Sunday, October 9, 2011

I'll Probably Delete This Once I Realize How Crazy It Makes Me Sound

Every now and then I'll forget to take a dose of my antidepressants. Usually it's late and I'm tired or I accidentally fell asleep or my prescription will have run up and I'll have neglected to refill it in a timely fashion. I'll wake up the next morning feeling a little bit groggy, but not too terribly out of sorts. The longer I go between doses, the more "unsorted" I seem to get. Usually I'll grab my missed dose the next morning when I think of it and it will even out. Usually, it's fine and not a big deal.

Today, for whatever reason, I didn't really remember that I hadn't taken it until I was curled up in a ball wondering why suddenly I hated everything and why my skin suddenly felt like it was suffocating me and why was I suddenly so alone and suddenly everything in my brain hurt. I was in the middle of text message conversations with about four different people, God only knows how well the crazy stayed in check at that point. (If you were one of those people: I'm sorry.)

I'm not entirely surprised, I guess. I've kind of felt the onset of a depressive slump coming on for a while now, it's been nagging at me for a few weeks and I've been refusing to acknowledge it other than to try to push it out of my mind and keep it at bay. It doesn't really help that I'm riding an emotional rollercoaster this week anyway (in layman's terms: PMS), but you compound the two, and... fuck. Normally, I don't feel this wretchedly out of sorts until I've missed two days in a row, but the lack of quality/consistent sleep followed by a highly productive day of marathon shopping with my sister and future stepmother finally led me to collapse in a heap of exhaustion at the end of the day. Which normally would have probably just resulted in... falling asleep. 

Not today. Today, my brain decided to start uprooting all of my current insecurities and chucking them to the forefront of my consciousness. No matter what anyone has ever told me to the contrary, I was suddenly not good enough, not smart enough, not capable enough, Not Enough, period. For what? Who knows. Anything. Everything. (Interestingly enough, the "not pretty enough" and "not thin enough" were nowhere to be found tonight. Maybe it was their night off. Or maybe my subconscious decided to really get me where it hurts. It was ruthless. What are the things I value most in relation to being a worthy human being? Great. LET'S DECIMATE THOSE.)  

Once the trigger has been pulled, it's all sort of a chain reaction that has to be waited through. Bad thoughts. More bad thoughts. Even more bad thoughts. Slightly better thoughts. Okay thoughts. Thoughts that kick the previous thoughts in the ass and shake their head in disapproval. Sleep. Reset. Restore. Wake up. Normal thoughts.

(More often than not, these little episodes happen at night. I don't know why this is. They just do. Except the one time it happened in the middle of the day. That one was scary. I was crying and shaking so hard I actually called the doctor's office and demanded they let me see someone. They adjusted my dosage and I slept the rest of the day and eventually it all worked back to normal, but I remember how scared I was. I also remember it was snowing. That fact is entirely irrelevant except for the fact that the memory of the day is lodged into my head. I think it was in a January. Again, irrelevant.)

So what do you do, then? When you're aching and suffocating and alone (not to be confused with lonely, there is a difference)... who do you call and beg to make them listen to you? (Especially when you kind of hate calling people and talking to them anyway, but sometimes you just need a voice dammit). What do you even say? "I'm a dumbass and forgot to take the magic little pill that's supposed to keep me from being a crazy self-hating ball of suck. Please give me hugs." Except there's nobody to give me hugs because everyone is so far away. Even the people that are across town seem far away, and it's getting to be fairly late on a Sunday. They're probably doing whatever normal people do to get ready for the work week. Possibly they're sleeping. I don't know. They're not all having incoherent mental turbulence, I'm fairly certain of that.

I wish I could just cry it off or something. That would be nice, right? One nice big ugly cry and be done with it. Except I can't. The tears don't come that often and when they do they generally come with an extra helping of self-loathing because what the fuck is wrong with me that I would be so worked up about nothing that I would sit and cry about it? (Seriously, I can't win when I'm fighting with myself.)

I can't find my Ativan. Ativan is my new and improved replacement for Xanax as my supplementary anti-anxiety pill. I still refer to this secondary drug as Xanax because everyone knows what Xanax is and so it's easier to make flip references to it when people know what the hell I'm talking about. Either way. If I'm not about to plunge into something that's about to trigger some high-alert anxiety, I like to use these as backup for when the crazy is starting to creep in, oh, you know, usually on occasions where I've managed to fuck up the continuity of my regular medications. There's something oddly calming about letting those teensy little pills dissolve under my tongue, knowing that soon I'll be flooded with a vague calm that, which I'm lucky, I can follow with some sleep and let everything hit their collective reset buttons and poof! Back to normal. As normal as I get, anyway.

At some point, I started staring at the ceiling and letting the apathy and numbness start to take over. I fucking give up. You win, depression. You win again. In some far corner of my mind, my last little bit of sanity is jumping up and down and waving its arms, and it's that which I cling to. The part where I know this is just a phase, and it will pass, because it always does, and I'm just being moody and I forgot to take my goddamn pill and this is what happens when you forget to take those goddamn pills because the whole point of the goddamn pills are to keep you from feeling this way. Quit being such a baby.

