Tag Archives: depression

Snotmanglers? Why not?

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There’s a little secret to writing- it’s spewing crap so the screen isn’t empty. It’s not a secret to writing well, but it gets something on the page, which is often just enough motivation to continue.

And that, my friends, will be what we talk about tonight. Continuing. In spite of boredom, or frustration, or a goddamn broken foot. Continuing, when you’re in the fog and it seems endless.

I had a meeting with my sponsor last night and she expressed some worry. We went through a book she had and determined that I’m showing 6 out of 9 relapse warning signs.

Then I introduced her to Gorski, who she had never heard of, and we found that there’s 7 phases of relapse warning signs before one even starts missing meetings!

Which I guess I was doing. I got a tad complacent after my 90 in 90.

I’ll be honest. I’m getting a bit bored with the program.

My psychiatrist said that being bored was absolutely a good sign, because depressed people don’t get bored. They just lie around being depressed. With a broken foot and being off work, who wouldn’t be a little bit bored? It’s great news!

But that was boredom in GENERAL, not boredom with RECOVERY.

People just say the same thing over and over.
It’s just recitations from the Big Book.
The readings take forever.
Like 30% of everyone’s share is them saying how grateful they are.

God, I’m a whiny little brat.

It never fails that I feel better leaving a meeting than I did walking in. There’s not many things that can make that claim. Not even making art- that sometimes frustrates the living snotmanglers out of me and throws off a whole day.

I hate who I was as an alcoholic. Granted, I hated myself since I was sentient. The key is that that is improving as I get more sober time under my belt, and the quality of person that I am improves directly with the application of the steps. Where do I learn more about applying the steps? Those stinkin’ meetings.

I need to spend time associating with people and hearing their stories. I need to spend time telling mine. Otherwise I get jammed too damn far in my own head and I start forgetting that I’m not alone.

So you know what?

I think I’ll continue coming back.

The Pit

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I think one of the scariest things about depression is how alone that you feel. A depressed person is not only lonely, but lost and forsaken, feeling unworthy of love. It isn’t about physical presence, because you can be in a crowd and be the only one there. It’s not about mental presence, because you can be engaged with somebody, wholly involved in an experience, and still be desperately alone. It’s not even about emotional presence, because a depressed person can still be a functioning partner in a relationship.

It’s about the pit.

I imagine an endless gray landscape, dotted with abysmal pits. I imagine a smattering of trees, and a thick fog. This is where people go when they are depressed. All you can see is the inside of the pit, the clammy, rocky walls of the pit. They are rough, jagged, hopeless. Far above, there is a pinprick of light. The opening. There is nothing comfortable about this pit.

It is not impossible to get out of the pit, but it takes help. Help that IS OUT THERE because DEPRESSION LIES and YOU ARE NOT ALONE. There are people that love you milling around outside that pit, wondering the best way to get you out. Waiting to help in any way that they can. You can’t see them, though. Because you’re in the pit. You don’t have the right perspective.

Maybe someday something magical starts to happen. Your medication starts to work. You’ve started ECT. Something clicks in therapy. Suddenly, there’s a rope being lowered into the pit. You don’t know whether to trust it, but you give it a few yanks and it feels solid. So you start to climb.

It’s hard work. Everyone is looking down into the pit and cheering, but their voices bounce off the walls, seemingly turning into mockery. Depression, you see, has a tendency to distort everything. But you climb. And climb. And climb.

Maybe you get out this time. Maybe it takes a few tries, a few rests, some time to strengthen your muscles. But you make it!

And shockingly, there’s all your friends and family. You just couldn’t see them before. I’m looking around right now, on the cusp of genuine okayness if not wellness, and I can see that the droning that was driving me mad while I was in the pit is my support system excavating a staircase down to the side of my pit. These are my skills and coping mechanisms, now out in the light and ready to be practiced daily so that I may learn them truly. So that future visits to the pit can be a lot easier to get myself out of. So that they can come visit me.

There can be something comforting about the pit. If nothing else, it’s yours. It’s a safe place. A place for you to feel miserable, but safely so. It is so devastatingly difficult to leave, but so easy to return to, especially if you are afraid to make a new normal. The kind of bravery it takes to get out of the pit is nothing compared to what it takes for the first few steps to the land of new being. That’s where unhealthy coping mechanisms get analyzed and shed, where toxic relationships pass into memory, where bad habits meet their demise. Replacements for all of them are forged, and you become a stronger, healthier being.

