Walking Depression

My depression comes and goes in waves. Sometimes it lasts for three days, sometimes it lasts for three months. It can become severe and I spend days laying in bed. Sometimes I end up at the hospital. But sometimes I have what I call "walking depression". It's the kind of depression that can be concealed easily. I feel like I'm dying inside but I'm still able to run errands, socialize and pretend like I'm in a good mood.
It's completely exhausting. I crave a nap halfway through the day because I have been demanding so much out of myself. Even though I can be productive doesn't mean I want to. I would rather sit in sweat pants on the couch. Nothing feels genuine, the world is faded and grey.
It can go undetected, even by the person that has it. Me, the queen of depression, and I just realized that I have been depressed for about nine months. I knew something was off, I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I knew I wasn't depressed because I wasn't suicidal or laying in bed, but in reality, I am depressed. I have been napping every afternoon and sleeping for 8-10 hours a night. I have what is called "Anhedonia" which is the inability to be satisfied/feel pleasure. So no activities satisfy me, no books, tv shows, everything. I could find a hundred dollars on the ground and still feel hum drum. It's like being hungry but never being able to feel full. So I've grown to hate free time. I've bawled my eyes out when I have a block of time with no plans and no projects to work on. I am terrified of the days when the house is already clean and there is no work to do. I have free time with nothing to satisfy me. I'll try reading, gardening, watching a movie. The only thing that quenches my thirst is writing, and that's only occasionally. And it's difficult to do with a hyper four year old bouncing around.
But I've realized I'm depressed, and I have been for a while. This gives me some relief because I know now that my excruciating boredom is a result of depression, not because I suck at life.

Parenting from bed

I have struggled with my mental health since the on-set of puberty. Over time, it has only gotten worse. What started out as a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder ballooned into Bipolar and has now settled on Schizoaffective-Bipolar along with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and I suspect Panic Disorder. Needless to say, I struggle to make it through the day most days. I take five medications a day and they still only blunt the symptoms instead of taking them completely away. I struggle to get up, I struggle to clean, I struggle with basic hygiene and I struggle to stay sane. And my sanity is tested on a daily basis because I have three children.

I have bad days. Very bad days. Days that are so bad that my parents scoop my children up and keep them for days at a time because I am unable to get out of bed for days at a time. It’s a good bought of depression if I don’t end up at the psychiatric hospital. A simple errand throws me into a panic attack and an unexpected knock on the door sends me into crisis mode. My panic attacks are uncontrollable seizure like events where I lose control of my body and sometimes pull out my own hair. Some days, just sitting up in bed is an accomplishment.

I push myself out of bed, off the couch, because my kids need me. Every day I push as hard as I can to give all that I can to my children. But some days, I just can’t. I just can’t.

Those are my worst days. I retire to the bed, collapsing on the mattress, wrapping myself in a blanket cocoon. I lose the ability to speak full sentences. I don’t sleep, I just lay there for hours and hours, staring at the wall. It is impossible to parent in that state of mind so usually my husband takes over, or my parents come get the kids for a few days while I recover.

My 9-year-old recently asked why I spend so much time in bed. It broke my heart. I was kind of hoping that she wouldn’t notice, but she did. I explained that mommy has a brain sickness that causes me to spend a lot of time in bed. I don’t think she understood. It’s hard to understand as an adult. It’s hard to comprehend what it is like to experience it unless you’ve been there. And in my case, not many people have. So for a child to comprehend what I mean when I say I can’t, or I say that I’m sick several days in a row but show no physical symptoms, is near impossible.

Parenting from bed is painful because it’s not parenting at all. The three days I spend in bed is three days away from my children. Three days my husband has to sail the ship alone. Three days, wasted in bed.

I want to get up, I want so badly to get up, but I can’t. I just can’t. Some days I’m at 30%, I sit on the couch but I am not exactly active. Some days, many days, I am 100% and I am super mom. But some days, many days, I am 0%. I sob uncontrollably in the living room, silently, so I don’t draw attention to myself. As soon as my husband gets home from work I crawl into bed. Some days, I get into bed before he gets home and I parent from bed until he is home. I want to get up, I don’t want to waste my time in bed. I want to go, do and be. But instead I just am. I am just laying in bed for 72 hours and I hate it.