It's worse, though, when one of the other parts gets louder. The part that really does want to give up. The part that is sick and tired of feeling like this. It's worse when I start thinking about the logistics. What if I just never woke up? (The method is irrelevant. The method is always irrelevant. I never really think about that. Which is probably somewhat promising, right?) But the details. The aftermath. For starters, I have life insurance, somewhere, I'm pretty sure, so financially, that would cover up any mess I leave behind. Covered. Then there's my cat. She's a very beautiful and even-tempered kitty and I know someone would take her in. She'd probably end up in a better home than here because I'm a miserable bitch of a person who's never home and usually sleeping or glued to a computer when I am. She could do better. She'd be fine. My family and friends? They'd be fine. Most all of them go about their lives without seeing me on a terribly regular basis anyway. I'm not saying it wouldn't suck for them and I know how very, very selfish it would be of me to put them through something like that, but... human nature, life goes on. My phone is usually within my reach, whoever finds it would know who to call, who to tell. My job? They'd find someone else too. I'm ultimately replaceable. I would feel guilty, of course, leaving things in such a state of disarray. My apartment is a disaster that even makes me cringe, and my desk at work is organized in such a way that only I understand what and where everything is. That's probably a terrible way for a person like me to live, just in case, but when I'm not feeling like I'm a living, breathing piece of shit, I'm usually quite content to go about my merry way, doing things as I see fit and keeping things in order to my liking. I would not want to be the one who had to sort through whatever was left. It wouldn't make any sense. I'd probably be embarrassed. Too bad I wouldn't be around to care. I hate to admit this, but, in the past, the sheer mess of my life was enough to keep me from doing anything stupid because I didn't want anyone to have to sift through it. If I ever get all my shit in perfect working order, that's probably when we need to worry.

This? This is not a good way to be thinking. I realize that. But I'm practical, of course. My mind always covers every angle. That's why when I'm good at something, I'm really good at it. I'm thorough. 

Fortunately, they're just thoughts. A litany of things that need to be thought before that sane part can grab the mic back and clear its throat and tell me I'm being positively awful. Sometimes you need to think your thoughts, no matter how morbid or terrible they are. You think them, then they're gone. It's a sick reassurance, of some form. Please don't lecture me. It's how I handle things. If I was truly worried, I would check myself in somewhere. Fortunately, these bouts are usually short-lived - intense, but short-lived, THANK GOD - and that would create all sorts of unnecessary financial difficulties as well as social awkwardness and lord knows what else. If I sounded the alarm every single time there was a glitch in my system, they'd probably throw me in a windowless room and never let me out. No need to create additional anxiety off the original anxiety because then the cycle just repeats itself and I suppose that's either ironic or meta, depending on what anything actually means anymore because I don't fucking know. 

I'm not making sense. I'm aware. Fuck. I don't care. I just need to write because I'm not going to bother anyone with my stupid Not-Problems because tomorrow when I wake up I'm sure they will have all blown over. God, I hope they will have all blown over. Doesn't matter if they do or not, I absolutely cannot call in sick, I've used up too many sick days and besides, I don't think calling in with a case of the Crazy is a legitimate excuse anyway. It's irresponsible. I can't just let the fact that I'm fucked up interfere with the fact that there is shit that needs done. So tomorrow will carry on as normal with the added bonus of being a Monday which is its own special brand of miserable. 

Whatever. I feel it winding down already. I took my next dosage and I brushed my teeth and I'm curled up in bed with my laptop and I think I'll be fine. Tomorrow I'll probably pretend like it never even happened and I'll feel stupid for even making a Thing out of it because it will have subsided like it always does and I will once again have regained control of the situation. It's like a fucking terrorist, if it you let it terrorize you, obviously, it wins. It's just exhausting to have to keep fighting it over and over and over and over, but, unfortunately, this is my life and I will be struggling with this for the entire rest of it, so... there you have it. It is what it is and I will do the best I can and everything will be just fucking wonderful again in no time.

Please don't judge me for this heap of ramble. I can't afford a real therapist so this is all I have. 

3 comments:

Maria said...

I'm sending you a million hugs.

We've all been there, and we've all felt this. Everything you're saying is stuff I've told my therapist and truly believed.

But it's not true. It's simply not true. And you have to stop telling yourself this story about yourself because the you everyone else sees is not that person.

We wouldn't love you so much if it was.

XOXO times a million.

Ashley, the Accidental Olympian said...

I know it has passed, but more hugs. Hugs, hugs, hugs.

terra said...

I just love you so, so much and wish that you never felt like this. I've been there too, I've been lost and sinking and drowning and fading and wanting out, but I've also loved people who have taken their lives and, 10 years later, I'm still broken inside. So, all of the hugs in the whole world and I wish, so much, you weren't so far away.