Tag Archives: sobriety

I’m anti-psychotic right now.

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I had a really good day hanging out with a friend and running errands in preparation for a planned on trip to the psychiatric urgent care. Once there, they wouldn’t help me. Apparently the CMH wouldn’t authorize treatment because in the past I had been authorized for Pivot and not shown up. I wracked my brain for when this might have happened and the only time I can figure is right after my car accident, when I wanted to go in because I could feel a spiral coming on and figured I could do a 2 for 1 on my Emergency Room time. The ER let me go with the instructions that Robert Brown Crisis(not Pivot but its sister) would call when a bed opened up. I missed a call from a number that was listed as Unknown, and they didn’t leave a message, leaving me no way to respond. They absolutely dropped the ball and now I come along months later and say to somebody that my suicidal thoughts are getting unmanageable and they say “Sorry, you miss appointments, you don’t deserve treatment.”

Can you imagine what that feels like?

When your depression already tells you that you are a drain on government resources and are better of dying? That it’s almost your civic duty to get off the damn disability payroll by offing yourself?

How many times do you offer someone treatment when they reach out? *

One time?

Three?

A dozen?

I’ve been hospitalized 21 times so far.

I’ve had CBT, DBT, ECT, REBT, IOP, month long rehab, gestalt therapy, and I’m working on family therapy and EMDR as well as digging into trauma. I could probably think of a couple more if I really tried. I’m a heavily therapized individual.

I remember one time in IOP(Intensive Outpatient, basically sobriety night classes) that he had been to rehab 27 times before it stuck. At that point I was a lot earlier in my career of crazy, and I thought to myself “how could you not give up?”

I know now.

You don’t have a choice.

You keep on marching, slogging, because a little taste of hope is all you need to get hooked.

I thought it would be convenient to die tonight.

My zines are printed and could be available at the funeral.

My friend had all the paperwork about how I was feeling and witnessed the whole thing.

It would’ve been a great headline for that brand spanking new psychiatric urgent care. Might help make some changes in the system.

I was ready to be a martyr for the mental health movement.

But you’re supposed to live for spite, you’re not supposed to die for it. Don’t punish yourself.

I jerked myself out of those thought loops. I thought to myself “You know better. You can choose to stop indulging in this.” And it was indulgent, it was mopey down the to core, I could practically feel my chin inside my chest.

I reminded myself of the good things in my life. Of the good things that I believe I may still have coming. Then I realized and complimented myself on having rerouted my Inner Critic/pity party so effectively. I’d also like to think that my activism will mean more if I’m alive.

Later that night I realized that maybe the reason I was having a good day for today despite enormous setbacks in a few arenas and a shoddy one other days despite them being relatively innocuous is that I didn’t take the antibiotics I was supposed to for my tooth. I’ve had full blown psychotic reactions from antibiotics before, but usually only the very strong single dose ones, and this was just a standard course of penicillin. Then I realized, slowly, shakily, with more of a sense of fear and power than I have ever felt before, I could account for at least three of my hospitalizations being very close to rounds of antibiotics. I have a variable now. Something to test. I can maybe get records from the offices of places that I’ve stayed, and from my primary care physician.

Also, my healthcare provider called and asked if I wanted to be a part of the Spectrum All of Us research program, and as a person who is transgender and on a lot of medications, I believe I’m scientifically valuable so I’m excited to have that appointment coming up. I’m going to share my hypothesis.

 

 

 

ECC84699-4E60-427A-8B86-78AFC0B584FA*Every time. Any time. It’s so scary to reach out and so much of the mental health system is like “oh, you have a problem?” WHAP! and when you are consistently punished for reaching out, you stop doing it. Remember that you’re dealing with people who are tender.

And still…

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There was an incredibly powerful exercise that I did once in a group session with other alcoholics and addicts. It was about the first step-admitting you are powerless. It was recommended by one of our peers, who said his sponsor guided him through it. He gave us all an index card and told us to number one through ten, leaving two lines for each number.

Then he said “I want you to think of ten of the worst things you did while you were drinking, and write them down. Leave an empty line.”

Our leader, Bob, was feeling sassy, so he timed people. The first person completed his in 27 seconds. Others needed to think a little harder. I was in the middle of the pack.

Then he gave us the key for the exercise.

After every statement, we had to write “and still I kept drinking.”

We had to confront the fact that not only did we facilitate these terrible experiences, we chose our demon again. And again. And again.

So for me it would start out a bit like:

I broke a goddamn toilet, and still I kept drinking.
I was sleepwalking naked, and still I kept drinking.
I let the horses out in the middle of the night, and still I kept drinking.
And so on.

It occurred to me recently that this same method could be modified a bit for other situations. I thought of my parents, the spiritual abuse they put me through, and how I’d keep crawling back to them.

