Wednesday, December 2, 2015

I'm funny.

I want so much to write a lighthearted post about some funny thing, or at least speak with a sense of humor of something that's not super funny.  I used to do that.  I'm so dark, lately.  I've been so dark, and not very clever at all.  I'm repeating myself in posts, and talking in circles.  Although I feel better when I write, I'm not writing anything that is making me feel better.  That's not normal for me.

There is nothing poetic in complaining and lamenting symptoms of a disorder I still haven't gotten a handle of.  It is all in a numb, stilted voice.  There is no lilt, or creativity.  I've gone back to not being able to read, or draw or sew.  I was doing those things, and I was helping Sam build...  I used to be able to crank up some music and clean the house with a bit of energy and purpose.  It can't have been that long ago.  There are times when music, voices just bring on a feeling of nausea, and that's what is happening now.  I can't listen to music.  I've tried all types, and it all accosts my senses.  That's not normal.

There was time when I felt this badly, and I didn't read at all, which is something that makes me feel happy.  It was almost a year, after I left teaching.  When I started reading again, I felt renewed and my brain felt like it was doing something positive, and not just torturing me with it's crazy chemical imbalances.  I keep trying, but I put the book down because I'm just staring at the pages.  I don't have any desire to keep seeing the words.  I just want to look at nothing.  I would like to be in a room that is blank and empty and quiet and be alone.  That's not normal.

I have a painting, which I also attempted to recreate in pastel, that I have painted over 5 times now.  I work on the body position, and the skin tones, and the light and shadow, and then I paint it all over with blue.  The water which the figure is kneeling in.  I am better with pastels.  I drew it that way, on a big textured paper and, even though you think you can't just wash away or cover over pastel, I found a way...  I rubbed it all out with mineral spirits, so it's one big blue, green, and brown mess.  Sam says that drawing, that image I've wanted to paint for a very long time, is my white whale.  I am chasing it, and it evades me.  It evaded me, and I gave up. That's not normal.

I've changed medications, three changes at once as prescribed by my doctor, Prozac instead of Lexapro; 150 mg of Wellbutrin instead of 300 mg; a new mood stabilizer called Lamictal...  So maybe this is all part of the adjustment period.  It takes weeks, sometimes over a month to know if an RX treatment will "work."  I have been through these months, of trying something that might work, yet it didn't at all.  It didn't work, and I had to start again with something else.  That's the way depression and PMDD are treated... we keep trying, the doctors and me, until something helps me. We keep trying, and I keep trying.  I want to believe that this will be the combination of medications that will work.  I want to believe that, because starting from a beginning point, seems intolerable... impossible when the holidays are upon us, and my children are so full of hope and light and cheer.  I beg the calendar, as I count the days, to have my good days for Christmas.  I have been afraid to count this year.  I don't want to know.  Maybe if I don't know, I will be okay.

Maybe it's the knowing, and the expectation of darkness coming that makes me feel so... dark?  Maybe I do this to myself?  Maybe I would be okay if I just told myself I don't have PMDD at all and there will be no day where I suddenly go from Joanna, to someone who is numb and empty and sad...  and crazy.  Can I just think it away?  Can I make it go away if I just ignore the idea of it all together?  Is there a placebo effect?

Wouldn't that be so wonderful?  Wouldn't that be the most beautiful thing in the world?  Haven't I felt happy when I was luteal?  Haven't I been "okay," and above ground, instead of at the bottom of the deep hole, not even bothering to look up?  I have.  I have.

And I can't get it out of my head, those questions of "what was different?"  "What made me feel so much better?"  And the answers are impossible and only make me more sad and defeated.

Help me.  I want to say that to just the right person who will really be able to do that.  I want to not whisper it to myself, while I'm crying and holding my knees, rocking back and forth trying to clear my head.  I want someone to fix me.  I want someone to tell me how to fix myself.  I want to be all better and never live in this Hell again.  I keep thinking I can will it away, just focus so diligently on good things, until all the bad things leave my body and my mind.  I often feel like writing must help me get it out, because once I've written it, maybe I can keep it in typed or words written in my journal, and they will be gone, gone, gone from my mind.  A relief will come, I think.

Help me.  This could kill me.  I know that.  I feel it.  And I want to believe that I'm supposed to keep living and no one wants me to disappear entirely.  Could a person save my life?  Could a medication save my life?  Can therapy or hospitalization save me?  Can anything save me?

Please.  I know I'm difficult and my problems are not something anyone would want to burden themselves with, but I don't know how to do this by myself.  I'm giving up, a little bit, and that's not normal.

(Be careful with Lamictal...  It can really mess you up... I'm starting again... stopping one med and trying something new.  Sigh...)

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