Dear Meredith part 2

Dear Meredith,

I just re read the letter I wrote to you the other day. It makes me look a bit crazy, in my defence I was a touch agitated and anxious at the time. It all makes sense though really, you just have to join the dots, align the metaphors as though they were the lyrics of a song, then you might understand.

It’s hard you know, faking it til you make it, really fucking hard. I can’t remember how to be a mum or a wife its all just going through the motions, if I’m ‘up’ its warm and I have my glasses on and if I’m down the world is blurry and cold  but either way the rest of the world lies behind a window. I want to go back to work but I am scared to, and I am just as scared not to. I know I couldn’t cope today but I have two weeks of holidays to allow for spontaneous mental re alignment. Work is the real world they can all function in, why can’t I? I just want to be able to do what they do without this ‘thing’ hanging over my head. I spoke to my old, old boss from the shop yesterday, I told him about my diagnosis and he said that it made a lot of sense, he remembered how I would suddenly be able to sell ice to eskimos for a few months and then not have the motivation to say hello to people for another few. But even then, in those days I was able to function – Hell I sold ice to eskimos without freaking out they were going to send polar bears after me, why is it NOW that I get so paranoid when I’m up, why not just the productive happy for months – I’m getting two weeks of happy or paranoid then I just get depressed again, it’s all happening so fast like a fucking roller coaster set to high speed. It’s tiring, I am exhausted – where’s my so called decreased need for sleep that I used to have, I’m jittery and fucking can’t concentrate I have music playing in my mind and the thinking wont.fucking.stop – which is more annoying than enlightening. I want to drink, drown my sorrows but I can’t.  And part of me wants to die again so badly, the other day when I thought the police were coming for me I made a bomb proof plan of how to get away which I will never tell because the enabling part of me is the paranoid part of me and I need that back up, ‘just in case’ but the other day, I didn’t think to kill myself, oh that would have been so much simpler. I know where that brown snake lives now… Reckon the cops would shoot me if I threw a snake at them? I don’t want to kill him, I named him Harold, I’m not afraid of him hurting me, as long as he doesn’t hurt the children or the cats.  I think I have a name for my book “Life lessons” – All of the random shit that has occurred throughout my days has had a lesson attached to it – or at least I can make it appear that way, then tie them all into a nice little philosophical bundle at the end. I want to write now, I need to send my cousin an email reply but I feel that my concentration isn’t good enough today –  She writes like I do, same words and everything – until the other day it had been 26years since we had spoken. I think we would get along so well if we were to meet up again, she lives in England you know. That is the same reason I am unable to do more on the book – concentration I mean - So instead I am writing to you, because sentence structure and content don’t matter it is easier to write a stream of consciousness instead. I hope this book does well – please don’t take this letter as a sample of my writing, I really am much better at it than it would appear right now.

Maybe I should start blogging again, fun stuff with the serious I used to be good at it, I used to have followers and comments and won some free bedding for some advertising in return, it was great. Speaking of bedding, Ikea is opening up in Canberra next month and I can’t wait! I just love the smell of the place, makes me happy – retail therapy is always good, can’t leave that place without spending at least $1000, sadly that is not money I have now that I’m not working. I hate being a dole bludger, though I suppose the same people are paying my wage now that were paying it when I was working but instead I sit on the other side of the computer.

I have some sugar free lollies that I just rescued from my car – they are chews and the heat messes them up, shouldn’t bring them in really, just means I will eat them all. Sugar free or not they still have 12 calories per sweet – that adds up really quick if you aren’t careful so I try and make them last as long as possible. I have lost a tiny bit of weight, I can tell because my jeans fit me better – another approx. ten kilos and I will fit my clothes again, it takes so much work – I can’t believe I let myself go the way I did. Never again, too painful. I think about death often still. I feel that once I have reached ideal weight I will stop my Lithium and try and induce mania, then I can kill myself when I hit euphoria- I like the idea of going out on a high, the best feeling in the world becomes the eternal one, no more pain no more downs just freedom – flying high.

Meredith, how do you feel about suicide? I am sure you have entertained the idea at some point in your life, just for a second. I think everyone has really. What I don’t understand is why people care so much about stopping it. Hey it’s your life – abortion is legal and that’s someone else’s life. The baby doesn’t have a choice, why can’t the adult make one? I agree that as a once off freak out situation they should be educated to make an informed decision, but if they had a few mandatory counselling sessions and still wanted to die then they should be able to, depression can be a terminal disease and much like cancer and the euthanasia debate, I don’t understand why we can’t let people who really want to go, go.