So here’s another list. Yeah, it’s different, because the first reflects more personal choice rather than something being done to or with you. It was still a key moment for me to process this list, though. I think it’ll help give me strength.

1. They taught me how to tie a noose when I was really young*, and still I gave them more chances.
2. They told me I was getting fat, and still I gave them more chances.
3. They had me work for the family business in a shop from an incredibly young age, and still I gave them more chances.
4. They made me write pages from the Bible every day to improve my handwriting, until I developed carpal tunnel, and still I gave them more chances.
5. They held me to such high standards that it was impossible to ever succeed or feel like I could be good enough, and still I gave them more chances.
6. They stayed close with my exes even though it made me uncomfortable, and still I gave them more chances.
7. They put down my perfectly healthy dog unexpectedly without telling me while I was away in the hospital, and still I gave them more chances.
8. They left bible pages open about raising godly children after finding a dildo at age 16, and still I gave them more chances.
9. They guilt tripped me for how I was making them feel by choosing to live in my car rather than with them during a complicated time, and later gave me a mattress shoved behind a couch as a bedroom, and still I gave them more chances.
10. They refused to let me see a therapist or get medication for my depression, then insisted on a Christian counselor when it became court mandated after my first institutionalization, and had him perform an exorcism on me, and still I gave them more chances.

It was a pretty frequent pattern that I’d get sick of them and run off, or end up in a mental institution. But I always crawled back, and was always made to feel broken and wrong.

The last couple weeks, I kept getting little barbs from my Mom that indicated that she knew about the transition although I hadn’t had the guts to come out directly to them. Things like telling me how I was the feminine version of my dad, or how girly looking my hair was coming along to be, or how “a girl can dress up pretty and wear makeup and heels and have fun but when a boy does it it’s weird.”

It got to the point that I just walked out the door and left their property after she said something like that. Stopped talking to her. I texted her and said if she wanted to talk, I was meeting with my therapist and she could join, so she did.

She claimed she didn’t have a clue about the transition. She said that when she looks at me she sees “a very confused young person.” When my therapist gave me a chance to express how I was feeling, all I could come up with for a minute was “tense,” and she jumped in saying “And I’m devastated.” Not only did she continue to deadname and misgender me after we explained my wishes, she actively tried to correct my therapist and fiance when they were using the right ones. She asked my fiancé if he was okay with this, and after contorting her face in disgust when he said yes, asked “WHY?!?!” When he explained that his love had nothing to do with my gender, she said “Wow, so anybody can do what they want if they love ‘em.”

There’s another therapy session scheduled.

I added to the list number 11. They invalidated my choices about my gender and sexuality.

Any chances from here on out are to be supervised by a professional.

*It actually wasn’t until very recently that I realized this was fucked up. I mentioned something about it in passing on Facebook and a number of friends jumped in saying how gross that it was. I had been under the impression it was fairly normal, like a Boy Scout thing or whatnot.

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.

HOW-dee.

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A long talk on the phone with Buttercup usually means tears. Almost always, actually.

This time I beat him to the punch, and was already crying when I dialed him. I wanted to set up a formalized accountability partnership with him, to give me a bit more support in my attempts to stop drinking.

Buttercup is an unusually wise man, and prone to babbling platitudes with a twist. We spoke of my last blog, how baffled I was that four people had shared on Facebook. I laughed through the tears, but he went on. “People are connecting with it because they’ve found someone eloquent enough to put words to what’s on their heart. There’s value in knowing that they aren’t alone in a struggle. That’s what they’re seeing, that at least one other person can relate, that they aren’t alone. You’re influencing people. You’re benefitting them, changing them”

I was quick to backpedal. “Yeah, but that post was basically just me admitting that I’ve been drinking. How would that change someone’s life?”

“Just because the subject matter is dark doesn’t mean the impact is dark.”

That sentence may prove to be one of those that stick with me, like “You don’t get a soul until you’re 26” or “Learning is like boiling a lobster. Ideally they never know it’s happening.” Before this moment, I had never realized how similar that Buttercup is to Mr. Shaw, my beloved high school physics teacher. They are both whip smart, funny, and quotable. They even have that same nerdy white boy look, and I highly suspect that buttercup might also throw an electrified pickle at someone.

See, this is what blogging is good for. Putting words down can change your relationship to those words, and you can discover things that you wouldn’t have otherwise. I can’t say that the realization that Mr. Shaw and Buttercup are similar is particularly world shaking, but it’s something.

Just because the subject matter is dark, doesn’t mean the impact is dark.

I don’t know what it’s like to not be depressed. I live in darkness. I roll around in it. I wear it like a scratchy, asbestos laden blanket, and I know it’s not good for me but I don’t know how to go through the world without the bit of protection and solace it gives me. But just because I’m dark doesn’t mean my impact has to be.

That thought tasted a bit like hope. It felt like it the moment he said it, too. Which is why I scrabbled for a notebook and told him. “I’m gonna write that down.”