Let's Talk About Suicide

The last week or so, a post has been trending on facebook. It goes something like:

"Hey, I'm trying to prove a friend wrong, if
I can get 3 people to repost this to show that
people really do care." #suicideawareness

Or something like that. I appreciate the effort. I'm not sure exactly what reposting a post is supposed to prove because when you're in a life or death situation, a memory of who posted what a few months ago, will not be there. I have 200 something friends and I can count on one hand the number of people I would contact if I were suicidal. Not that the other friends don't matter or I don't trust them, but I know these handful of people will know what to do. They will know what to say and how to get me help. They will contact who needs to be contacted and they will follow up.
I know this because this has happened many times. I have been to that point where the quick sand is swallowing me and I reach out one last time, and these people have pulled me from the abyss by finding me help, contacting my family, keeping in contact with me and asking me the hard questions. You have to know what it feels like to be suicidal in order to know what to say.
Being suicidal appears to be threats and only that. A person is suicidal because they are saying they want to kill themselves and sometimes, they actually do. People on the outside view it as an external behavior. What people don't understand is the significance and impact of the internal thoughts, what you can't see.
When I'm suicidal, my mind is racing with reasons why it would be a good idea. My mind twists things around and makes excuses. It convinces me that I should kill myself. A slideshow of my dead body plays in my mind and I can't stop it or ignore it. Over and over I see myself hanging from a tree or in a bath tub with blood. The images loop around and if I close my eyes it's all that I see. At this point I'm decided on killing myself. My mind has already been made up. On the outside, I say nothing. No one knows what is going on in my head. No one knows the images that I'm seeing. On the outside, I seem content.
After this, at some point, I realize that I need help. So once, for just a second, just one attempt, I will reach out and see if anyone grabs me. If no one reaches back it feeds into my self-fulfilling prophecy that no one cares. But every time, someone has reached back.
I confide in them where I'm at. I'm at the decided stage. I've made up my mind that I have to die and I'm beginning to mentally plan a good date and time, a clean mess free method and something that will get the job done. If I don't contact anyone, if I'm alone and I could do it, I start to rapidly think of ways that I could do it now. Anything. A train, a gun, rope hanging somewhere, a plastic bag.
One time I reached that point quickly due to trauma and I began to frantically run through the house attempting to grab any knives or pills I could get my hands on. I just couldn't live for another second. I couldn't take the pain anymore. My family would be better off without me. I'm a burden. They deserve better. I'm a failure. I don't deserve to be alive. I just take up space. I'm pathetic. The world is better off without me. I'm a parasite. I am doing everyone a favor.
My mind races while images of my dead body fly through my head as well as ideas on what I could do to accomplish to the task. I appear silent. Preoccupied. Quiet. But my head is nothing but quiet. It is deafening and screaming at me. It is so loud that I can barely carry on a conversation. I wish I could turn down the volume but I can't.
I'm slowly slipping towards the white light and no one around me is even aware of what's going on. If you asked how I was doing I would say "ok", but I was not "ok". I was anything but. Having never had a successful suicide attempt (obviously) I don't know what it's like to be in the final moments before your own death. But I do know what it's like to be sucked in to the obsession of your own death, and to have your mind convince you it's a good idea.
When a person reaches out, TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY. I cannot stress that enough. People (typically) do not threaten suicide for attention. Wanting to live is a basic human instinct. Having the obsession to die is seriously dangerous. Try to convince them to go to the ER or a Crisis Center. Try to convince them to contact a suicide hotline. Contact their family if possible. Them reaching out to you could be the only thing keeping them from attempting suicide. This can be their one chance and you can save them.



National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
1-800-273-8255
Online Chat:
http://chat.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/GetHelp/LifelineChat.aspx

Social anxiety and the holidays

There is a time of year that I look forward to all year long. These three months are my element. October, November, and December. Sweatshirts, cocoa, pumpkins, Christmas lights, Christmas music, Christmas anything. These three months are what I look forward to when it's 110 degrees outside for the fifth day in a row. My heart twinges with excitement as the weather begins to cool down because I know what's next; October, November and December. My months. Gift giving and pumpkin pies and rainy days and the smell of the heater kicking on. I love it all. All except one thing.
This tiny little thing is a big thing to me, and as usual, my reaction to it is way above and beyond what is normal. This tiny thing is social events. As the weather cools and the wreaths get hung on doors, in pour the invitations for social events. Office parties, family potlucks, friendsgiving and heaven forbid I host ANYTHING. The mere mention of these events and my fight or flight kicks in. My immediate thought is "no no no, I'd rather curl up into a ball under a mound of blankets". We can't possibly go to these events, I want nothing to do with them. My social anxiety's nemesis is a potluck at Grandma's house.
See, when I go to these events, I kind of freak out. It's not the delicious food that intimidates me, or the holly above the door, but it's the people. The interactions that come along with being at a group gathering as well as paranoid thoughts that everyone is judging me for everything I do. "What have you been up to?" is a question I'm dreading this season because "nothing" isn't really an appropriate response, or should I tell them I've made a breakthrough in therapy? I do well at events in which I'm expected to have little to no social interactions such as a very big office party. I can sit at a table and munch on chips all day. But when people start talking to me and asking me questions, my panic button goes off.
Going to Grandma's potluck is a doozy as well. My family all gathers for a holiday and I immediately want to find an excuse to not go. The questions and feeling like everyone is judging me. Not to mention the teeter tottering into a panic attack feeling that goes along with it all. My family is nice and cordial, always sweet and kind. But inside I'm screaming and I feel like running away.
Getting together with a large group of people is difficult for many people that have a mental illness. And sometimes we tell you that we can't go because we just can't go. We just can't. I try to force myself to go to what I can. But sometimes I back out at the last minute or decline invitations because I just can't. I don't have the strength.