I wish Boost Juice made home deliveries, I could really use a ‘wondermelon’ right now – but I did just eat a lolly. Sigh… I HATE myself and my stupid rules and rituals, but I can’t disobey or I get fat. I really want to gamble at the moment speaking of vices. Ugh the lure of the trains – I want to win run away money to put into my secret account should I need to do a bunker to Melbourne or the like, just in case you decide to come with your policeman the way Jaimie threatened to do that time. I have never forgotten and now I can never ever trust any of you. I know you are going to call soon in the next few days probably and when you do I will tell you I don’t want to be a part of your organisation any more, please exit me – that way I don’t have to worry about you sending anyone to take me away. I won’t go. You won’t make me. It will be a battle to the death and I am not afraid to die. I also might just run to the gate so I can grab Harold and throw him at the police… “Catch!” HA! How fucking funny would that be! They wouldn’t know how to react, they would think I was picking up a rock or something then SURPRISE! If he bites me, he bites me Que Sera Sera, cest la vie and insert something in Italian here for good measure.

I’m cold Meredith, the fire is roaring but it’s not reaching all the way down here to my little study nook. I do love my study nook, temperature aside, It feels like my own special place, at least until the kids come and bugger it up stealing my scissors and the like. Where do scissors go to? Can you tell me Meredith? I have found that they disappear into thin air at will and particularly around Christmas and birthdays when you need them the most. That and the sticky tape. I swear though, I must have 7 or 8 pairs of scissors and I literally can’t find one when I need them.

I feel like a joint, I have half of one left hiding in my secret place but I am slightly scared to smoke it because I am a bit jittery right now and I don’t want it to make me freak out, chances are it would just calm me down, but you know – just in case. Maybe I will have it tomorrow then I can do it first thing in the morning when I know I will have plenty of time to straighten up before school pick up. I do like writing to you, it takes up the time I would have doing nothing in particular – can’t read, can’t concentrate – I vacuumed did the washing and the dishes, so I have done some practical stuff today. Tomorrow I can’t smoke that joint, I forgot I have to go into Town and have a blood test (Lithium levels) and then I have to go to Woolworths and Aldi to get all the stuff I forgot yesterday. Ugh all costs money and the little bit of extra cash I am making from gambling at the moment all has to go back into the “escape plan” fund. I wish it was a warm day, it would be a nice day to do some gardening – or meditating although I have been warned against meditation when a bit ‘elevated’ as you like to call it, Belinda said from her experience it seems to have a side effect of sending some people into psychotic mania…. Not ideal, then I would be forced to use the escape plan and I am not confident enough to execute it at the moment. I was thinking I should get a layby out at Kmart and pay all bar $5 off it, I would have a new outfit, a handbag, hair dye and a hat in it so I could scarper more easily – as long as I can get on the bus or train without being recognised it should buy me enough time to arrive at my destination. Yes the layby can just be picked up easily, no footage on store cameras of what is actually INSIDE the little black packaging, I can run into the toilets at the park where there are no cameras and get changed. Ha! I am too good for you and your little officers. But hopefully it won’t come to that, I can escape from here by car – I can be well and truly gone before anyone even arrives- I can have the car in the other driveway and spy from the bush if any cars come and if they do, I jump in my car and head down the road the backway. If I get pulled over by the cops I will have to die in a fireball of a car chase- oooh how exhilarating! Its tempting to stay on the highway purely to have that happen! Oh Meredith, luckily you will never read this letter – or all my plans would be thwarted – I feel like the villain in the movie who tells his evil plan to the superhero a little bit too soon. The difference here you see is that you will a.) never read this letter and b.) if you WERE reading this letter it would be because I was dead and therefor too late to go all superhero on my arse J On that note Meredith I must bid you farewell in favour of standing in front of the fire warming up my freezing legs.

Take care my dear,

Swaglady

Dear Meredith the mental health worker

Dear Meredith,

Fuck I have had a long, long, long life, so many life lessons learned, so many missed but the opportunity is there if I take it if I want to but then one wonders ‘what is the point of all these lessons? Why do we need them at all, can’t take them with us so Why?

Because ladies and gentlemen it ENHANCES your current state of being, become at one with all that you need to and then die before while or after you are ready. Nobody dies before their time, they just die and that was that. Their time.

NOW YOU need to experience what YOU want to out of life, it’s your place to do this nobody else can make this decision.

Miss Meredith, you are simultaneously lovely and a pain in the arse. How can this be?

I can imagine you hunting me down like a fox, but apparently for my own good. Alas my dear I am no rabbit, I am also a fox, a slyer quicker and daintier fox who can outsmart you easily lest you try.