Buttercup preened a bit at hearing that, then went to his dejection cycle. There was proud of himself, flaunting how OF COURSE he’s worth writing down, a claim of getting written down all the time, and finally an aww, just kidding, nobody writes me down or ever takes me seriously. It was immediately back to me after that. This man has the quickest pity parties I’ve ever seen.

 

He ruminated on my support structure, I suspect because I had recently commented on how it seems like I never use it or reach out. “See, you’ve got this amazing support structure where you crack the door a little bit so people can see in, but you don’t let them in to interact. You rail on about how alone you are, but it’s a self fulfilling prophecy. As long as you’re holding everyone at bay, you’re alone. ”

I guess I’m opening the door a crack for him. I told him that and he said “I’ll wait for you to let me in, until then, I just need an eye hole. Hehe, eyehole.”

He went on. “Another thing you find as you spend more time with people and engage with your support structure is that we all wear masks. You know the masks.” It’s true, I can identify several of his very well. Other people too. I can’t say whether or not I’m any good at identifying someone’s real face, but then again, I don’t have any practice with that. I don’t think anyone does. “You have to realize, it’s not an unhealthy thing to put on the mask of a happy person. It’s like, laughter is the quickest way to… how does that go? A smile is the quickest way to become happy? Something like that. It’s only phony for a while and then you become it. Fake it til you make it.”

“Number one platitude, right there.”

“Well, you know, it’s what I’m good at.” He has a bit of a sore spot regarding platitude accusation, and I’m more than willing to take a poke at it here and there. “Anyways, play the role of happy. Surround yourself with things that make you happy. Do things that make you happy. You’ll become happier. I struggle a lot with the concept that I wouldn’t be able to describe myself as classically happy. But I really think that classically happy is an illusion.”

At this point, I see a car pulled over by the side of the house. “Oh, the dead people are here.” It must have sounded a tad strange. “I mean, they’re visiting the cross. Where the man got killed last year.”

“So the dead people are the people associated with the dead man, gotcha.”

I noticed the buoyantly affectionate Golden Retriever, Rusty, had crossed the line for the electric fence and was greeting the visitors.

“Go get your dog from the grievers.” Buttercup chastised.

“Not my dog. Gabe is coming. Besides, for all we know he’s helping them.”

“Holy crap, did you se how well you just reframed that? That was brilliant! Did you see yourself doing that? Wow. Learn from that, I bet you could get really good at-”

I was impatient enough hearing his praise that I interrupted and spat out the wisest thing I’ve said all day. “Of COURSE I thought of that. You act like I can’t see these things, I see all kinds of things, I just usually choose the bad.”

We both are actually a little stunned by how profoundly honest I was in that moment.

All he was willing to say to that was “Yeah. HOW-dee.”

We move on to talking about other random stuff.

When the call ended, I was laughing.

There were no more tears.

Doing and not doing

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I haven’t been blogging lately. Or writing at all, really. Or exercising. Or getting up on time in the morning. One thing that I have been doing is drinking.

Depression and alcohol abuse are really a chicken and the egg problem. I know the depression came first in my case, since the first time that I told someone I wanted to kill myself was second grade, and I certainly wasn’t abusing alcohol then.

Together, my drinking and my depression spiral with each other, in an elegant, lumbering dance to the shame pit.

My husband mentioned to me regarding my recent binges “I don’t know what happened, you were doing so well.” It was hard to hear my sobriety as a thing that I would or could be doing well at, or think that it has a moralistic view to it, not drinking good, drinking bad. This is because I like to pretend alcohol doesn’t have a grip on me, or at least not that bad of one. These are the lies I tell myself.

I know what drinking does to me. I know what it did to me, the damage it’s caused. A hundred pounds of weight gain, 2 institutionalizations, a brilliant mind that’s become twisted with doubt and fear, wasted time
wasted life
getting wasted.

Why did I write today? I don’t know. To be honest, I had given up on me writing. I guess it’s because I was thinking about the measures of success. For me, today was a failure because I didn’t get up on time and I had drank the night before. I viewed it as a failure before it even started. I’m crying right now at that realization, the standards I hold myself to. I know I wouldn’t want anyone else to think the way that I think, especially because today was a good day. I cut a lot of wood with my husband and my dad. I spent 6 hours with some of my favorite people planning for an Artprize project that’s bigger and more out of my scope that I would ever dream of accomplishing, and I’m honored to be a part of. But as we were packing up, I was overwhelmed by the sense of emptiness that sank in my chest. I don’t ever seem to remember the good moments, the laughter, the productivity, the engagement with the team. But I know I will remember that feeling of emptiness. In fact, it’s creeping in right now.

Maybe I’ll go have a drink.

And maybe tomorrow I’ll try to focus my self sabotage making me human, not a failure.