In rolls the tide, out rolls the tide.

Two days ago I had a wonderful day. I was motivated, I was ecstatic, I was energetic, I was talkative. I enjoyed the day and forgot what it felt like to not be so happy. It was a weird medicated version of hypomania. It lasted for the day. It was a good day.
But the aftermath isn't pretty. Slowly I can feel myself falling into a depression. My lack of motivation, happiness, contentment and pleasure in general tells me it's going to be a deep one. The world is grey. There is no end to this bad day because I wake up and feel the same, day after day. Thanks to medication it's not as bad as it should be. I should be suicidal. I should be laying in bed with the covers pulled up. I should be crying myself into oblivion.
But I'm not. The medication has taken the edge off but the pain is still there. So I grin and bear it. I push myself to be productive and complete tasks. I force myself to be social and smile even though it feels like I'm dying inside.
Two days ago I forgot what it was like to not be happy and today I can't remember what pleasure feels like. I can't remember what it's like to feel emotion. I hope it ends soon because I have shit to do.

The Med Controversy

Every day there is a controversy in medicine. Not the ones in hospitals or big pharma, but the one in my pill box. The one in my head. Every day the question comes up and it is avoided. It is put off and ignored until I have to sit myself down and say "Sarah, take your meds." This is usually about noon, when morning has literally passed and I still had not taken my morning meds.
The controversy in my head wages a war between the two sides, and it is a tough fight. Logic says "yes", take your medicine. It makes you better. It's only a pill. Just swallow and move on.
But my head says no. My head says to stop taking them all together. Flush the remaining pills down the toilet and move on with my life. Why? Because they are changing my life.
What if these pills are changing who I am as a person? What if they are changing what identifies me, as me. In some ways my symptoms are part of my character, and suddenly to blunt them is blunting me. My identity is changed.
Or what if this is all made up. Everything is just a sham. I've lied to everyone and there is nothing wrong with me.
Or what if I am just immature and everyone feels the way I feel but I'm less than. I'm weaker. I'm a failure.
The med controversy begins as soon as I wake up when I ignore them. It ends when I give in and take them. A fresh memory of not taking them is still in my mind and it was not pretty. So I take them.
And then at night I take them without a problem. Unless I'm on a med strike in which I lay in bed and glare at the box on my dresser.
The next day, the controversy begins again. What if this is changing who I am? What if it's all a lie? What if I'm being dramatic?
Every day, the med controversy occurs and usually every day, the meds win. But sometimes it builds up in my mind and I begin to cling to an idea and then I stop taking my meds. At which point I end up curled into a crying sobbing suicidal mess and I can feel nothing but darkness. I'm not sure if that's withdrawal or my reaction to not being medicated, but either way it is what happens when I stop taking my meds.
So I take them. Sometimes I don't.

No Motivation

As humans, we are wired to be productive. We may take breaks here and there, or even full days to relax. But for the most part, we are a productive species. We build buildings, we write papers, we mow the lawn, we go for a promotion and go to the gym. We do stuff. Something inside of us drives us to do stuff. The alarm goes off, we jump in the shower, we get dressed and we do stuff.

But what happens when that part of your brain doesn't work properly? What happens when the drive to do stuff isn't there? This happens to me. This is happening to me right now. Writing this and doing 1 load of laundry is all of my productivity today. I have opportunities to be very productive. Every day I have 2.5 hours when all of my children are in school. During that time I could do something productive. Every day, I try. I make tea. I do laundry. I research. I try. But it's a struggle to do anything. Without my children, there is zero motivation because no one is pushing me.

The part of my brain that is supposed to motivate me to get things done is broken. I get all set up, get all my ducks in a row, and when it comes time to execute the task, I just can't. I just can't. All of the motivation that I'm supposed to have isn't there. Instead of taking out the trash I have to drag myself to take out the trash. I ruminate over the laundry pile for hours before I finally start a load. I dread getting out of bed because that's all I want to do today.

But every day I drag myself out of bed and I force myself to complete daily chores. I help the kids get ready for school, I run errands, I take my son to preschool and I try to be productive in the afternoon. Usually I'm not. But that is an improvement from the time when I used to sleep the afternoon away every day. Now I don't sleep but I find things to do, and I force myself to do them.

Having no motivation makes life difficult. Everything is a chore. Every task, no matter how small, is a chore. It's an uphill battle with no end with each step being exhausting.

Tomorrow I will drag myself out of bed. I will make coffee. I will smoke a cigarette and I will prepare for the day mentally. Tomorrow I will force myself just like I did today, and yesterday.