If it must end that way it will, you know? We will have a Waltzing matilda scenario on our hands – Im the swagman and you’re the ship, but I can’t go on the monopoly board with you, you understand me? I am a free spirit and that is the end of that. NOTHING will prevent the inevitable, NOTHING and the fact that you are automatically applying algebra to that sentence shows your lack of insight. The world isn’t made of maths or I wouldn’t survive in it hey, 1+1= go fuck yourself after all. So Leo made a movie but in the end he lost –lets forget that bit, not that movie in that one he went down with the ship, literally, no in the OTHER movie he was the cunning fox and if we scrap the part about the ending then we wont have to worry about the flying men catching us. Once a jolly swagperson temporarily halted by a water source, under the shade of an indigenous species of eucalypt treeeeeee….. as he or she sang as he or she watched as he or she waited by that water source…. With your consenting adult permission will you come perambulating round the dance floor with Meeeeeeee.

I wonder right now if they are coming, the policeman? I feel like I want to run and hide away but I know it’s not real, nothing is real. You aren’t talking to me after all (thank goodness) so how would the policeman know? ESP? Nope not feasible. Run rabbit run rabbit just in case, I would but I can’t find my keys. The keys to the Car you might ask? NOoooo the keys to the gun safe, what do you fucking think my dear!? Although either might do in a point of crisis one would imagine, I wonder if there is an imaginary crisis then are imaginary keys going to suffice???? I THINK NOT.

The end, must love you and leave u now but if the phone rings or I see a coppa Im gunna give em a fuckin whoppa. Love always, Swaglady

Admission. Going to Hospital

On the morning of Tuesday 12^th May I woke up apprehensive and severely depressed. I had the bag that I had packed the night before containing my clothes, shoes, magazines and notebooks as well as my Plan B. I kept forgetting I had it in there and then remembering with a weird cross between relief and fear. I made a decision to try and get better first, before I used plan B as I said good bye to my children that morning – they thought I was off to Queensland to visit my brother.

We had planned to drop the kids off at school and head into a hospital in the capital city that my Doctor had recommended over the one in the town closer to where we live. I was told to go into the ER and tell them I was depressed and suicidal. I was anxious as hell the whole drive in wishing I could just open the car door and bail out in front of a truck.

 When we arrived in the hospital I freaked out totally, my husband had to coax me slowly out of the car and I was trembling all over, couldn’t see straight and felt like I would pass out at any moment. I wouldn’t let him take my bag because I felt sure they wouldn’t take me in anyway so he begrudgingly left it in the car and we made our way up to the ER.

My husband walked up to the triage desk as I hung back in the corner, I could hear her ask loudly what the problem was and I couldn’t stand the thought of all the people in the ER knowing what was wrong with me. I called out to my husband before he had a chance to answer and said “Its ok, lets go” and with out looking back at him I bee-lined out the door and back towards the car park.

He caught up with me and asked what was going on, I burst into tears and said “I CANT DO THIS!” He told me that I had too but I was too horrified at the thought of going back to where all those people just saw me freak out that I ended up telling him that I wanted to go back to the mental health unit in the nearby town where I had been last year during a manic episode.

He agreed to take me there, although I could plainly see that he didn’t want to and I was still trying to think of a way to convince him just to take me home again. After a long fairly silent journey that involved many tears on my part we arrived at the hospital. I held my husband’s hand tight as we made our way under the little covered walkway through to the ER.

I could feel myself starting to lose it again as we walked through the door so I said to my husband “you tell them what’s going on, I need to go to the toilet.” I locked myself in the little cubical knowing that the triage nurse now knew I was fucking crazy and half the waiting room would have probably heard too. I took a deep breath and went back out and sat down with my husband – he looked relieved that I hadn’t done a runner. I kept my head down and didn’t say anything or make eye contact with anyone, they all knew.

Eventually we were called in to speak with a nurse, I could barely speak – How the fuck do you say ‘Oh yes good morning, by the way I wish that I was dead and I am planning on making that happen ASAP’. I felt like an idiot and mumbled something about suicidal ideation, my head was pounding and I don’t remember much more of what she said but she told us to go back out to the waiting room and she would call the mental health assessment team from the unit to come and assess me.

We were called through and were ushered past all the beds full of sick kids and confused elderly people and into a room that had a bed much like at a GP’s rooms and glass walls, it had a video surveillance camera in it – I felt like a goldfish on a reality TV show.

My husband went out to use the bathroom and have a cigarette, I went to go to the bathroom but it was two way and someone walked in on me from the other side just before I sat down, so embarrassed as  I asked to use the one in the waiting room instead. They let me and feeling really overwhelmed I started plotting how I would do a runner but realised that by hubby would be standing having his smoke where I would need to go to run out anyway so it wouldn’t be an option.

 My head was still pounding, I grabbed some Panadol out of my purse, there were only 6 left, I took all of them, this felt like a migraine and I couldn’t handle that on top of everything else right now. I walked back to my little goldfish bowl, my husband appeared a few minutes later and after what seemed like hours the Mental Health Assessment team arrived.