Wherever you stand today, friend, I would like to encourage you. Do not succumb to the lies of the pit, nor those of the gray landscape. Keep stepping forward.

Becoming

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My mother often jokes about the crayon marks on the wall- you’d think that in a 150 year old house, with a husband that does custom paint jobs on cars, my artwork would have been painted over in the last twenty years. However, it perseveres, abstract renderings that my mother claims will make the house worth more when I’m famous. I think of this sometimes when I traipse through the living room… What will these be worth when I’m successful? That phrase then sticks in my head, wandering over and over, taking laps through the same worn paths. Half the time I can’t tell whether the thought “when I’m successful” boils down to “when I’ve achieved something of significance in my life” or “when I’ve done it right while attempting suicide.” I’m sure both would add value to the scribbles on the wall, entirely different kinds, but still, something.

I’ve attempted suicide twice in the last two months. Maybe this is too honest, maybe I shouldn’t be sharing this. But things don’t change by letting them sit in silence. When I get chastised for joking about another attempt(as I do), I’ll often reply “I’ll try harder next time.” How this becomes a joke for me can be unclear to others, I know, but I can’t help it. I’ve wanted to die for as long as I can remember. It’s all I know. I think it’d be evidence of being more unbalanced if I COULDN’T joke about it.

Cognitive distortions. I’m told these are the things that tell me I am worthless. I currently only see them as truth. That is the way it will be until I put in the very, very difficult work of training myself otherwise.

Someone once told me, “If you could see yourself through other people, you’d know you are worthwhile.”
My reply was “If I could see myself through other people, those people would need to go to the hospital.” Snark is a defense.

The hospital is a place I’ve been several times. It doesn’t seem to help for very long. Therapy is a place I‘ve been several times, through several programs. It doesn’t seem to help for very long. Hey, I’ve even had an exorcism. That sure as hell didn’t help.

A last ditch effort was ECT, electro convulsive therapy. The phrase makes most people immediately jump to a Cuckoo conclusion, but things are very different now than were portrayed in that film. It’s highly civilized and ultimately very hopeful. I got several weeks of what may have been normalcy out of it. I’ve also gotten a fair amount of damage to both my long and short term memory systems, some of which may shake out, some of which is permanent. However, once again it didn’t seem to help for very long. I did more damage to myself than I ever have before, after having been normal and happy for awhile.

Now I’m starting DBT, Dialectical Behavior Therapy, which is all about teaching people to respond to stress, harmful impulses, bad thoughts, etc. in healthier ways. I’ve just started, but I’m feeling very hopeful. I’ve already gotten a bit of practice with one of the techniques. It’s an intense program, and a commitment. A patient signs up for an entire year of the program, which, for me, meets an hour away and twice a week. It will be worth it if I can achieve healthier mannerisms through this process, naturally, but if this also fails me, then I have run out of options.

I am determined to make this year mean something.
I will learn.
I will learn to believe, believe the good things that people tell me that I am.
Because I am stronger than I can see.
I am more than I believe.
I am above the sum of my faults.
And I am worthwhile.
I am creative.
I am kind.
I am talented.
I am loved.
I am smart.
I am funny.
I am giving.
And I am capable of changing the way I think about myself.
I am capable of becoming what I am.
I can’t think of anything that would make me more successful.
Wish me luck this year.

Youthful hopes.

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The rubber strap wraps around my arm.

“This will be tight, I’ll loosen it as soon as I can…”

I’ve heard Melissa use that exact sentence probably dozens of times as she starts an IV on someone in the prep room. Melissa is tall and slim, with chin length wavy silver hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. I can’t help but ask- “So how many times do you think you’ve said that?”

She smiles. “That’s something that I’m gonna ask God when I see him. My husband wants to ask what’s the closest he’s ever been in proximity to buried treasure.”

I smile and take a deep breath as she warns me “Little poke…”

She fiddles with the tape and looks at me before she asks “If you could ask God one question, and he had to give you a straight answer, no comparisons, no parables, just something you could completely understand, what would it be?”

I try to come up with something clever but the phrase “Why me?” pounds through my head over and over, eventually leaking out my tear ducts and my lips.

Her face melts with empathy. “You mean with the struggles you’ve had to deal with?” She asks me my age and tells me that when she was my age she struggled a lot too. “You know, a friend once told me something that I found to be true. There’s people that struggle when they are young, and there’s people that experience their struggles when they get older. You’re just getting yours out of the way. Things will get better.”

Saline drips down my arm. “I sure hope so.”

“I wouldn’t have believed me when I was your age either. But know that there’s hope.”

