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.

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 .

Beginnings, Endings and the Beginning of the End

I wander around the world now as a vague reflection of my former self. I know what my ideals were, I understand their importance and while I still regret nothing, I also feel nothing.

The drugs they gave me to cease my bodies natural ebb and flow have now rendered me numb. Apparently this is the perfect place to be, ‘normal’ or so they say.

I couldn’t imagine always wanting to live a ‘normal’ life, void of divine spirituality and completed sense of self. Never experiencing the intensity of pure fun, joy and excitement mixed with the energy of a thousand four year olds.

Nor however, could I believe in a world without the extreme sense of despair and hopelessness that comes from unchangeable circumstances or being racked with guilt over something real or perceived or often, no reason at all other than to remind you to appreciate the times of experiencing vivid life and self-awareness.

One thing I have been thankful for not experiencing was the ‘voices’ so many people speak of intruding into their minds and scaring them into psychosis.

At least I thought that I hadn’t, until I stopped taking the antipsychotic they put me on. Suddenly I have music playing around me, as though a string quartet or an orchestra is warming up or playing in the distance, it’s faint and somewhat beautiful, but it’s there, where it wasn’t before.

I also hear a voice coming back, an intrusive voice that I had always attributed to a pattern of self-thought and not an entity of its own – the voice from my eating disorder, the one that keeps me in line, that reminds me of my youth in an encouraging, scornful and often violent manner.

I had barely noticed it had gone missing recently– too much other stuff going on, but God, the binging. The binging that has reached critical levels – levels I may never be able to return from. I was inadvertently watching myself from the outside and wondering how the fuck I was letting this happen, the auto pilot on button stuck like glue.

The dirty little secret is that I want this voice to come back. I need it to come back. I must be held accountable for my actions and this is the only way I think it will be possible. I need to look upon the criticism and judgement as constructive, a challenge and a God to be obeyed at all costs. The depression that comes from living with the voice is nothing compared to the dire pit of hell that stem from the consequences of a world of silence and dirty normality.

I would rather let the voice take me over and let my new found lack of fear be my final undoing. Since the overdose I no longer feel frightened of pain or death at all. Not even a tiny twinge of concern or fear of future regret. I think that after taking the pills and feeling completely at peace with it even several hours later reassured me that it was the right course of action, I chose my fete and now I am but a mere ghost caught between worlds but able to interact, just waiting for my time to come so I can move on to where I am supposed to be.

The trouble is I am impatient, I don’t like waiting and I don’t want to wait now. I wonder if patience could in fact my life lesson this time around. God knows I breezed through the usual trials and tribulations that one must master so quickly that I must have learned them before. I completed what I came to do but if that is in fact my life lesson (and possibly acceptance – which I have for almost everything) I must learn it and not end my human existence by my own hand or I will simply have to do it all over again. I just want to move on, I am READY to move on.

I wish I was allergic to peanuts...

People comment about being worried that they are feeling suicidal, I guess maybe I have been suicidal for such a long time that I am completely used to it, that it is just who I am. Perhaps I want to want to live, but I don’t want to live, I want to be suicidal. All the time. When I am not feeling actively suicidal I am plotting and planning, enabling myself for the next time I am hit with the god awful energy depression must-die-now rush that comes with a mixed episode.

I had a fairly hypomanic day, I unfortunately bought a whole stack of useless crap and knik knacks, then I got home and started coming down a bit, as I was making dinner and remembered that I ate a litre of icecream this morning for breakfast which along with the glass of wine I used to wash down my morning meds was like a weeks worth of calories for me. I chucked a mega tantrum (poor hubby) and went to bed crying just wanting to die, of course I couldn’t sleep and my mind was going a bazillion miles per hour, so I ended up getting up to watch a movie with hubby, couldn’t sit still and then started binge eating. Again. L

We went to bed after the movie but I still couldn’t sleep, plotting all the ways I could escape and off myself should my Psychologist/GP/Shrink try and commit me. Then I decided to combat the binging I would write a menu plan, so I got up and over the last few hours I have been simultaneously looking at you tube videos, facebook, the news, pintrest, writing lists of stuff I want to sell on e-bay, writing a menu plan for next week and now typing this. I don’t quite know how the browser in my 4yr old laptop is coping at the moment! (Shout out to Toshiba)

Bloody rapid cycling, its doing my head in, have to see the GP tomorrow morning, don’t want to confess my actual thoughts, maybe I should. If I do get locked up there are SO MANY things that will come with that that are worse than death, not that I am frightened of death anyway – when I took that overdose I didn’t regret it, even a few days later when I was warned my liver could fail – I was still hoping it would, I was high as a kite, happy as larry and still completely fine with the thought of impending death.

 I wish I was allergic to peanuts, imagine how easy that would be? Tombstone could read "She died with a snickers in her hand..."