A man and a women, both lovely, we talked for a bit and I actually started to feel a bit better, my head ache was finally lifting and I think the hardest part for me was admitting that I had an issue that I could no longer cope with. They toyed with the idea of sending me home, I could have quite easily bluffed my way out of the building at that moment but feeling stronger in myself I actually told them that chances are I would feel bad again tomorrow and I didn’t have any fight left in me.

They decided to keep me in after all, they took some bloods and told me they would sort out a room down in the unit and take me through to be admitted. I finally arrived on the unit and my husband had to go home and pick up the kids from school. I said goodbye, told him I loved him and would call him later that night ( The low dependency unit had public phone booths we could call from).

I was introduced to the big personality of psychiatrist Dr C. A solid but not overly tall man with a shiny suit and a pink paisley tie, he knew his job inside out and didn’t take bull shit from anyone; that being said there was something appealing about him – at least you knew where you stood. He asked A LOT of questions, I answered them as honestly as possible with certain omissions regarding plan B’s when asked if I had any immediate plans to harm myself – honesty was to my detriment though because Dr C decided to not only admit me, but admit me to the High Dependency Unit. I had spent a day on The HDU during my last admission while half unconscious recovering  from the drug OD and it wasn’t fun.

I chatted with a nurse as she went through my belongings, they have to make sure nothing prohibited comes in mostly stuff that can be used for self harm such as ties on tracksuit pants, shoe laces, scarves etc. They take photographs of everything so there are no disputes about stolen items later. The nurse was lovely and we were having a good talk which came in handy as she started going through my toiletries. My heart skipped a beat as I remembered my plan B, she picked up the conditioner bottle I had hidden my 100 tablets in, neatly packed into a heat sealed bag white tablets, surrounded and concealed by white conditioner. I commented on something she had said and she laughed and put the bottle down and continued going through the rest of my things.

The nurse finished up and she began to show me through to the HDU. My shoes clopping as I walked due to their lack of shoe laces. Suddenly Dr C appeared out of nowhere and dramatically declared “Stop! She’s not going in there she needs to go straight to the ER!!”  “Wha..??” The nurse and I looked at each other puzzled. “Do you have something you would like to tell me young lady?” Dr C said staring at me. Fuck. How the HELL did he find out about plan B? The nurse didn’t notice- she was still carrying my bag with the evidence in her hand…

Dr C , still not breaking eye contact then says “well they why is your paracetamol count so high then?”  Did you or did you not take an overdose?

“Paracetamol count? What are you talking about? I haven’t overdosed on anything!”

“Ugh. She needs to go straight to the ER to have the antidote.” Dr C shook his head at me and walked off briskly saying “we will talk later”. I was still trying to work out what was going on when a nurse informed me that they had called an ambulance.

The unit is technically separate to the hospital even though they are only next door to each other and as such they ridiculously had to waste tax payers money by calling an ambulance to drive me 100 meters up the road.

So we are sitting waiting for an ambulance and I have a different nurse now. She doesn’t believe me for a second, at this point Im trying to think why and suddenly remember that I took two Panadol with breakfast as I had had a headache and sore throat and realised I had COMPLETELY forgotten about the 6 Panadols' I had taken in the loo. 6 wasn’t enough to give you an overdose blood level surely, I took bloody 50 odd of the things when I was actually trying to overdose last year and that only made me nauseous. I couldn’t admit that now as it’s embarrassing to say I frequently take 6 for a headache and it’s never done any harm before so I told them about the two with breakfast and continued pleading my innocence.

The Ambo’s arrived after about 45minutes (seriously!!?? 100m people I felt fine, could have walked!) and one of the ambo officers mentioned that Lemsip has paracetamol in it ( I had Lemsip in my hand bag when they did the inventory) I had also had a Lemsip that morning! Things were starting to add up… FUCK.

So as a result of a completely accidental overdose on 6 to 9 depending how you count it – paracetamol tablets I spent the night in ICU feeling 100% fine, bored out of my brain watching dodgy re runs on telly and listening to an old women with dementia ask the same series of questions over and over. I was annoyed that I can’t seem to kill myself intentionally yet the one time I do something accidently I am at a hospital and they can fix it.  So of course they rang my husband and he didn’t believe me either. Awesome.

 

 

Catch Up

 I have been through a lot in the last few months and some of my thoughts and so forth were documented over the time but they are fairly scattered, so I am doing my best to write down what happened in the order it happened and eventually get back to writing in the present tense!
I will let you know that today, I am in a better frame of mind.

Return of the Guru

After 6 months I finally plucked up the courage to contact my psychologist - aka The Guru.
I had been actively avoiding anyone at all of mental health persuasion after I had been given a psychiatrist through the public mental health team that I couldn't stand.