They wheeled me into the treatment room for my weekly seizure, the ones that feel like hope.

Enough.

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Near the end of tonight’s session at Celebrate Recovery, we did an exercise where we were supposed to write down the things that we were struggling with, our baggage, or in denial about. It wasn’t particularly difficult for me to fill up the index card. I had scribbled down an “A” before the leader even finished giving us instructions. I’m perfectly willing to share my list because I am not ashamed of my struggles. They are a weakness that will allow me to grow in strength.

My list was as follows:
Alcohol has a hold on me.
I take my relationships for granted.
I am unappreciative.
I am lazy.
I am cruel.
I take advantage of people.
My suicidal tendencies are so deeply ingrained that I worry I can never change.

The segments of these that are mind sets are already a work in progress. And I am grateful to say that I currently have a week of sobriety under my belt(I know, not that impressive, but hey, you have to start somewhere.)

Early in the session we got a reminder that one cannot find self worth based on what others think.
That’s important for me to remember. I also like to remind myself that although these are truths about me now, they do not always have to be. There are also a multitude of other truths about me, ones that can qualify as affirmations.

Truths like:
I am creative.
I am intelligent.
I am good with animals.
I am quality driven.
I am skilled with my hands.
I am analytical.
I have a good eye.
I am witty.

Now, my abysmal self esteem is preventing me from coming up with too many more, but for once I’m actually pretty convinced there are some.

Also, despite that fact that I am currently going through some grief and heartache, I still find that I am improving. Smiles seem to come a little easier, a little more naturally. Some of my suicidal tendencies are starting to feel a tad absurd, for the first time. The buzzing tension that my body holds is there to teach me that as long as my heart beats, there is hope.

And that’s enough for now.

Forgetting

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My father called me, from inside the house. Asking if I knew of any zip ties. I reassured him that his guess what as good as mine. He asked me what I was up to. I said I was watching a show on Netflix with my husband. He replied “well that’s a priority.” before I hung up.

He called me back, a while later. Said that I was not to be forgiven for taking something as pure and light as thanksgiving and turning it into resentment. I had made it very clear that I needed to stay home and mourn Grandma in my own way. And then I went with my husband to the nursing home where his grandma stays, and endured the pain and vague atmospheric contamination of human feces to be, for a few moments, a member of a human family.

He called me again later and told me that he and my mother cried and stayed up at night, worrying about me and how I abuse them. That I should look for alternative housing solutions.

Which might be true. I used to think this place was all I ever wanted. But now it’s empty, and it exists as a pure vessel for pain.

He made an ultimatum during this last call. That I should come down there and talk.

He and I talk best during action. Neither of us are great at eye contact, and a helluva lot worse at seeing eye to eye. So I let him work on plumbing while I stacked wood. The only words he said to me during the half hour that I sweated? Asking where the air compressor was.

I left. I went upstairs. I tooled around.

I made a decision.

I heard him start to vacuum. I went out to my car and loaded my gun.

Today is the last night before my most hopeful treatment for depression, ECT. And I was ready to make it my last night.

I cried. And waited. And watched as his headlights flicked on and left.

It was the closest I have ever been to shooting myself.

If there’s any hope out there, it involves forgetting my family. I see that now.

Make it

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Go ahead.
Make
my decision
whether
or not
to commit suicide
about
you.
Make it
determine
if you’d like
to get close
to me,
since
you are so
spectacularly
against drama.
Make it
into the story
you almost told
about your life.
Make it
into a
reflection of you,
and then
let me break
that mirror
and cut you
with the shards.

Schemes and irony

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So, despite repeat conversations with my treatment team, my husband has done a piss poor job locking up guns. The shotguns are off the wall, sure, but now they’re just in cases on the floor. Because, godammit, when I want to blow the top of my skull off, I will surely be vexed by zippers!
Good thing I’d rather not use a shotgun anyways, but I’ve got a trick.
I’ve manufactured a state of increased poverty that prevents me from having the petty cash and gasoline to be able to go buy ammo. I bought a new car. A new plasma cutter. Toys to keep me occupied, hopeful, and strapped.
I do this because I know a great many people that would be mightily pissed at me if I were to scratch that itch inside my skull. For mysterious reasons, they like me better alive.
I must be prettier with my eyestalks still on the inside. Can’t think of any other viable reasons.
But, as a result of my scheme, I am consistently too poor to do things like hang out shopping, get dinner, etc. So I get to watch the people who love me get more agitated with my presence.
It’s a kind of silent irony.
The kind I’ll never mention.