You aren't okay at all.

I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay.
I'm on fire. Can you hear me through the inferno?

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Snap.

For the past three years, I've been able to rely on the knowledge that my darkest and most hopeless days were caused by my hormones, and there was some comfort in the knowing that the worst brain nausea and suicidal thoughts would go away.  Even when I felt like it was impossible that I could ever feel different than I felt at those moments, (and sometimes that I ever felt different than I did in those moments), someone else could tell me, "You don't feel this way all the time.  This will pass.  You will feel better."

So, at the bottom of that metaphorical well, I sat and waited; I waited for relief.  I was promised relief would come.  It was a promise made by people who loved me, and by doctors.  It was a promise that came from the tiny little shadow of me inside that knew, just knew that end wasn't it for me.

Yet, there were times where I wrecked myself, by giving myself time limits and expectations for a sparkling recovery.  Yes, I'd rise up into the sunshine, and for 12 days I'd be all the Joanna I could be.  Of course I wanted to feel that way.  That made it worse, when it didn't happen.  I learned to just accept the solace of knowing I would stop wanting to be dead for 12 days. Baby steps.  

I always wondered if anyone could really help me.  They sure as Hell tried.  They want me to want more, need more, hope more, see sunshine and light.  They want me to live, not just not be dead.  I even started to have expectations for more.  Dr. A said, "You have a right to be alive, Joanna."  I wanted to be alive.  I didn't want to just not want to disappear.  I want to be alive.  I want to be alive.

But here's the thing:  PMDD sucks bananas, and, depression is tricky business, I tell you.  So tricky, for the past week, it stealthily moved through me, weaving in and out, leaving traces of self-doubt, anxiety, sadness, then numbness, and then finally, despair.  The thing is, I'm not technically luteal, so what is this thing?  How can this be?  There is no, "you don't feel this way all the time," solace.  And so I now fell upon despondency.  If I can't rely on any kind of hope for relief; if I can't rely on a promise; if no one can even tell me, "this will pass"--with a calendar and pattern to prove it--and not just, "the doctors will figure out how to help you,"  than I am lost.

I snapped, you know?  I am fully lost.  I don't believe any of it anything anymore.  I can't believe in anything. I can't believe in anything.
I can't believe in anything.

For two days I have been thinking about every way I could die.  I believe in that.  I believe being dead would mean I wouldn't feel anything, and I wouldn't be messing up other peoples' lives.  Last night my only reservation about the best way to get the job done--Sam wrapping his hands around my neck and squeezing--was that Sam would go to jail (the authorities wouldn't believe I begged him to do it, I figure) and that's no good.  I believed in that.  Sam didn't.  He didn't believe that was a good idea.

I know I have children!  I have responsibility to them, even if I don't care about myself.  So I try to think, think, think, what could this be?  Is it expectations from other people that tipped me over?  I don't know.  I know that my medications were changed, and this would be when I would see if it helped or... not. It did not.  But I can't feel hope in that, just more defeated.  

I guess I can still write.  Look at me, I'm writing! I can write when I'm pretty fucked up.  

Go back to my old medication?  I did that today.  I was told to do that today, a higher dose.  Will that help?

I think it has been a long time coming, but I've been afraid of the idea of truly being hospitalized for mental illness.  The thing is, I know, and I should have remembered, that no one can help someone who is severely mentally ill, unless they're a doctor.  I've seen this.  I know it.  No matter how much loved ones want to help, they just can't.  And the trying, and believing they can, rips them apart.

I don't think anyone is strong enough to take someone else's health on their shoulders, when there are feelings involved.  It is human nature to protect oneself from imminent danger.  Loving someone who is crazy is painful and dangerous.  I've seen my father become a shell of himself, trying and trying...  I won't do that to anyone.  I've been on the other side!  I've tried to take care of everyone, all the problems, fix all the things, and maybe that's why I'm fucking crazy now. Who knows...  I do know doctors are trained, and paid to treat illnesses of every kind, and all levels of severity.  And depression can be terminal.  And terminal patients require constant care.

I've seen something else too... I've seen what happens when everyone thinks they can help, but in doing so, no one does anything.  I'm sorry mom.  I'm sorry.  I know I can't do nothing... because I have children... and rocking for hours with my arms wrapped around my knees whispering, "Kill me, please, kill me, please, kill me, please..." will scare the living daylights out of them.  Mommies don't do shit like that.  Mommies can go to the hospital when they are sick.  Kids can understand that.
***
Later that day...
I saw Dr. A this afternoon.  He fit me in for an emergency appointment.  He said, "You told me I've never seen you when you were really feeling terrible, but I'm seeing it now."  He told me it would go away.  I told him I was scared it wouldn't, because this psychological breakdown wasn't on my calendar.  He said I had better fix my calendar.   And, I did.  I started in January when I started Yasmin, counting the days from the first appropriate point.  I counted off 12 day increments and marked them.  I then went back and counted off 14 day increments and marked them.  I've always had a 24 day cycle, but 28 day cycles are what most OCPs force the body into.  In both scenarios, I would be luteal now.  I thought I had just snapped back to pre-pill pmdd.  Maybe I didn't go right back to that, exactly.  So... my luteal phase would have started on between April 1st and April 4th.  One of those days.  And here I am.  Is that good?  Should I believe, again?  I feel too horrible to think about it, for now.  Maybe later.