He would ask questions in this accusatory and smarmy manner that made me feel like he was making fun of or didn't believe anything that I was saying. I admit I didn't give him much of a chance, I only saw him one time but at that time I was so upset by his manner that I couldn't stand the thought of going back to see him ever again.

This blew up to the point of having anxiety attacks just thinking about it and after one last meeting with two of the nurses where I outright lied saying that I wasn't depressed at all while simultaneously plotting my demise. I knew they knew I was lying but paranoid of being locked up again I just avoided all contact attempts from the mental health team from that point until they eventually gave up and went away.

That depression never lifted. months later I have spiralled to a place where I am having a lot of trouble faking it. I am not even remotely interested in planning any sort of a future, couldn't care less about work, our house renovations, the holiday my hubby wants to take. But the big one is that I don't even care if they put me in hospital. I am too tired and I just don't care.

This led to a snap decision to contact the guru and see if she would still consider seeing me. I had it in my head she was cranky with me, but either I was wrong or she is very forgiving as she quickly replied to my text and offered to see me that Friday.

I went and straight away remembered why I like her, she was warm and comforting and remembered all the gory details of my past. She also knows how to handle me. We talked for a while and she said that she still feels I would benefit from a hospital stay and we talked about the pros and cons for a while. She pointed out that if I was going to off myself anyway then I had nothing to lose and I could just do it after. While I am completely aware of that point anyway and have always disagreed due to the affect that hospitalisation would have on my children and work etc.

She told me she is writing a letter to my GP with whom I have an appointment on Wednesday evening recommending that I go into one of the private facilities in town now that I have got insurance that will cover me. For the first time of the many, many times she has wanted to do this, I didn't put up a fight. I didn't freak out and bargain with her, make false promises or use my stellar sales pitch techniques to convince her that she was over reacting.

Nope, I was too fucking tired. I simply said 'fine'.

Of course me being me, she was expecting a fight, and I think that my reaction confused her for a minute and that she didn't quite trust that I would turn up to that appointment as she made me give her reasons why I would not just commit suicide first. I told her I am tired of running and honestly don't care anymore. Besides my parents are leaving for an overseas holiday and my brother is expecting his first child the same day as my doctors appointment.

I said my goodbyes and got in the car feeling ---- well still feeling nothing. Two days later I still have no care at all. I admit I do have a couple of contingency plans in place if they do put me in hospital and its too much. I have a (hopefully) fool proof suicide plan inclusive of means and opportunity which I can carry out inside the facility if need be.

It concerns me that this could be my last post, if they haul me off to the loony bin  and I am forced to take drastic measures then I will never be able to publish the rest of my story.

I really did want my complete story out there - the way it reads in this blog, well it focus's on such a small and negative part of it really - there were good times too, amazing times. I was given gifts that others could only imagine, I have both cried and laughed until lemonade came out of my nose. I witnessed the creation of life and the miracle of birth.
I look around today and see how big an impact I made on my little world and how little an impact I made on the big one.
So much experience in one life, forgotten quickly by onlookers but embraced for eternity within as we live on through the footprint of our energy. 

So many of these "good" tales, stories of the fun and fanciful, are spelled out within my other writings and blogs that now lay coated in a thick layer of cyber dust, lost within the sticky strings of the world wide web. Lost forever, and yet also permanent.

Thank you for sharing my journey, until we meet again.
Bel.

Peace In Arms

I keep looking at my arms for some sort of weird bitter sweet comfort.  They seem to accurately reflect the two sides to my soul.

On my left arm there is nothing but clean skin, a reflection of the “good” part of my soul that has control over her life. This is the face I show to other people, my work arm. It is the part of me that does not tell outright lies, but instead simply lies by omission while knowing all the secrets of my right.

My right arm, the “bad part” tells the tales of past truths, when I roll up my sleeve I am looking at the evidence of past wrongs etched into my skin, I hate the way I have to be so careful not to expose my naked, angry arm even in front of my husband, until the scab comes off and the scar fades because I hate to admit that I have to burn in order to cleanse. I am bound to long sleeves throughout Summer in case I bump into someone I know.

On the other hand (pardon the pun) it makes me happy that the last burn is scabbing well and I am internally hoping it will leave a noticeable scar, a reminder of my inability to retain self- control for any length of time and an incentive to do better next time, I hate when they don’t scar, because I feel like a failure and I just wish I had the courage to just sit down for the last time and slit along the vein with a knife to end the lies and end the pain.

Because I ate raisin bread...

Again and again and again, rinse repeat and yet I don’t seem to learn.

Etched in my skin forever, release the hatred in my mind as I let my body burn.

The binging needs to stop, clearly the burns don’t hurt enough, I am numb in my soul and in my skin hiding sins under long sleeves and cuffs.

I am running out of arm space and vague excuses for my scars,

So time will soon come to finish this fight but the victory won’t be ours.

 

I self harm as punishment and 99.9% of the time it has been related to eating something I shouldn't have. It never really hurts enough to stop me binging again though. I burn because there is no blood to clean up and I get to feel the pain again in the heat of the shower- symbolically cleansing to me for some reason. Then I look at my arm and I realise that I have to try tod hide it. The flatter blistery burn scars I blamed on our fire place, which can be feasible. I look at my arms when I am alone and feel secretly proud, but the rest of the time I have to hide it with long sleeves. I was called out once by a girl at my work, she is bipolar as well but it was OK because she just smiled at me and showed her the scars on her wrists.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Friday Five: Fucked-up-ed-ness

You know your fucked up when....

1. You spend the morning sorting out your pre written suicide notes to see which one fits best this week.

2. You put 5 days worth of your pills into a pile, take a photograph and cry about having to take meds every day while simultaneously searching for your dope stash and swigging from a wine bottle.


3. You wake up in the morning and decide to take a shower. The reason this is fucked up is because you are planning to burn yourself and you know that the hot shower will sting it more, even though you know that you deserve that pain anyway.

4. You drop the kids at school early and spend the next hour pacing past the club waiting for it to open so that you can blow all your money on the pokies.

5. You cant cope with eating something that is 100 calories during the day but you get home and binge yourself stupid on ice-cream and raisin bread.

Intermission

A glance in the mirror reveals a mascara streaked, tear stained face, bright red cheeks showing through layers of caked on foundation that would be the envy of any cracked up hooker.

Hair tied back in a ponytail with a head band holding back the stray curled up fringe. Slobbery tooth brush in slobbery hand, sleeves rolled up revealing scars born from self hatred. Put my earphones back in, listening to a “mental illness happy hour” pod cast while kneeling over the toilet trying desperately to remove the litre of cookies and cream ice cream and crunchy nut corn flake ridden sins of the last hour.

It’s ok really though, because that was just a brief intermission from filling out the “legal will kit” that I finally bought so I can commit suicide with the peace of mind that comes from knowing my 6yr old daughter will legally get that necklace and my husbands accounts wont be frozen for 8mnths.

The worst part about this picture is when I look at it I am just pissed off that I cant purge properly.

I’m so fucked up.

Meds, Phone calls and other things I avoid.

I look down into my hand at the little pile of multi-coloured meds for the morning. Yes I started taking them again, only lasted a week because I am far more dependent than I realised and the withdrawals were becoming too obvious to hide.

The deep feelings of inadequacy this twice daily ritual encompasses are seemingly endless.

Today I finally googled the names of some psychologists that were recommended to me 6 months ago, unfortunately I am not the Queen and as my funeral would cost less than a visit to them that impracticality put me firmly back to square one.

 I then called the local mental health team to ask for a phone number for the psychologist that is covered by medicare. I need a referral from my GP then I can make an appointment.

GP is away until May. Might call back if I can be bothered seeing her - not much point once May hits, a little late anyway I reckon.

I have consolidated a folder containing PDF downloads and great resources for the family of suiciders … suicidees? Suicide victims, people who commit suicide… whadevva you want to call them I have a stockpile of info to validate their feelings and give them ideas of ways to cope.

I have been binging like a mother fucker and my fat is expanding daily. None of my clothes fit me and a very small part of me WANTS to go to hospital PURELY because I can't binge there.

I’m going to go smoke a joint and go back to bed now. Not just because I am depressed but also because I have a killer sinus infection and my whole face hurts.

Depression Jacket

Self-awareness, it is something that I have but often choose to ignore for whatever reason. It’s funny though, when you sit back and really think about some of the more subtle signs of where your mental health is currently sitting.

I have noticed that not only am I generally stuck to my computer, I am stuck to my computer in my bed rather than my study (thank god for the invention of the lap top). A mired of empty soft drink cans, tea cups. Ice cream tubs and chocolate wrappers litter my bedside table, remnants of the most recent self-destructive binge. My hair will be un-brushed, my nails way too long and I am always wearing a blue knitted cardigan/wrap thingy. I still have a desire to connect, just that connection is only internet deep and tends to revolve around Googling suicide.

This blue knit cardigan is hideously ugly, not something that I would ever be seen dead in outside the house, but god is it warm and comfy. It is also several sizes too big, so even though I have gained a significant amount of weight it wraps around me with ease and so doesn’t make me feel as huge.

My depression jacket makes me feel safe and secure within my own misery, like an unplanned metaphor.

I sit here at 10 am – in bed of course having consumed a large chocolate Easter bunny, two pieces of toast and 4 cups of tea. I am thinking about the vegetable garden and how it won’t weed itself. I don’t even mind weeding – I actually find it quite relaxing. I am thinking about dusting off the treadmill that was my best friend for nine months of mania. It now lies dormant in its corner of the spare room filling me with guilt every time I open the door.

But the phone rings and instead of running to it to answer it I run to it and pull the plug from the wall, the last thing I want to do is talk to a person – I really hate it when the kids get to it before I can stop them and I am forced to talk to some school friends mother pretending to be all happy happy and deflecting all play dates to the other parties house because I barely have the energy for my own kids.

My husband used to complain that I spent more time on the phone than with him, once upon a time I would even jump up to grab it in the middle of sex – that always resulted in an argument (fair enough) I guess it was like an OCD thing for me. Now he is trying to convince me to call people back.  Even text messaging is a chore at least thanks to emoj’s I can fake happiness with the touch of a button.

So now I’m sitting in my bed firmly wrapped in my depression jacket writing this, Eminem blaring on the I pod and I will think again about leaving my nest in a while and make the kids some lunch, then sink back into my bed knowing I have to face the work world tomorrow and pretend everything’s ok.

Blow Up the Pokies, please?

The Whitlams haunting ballard “blow up the pokies” is playing randomly on my ipod. This song resonates with me always makes me so sad. Such a perfect description of the gambling addiction that has become too close to home.

Image from here

 

My best friend is married to my husband’s best friend – we set them up! (10yrs and 2 kids later, love it when it works!)

The funny thing about this is that her husband is a LOT like me and she is a LOT like my husband. Which is probably why we all get along the way we do. This understanding however can be slightly confronting at times. For example if my friend is upset with her hubby for something he has done/said I can frequently understand his side of the story, don’t get me wrong 99% of the time he IS in the wrong, which is hard because I also am 99% of the time in the wrong. Hearing her upset is basically knowing how my husband is feeling about my own issues- this is why I tend to be secretive.

Anyway, back to gambling. My friends other half is a gambler from way back. He does well for a while (as in keeps away, not a winning streak) and then falls off the wagon. I am also a gambler. I am however a sneaky gambler who thank god for our finances has not got a lot of time or access to venues but when the opportunity arises I lie my way into usually losing a couple of hundred bucks ( we aren’t that well off so that’s a lot of money for us). When I was home raising the kids I of course couldn’t take them to the pokies, we live out of town so we weren’t popping into town for dinner at the club. There was a period of time when I would duck to a club near the shopping centre I was working at on my lunch break, always limited by time but still able to lose my day’s pay in 30min.

Generally speaking these little splurges tended to happen when I was hypomanic and I would frequently win. For around 5yrs I was totally in control of it, I forced myself to abstain when opportunity arose. Sadly now that all the kids are in school and I have the odd day off from work during the week, I have made a habit out of going to the club after I see my mental health case worker – or any other time I go into town. This began when I was still really manic after my hospital stay and I had seen my case worker, noticed the club about 100meters away and with $20 cash in my pocket, what’s the harm? I don’t care if I lose it!

I swear you win more money when you are manic because that $20 turned into 3 hours worth of game play and I walked away (only cause I had to be somewhere mind you) with just under $300.

So of course I kept the $300 as “pokie money” and went again the next time I was in town, and the next until – I had just kept on winning so was able to hide this little habit with ease. I could have sworn I was queen of the pokies and had cracked the code.  Eventually all the money ran out and the Serequel kicked in, mania had subsided but the habit was ingrained. A bit like my issues with binging, I had a time, a place and this would happen there and then every time.

Just like I enable myself to binge, I would take cash out at the supermarket slowly over the week until I could finance my weekly gambling binge sneakily part of me is slightly glad I can’t withdraw money from an ATM in a club/pub as my husband would see it and wonder WTF and the part of me that was SO CLOSE TO A FEATURE and ran out of cash curses it.

The trouble is that it’s no longer a weekly thing it’s as often as I can get away with it thing. I’m on a committee in our village and they have monthly meetings at the local pub, which also has pokies, I tend to leave $100 there after each meeting.

I left work early saying I was feeling unwell and went to the club, I am casual so I have to factor the hourly wage into what I am losing as well.

image stolen from here

I will order fish and chips to take home from the takeaway in a nearby town that is on my way back from work and while I am waiting for it to cook I will go to the pub there and somehow when Im on  a short time limit like that all I do is lose more money more quickly. I am now in a depressive cycle and the gambling simply numbs me nicely, I don’t win, I don’t even expect to anymore, I just press the buttons – even when the music plays and the machine lights up I no longer feel that sense of excitement, I just press those buttons usually too quickly to even let the music finish. I have even taken to putting money into an account my husband doesn’t have internet access too and withdrawing from that AT the club. Deception and lies. Two things not to base a marriage on.

I hate myself for this, I also see the correlation between it and my binging – its as though the tight ship of control I had for so long with my anorexic episode when I was hypomanic got flat lined through the mania, hospital, meds and now in depression and I have given away all my control to the food and the pokies inanimate objects that won’t .

Depression Impression

I never liked the word “depression” always seemed so, I don’t know – overused? Fake perhaps?

It’s the new black. Everyone has it.

So many people I know go around saying how terribly depressed they are/were and that now they are on anti-depressants and life is a fucking fairy tale again. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that the diagnostic criteria for depression is only low mood for two weeks – so I am sure that all of these people have been “depressed” but I had always personally viewed depression as something that stayed with you for months generally brought on by something bad happening.

 I on the other hand have always kept quiet and generally refused to admit to myself that these recurrent low moods I experience were ever actually as severe “depression” after all, nothing traumatic had ever happened to me. Sure I had done rather a lot of things for my age but nobody had died, I had a happy relationship, job I liked and a healthy baby – for me to feel this way, was just akin to the stupid selfish bitch I was always told I was by that inner voice that never ceased. I wanted to die so badly, in many ways with no proper “reason” it was just because I knew that my husband and child would be so much better off without a fuckwit like me around.

I couldn’t tell you how many of those little survey things the doc gives you after you have a child that I lied on – its rather obvious which boxes you are supposed to tick to say that you are happy as fucking Larry and the thought of coming across as anything but happy was not ok.

Sure I felt like killing myself, off and on since I was about 8 and more seriously starting to plan the when’s and where’s at around 14.  But everyone feels like that surely, its not like I had actually killed myself yet. I was a teenage mother and had to prove to the world I was capable.

My psychologists now ask me why didn’t I ask for help? Help for what? I didn’t have a problem, I sure as shit didn’t have a mental health problem and if I want to kill myself then that’s my body and my business. I was clued on enough to the fact that I thought a touch more intensely than the other teenagers I hung around and that telling anyone that I felt that way would have given me a one way ticket to the loony bin – a place that I was hell scared of at that time in my life.

My biggest fear about an enforced stay on the psych ward as a teenager was that it would most likely be due to the slightly psychotic anorexia I was experiencing and in vicious denial about. I knew that although to myself I felt the size of a house, that all they would do is make me fat –although I thought everyone was trying to make me fat. I honestly believed that my mum was trying to poison me by adding fats to my foods and I refused to let her prepare or even walk past any meals I was making… just in case. How I managed to avoid incarceration at that point I still don’t know.

Depression was the place I fell into with a thud time and time again, usually after an intensely chaotic part of my life had started off wonderful and then brewed and brewed until it got out of control and I burnt out into a depressive oblivion.  The job I was excelling at suddenly became an impossible task, I would want to quit before I got fired because I was so fucking hopeless and the constant suicidal ideation that had subdued for months would come back with force, a voice for every action giving an equal or greater reason why my death was a better option, for me, for my family and colleagues.

I am wallowing once again in the pit of what’s the fucking point? I’ve been back here for a while now months in fact but its hitting rock bottom again, not coping with life at all - I walked out of work on Thursday after pressing send on an e-mail that involved a multitude of swear words and a “you want to know why I didn’t do XYZ in the allotted time frame? Well frankly it’s because I am a fucking loser who sucks at her job.” Not sure quite what the repercussions of this are but it’s likely to involve a meeting on Monday. I might just quit, I can’t hack the pressure. I ran out of work a few weeks back after a panic attack of sorts and ended up sitting on a cliff edge with a bottle of pills in my hand ipod playing the current list of songs I want to go out to, just ready to lie down and go to sleep forever, knowing that once I passed out I would fall off that cliff I couldn’t jump from just to make sure.

Before I got a chance to enact my plan some random guy turned up walking towards the lookout area where I had jumped over the safety fence and I had to do a quick scarper away as being caught on a cliff edge with a bottle of pills generally results in police, a psych stay and if you are unlucky a spiel on the evening news.

I drove home slowly, bumped into my parents very randomly in a supermarket nowhere near their house and arrived home that evening to find friends were visiting. I thought how different everyone’s afternoon would have been if I had been successful. I wish I could say that these thoughts deter me, that I am glad that man walked down, that I am glad my liver is apparently made of steel and no amount of drugs can kill me- but I am not.

I have never once regretted taking that overdose last year. Though I was high as a manic kite at the time and stuck rather firmly on the “flight” response, my only regrets have been that it didn’t work. While I know that the depression will eventually be replaced with a productive hypomania where I will accomplish much, solve the world’s problems and sing happily again when I’m walking around the house blissfully non suicidal. Even if that doesn’t escalate to the dizzying scary heights of Mania again where I will likely try to fly from the roof top, it will still as always be followed by a crash and continued suicidal ideation, but this time I don’t think I can handle anymore crashes.