It started in late March. I was put on some medications that seriously mucked with my head, made me extremely depressed, and very weepy. I almost never cry unless someone has died, and even then, I can hold back the tears. This drug made me cry almost constantly. That's a problem when you work customer service. I don't really remember late March through late June. I vaguely remember curling up in an old closet at work and bawling my eyes out. I remember flying into temperamental rages and hating people that I adore and love for minor offenses that I'd normally be quick to forgive. But that's about all I remember and want to remember. Seriously, if I did or said anything during that time to you, please don't bring it up. I'm terribly sorry. I wasn't me. I feel horrid for everything.
I thought that by now, I'd be feeling better. I stopped taking that drug. But even though I feel better, I still feel really in the dumps. I'm still doing nothing but eating Tofutti and watching comedies in a sad attempt to laugh. Holden has been begging me to get help, because I haven't been this depressed in two years. I'm not functioning and coping with depression; I'm sinking and losing my mind with depression. It scares the hell out of him to see me like this. I write these blog posts on being strong and not letting life get you down, and here I am curled up in my pajamas because I don't feel with it enough to actually look cute. Whatever that means. (I can look cute in pajamas, right?)
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| Here. Have some comic relief. |
I don't really want to get into what's been eating at me. I will say that my last blog post was about forgiveness and I can't even forgive myself for my own mistakes. I'm also dealing with a lot of painful anniversaries. I can't sleep at night because I have these horrible nightmares. I've a had a few scary family emergencies happen in the last few months. Basically, just a lot of gunk that I don't know how to deal with. I can handle one or two things at a time, but when it piles up, I'm not strong enough.
I also have some undiagnosed second illness. They thought it was rheumatoid arthritis, but I don't have any inflammation in my body. I've known that I have some other illness since last year, and I've been too scared to go in and see what's going on. I'm too scared to take more medicine, have another diagnosis pinned to me, and just be "that sick girl". I'm terrified of what it is, and I'm terrified of being sick.
My mental health is more crippling than my physical health. I could be going through the worst flare of my life but if I still can keep my spirits up, I can make it. I'm not saying I can't cry, have moments or even a few days of deserved self-pity when I'm sick. I'm saying that if I'm struggling with poor self-esteem, I lose my spirit, my day or two of self-pity stretches into weeks... that's hard. That is really, really hard. Now not only am I very sick physically, I don't care about myself enough to actually go to the doctor. My health gets worse, and I isolate more. I isolate more, and I become more depressed. I become more depressed, and I get sicker. As long as I am able to keep my depression in check, I can manage any curve balls my IBD throws at me.
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| Not comic relief, but I needed a picture to make me happy. I mean, look at them. They're so cute! |
I've been struggling with depression since I was eight years old. I remember I used to sob to my mother that I was stupid, worthless, ugly. That I hated myself. That I was sad and didn't know what to do. Every single time, she would thank me for opening up, tell me that the first step was admitting there was a problem. Then she would take me to the kitchen sink with a glass and food dye. She'd fill the glass 3/4 full of water. "This is you when you are born," she'd proclaim. "You don't have any sadness. You're happy. But then things happen and you get sad." She and I would add a drop of food coloring for everything that was going wrong in my life. A death. Bullying. Hormones. A boy. Not getting straight A's... whatever was making me unhappy, she'd add a drop of whatever color I chose. If whatever it was was making me more unhappy than other things, she'd add more food dye. Once, we needed to squirt about half a thing of blue into the water. When I was done telling her everything that was making me upset, she'd hold the glass of muddied water to the light. It was always black. "Wow," she'd say. "You are sad. Let's fix this." She'd then tell me things I could do to make me feel happier, or tell me things the liked about me. She'd spill a little of the muddy water into the sink and add an equal amount of clear water from the faucet for each thing she told me. Slowly, eventually, the water would sparkle again. She'd always remind me that feeling better was hard work, and it wouldn't happen overnight. She was right. I've never managed to get my glass of water completely clear, but if you don't continuously expel you muddy water and add fresh water, the water becomes cloudy and muddy quickly.
Admittedly, I've been doing a really lousy job of keeping my water clean. But yesterday, I dragged myself to the family doctor. I was blunt with doc I always go to. "I'm dealing with ulcerative colitis and I have IBS. My joints, bones, and muscles are achy. I don't sleep well. I'm depressed because I can't ever do anything. My anxiety is skyrocketing because my health makes me worried for my job and life in general. I've been having nightmares. I need a referral for a rheumatologist and a psychiatrist."
PSYCHIATRIST?! WHAT? Seriously. I have never asked for a psychiatrist in my life. I hate them. (No offense. Just bad experiences.) But here I was actually asking for help. I even asked for an anti-depressant. (I haven't been on anti-depressants in three years, when I quit cold turkey because they made me feel weird, and I moved out. My parents had a rule that I had to be on them until doc said I was well enough to go off.) My PA gently reminded me that I came in a year ago complaining of body aches and never saw who she recommended me to. She said she'd be sure to set me up with a rheumatologist, and make sure that the scheduler got me set up with an appointment before I left. She told me what my GI told me- it's probably not RA. (Whew, I think). Instead, we might be looking at fibromyalgia. I barely know what that is, and I'm torn between educating myself but risking imagining all my symptoms, or just staying in the dark until I get an official diagnosis.
My nerves are raw. I feel empty. I mostly just want to go cry into a margarita or eat another tub of Tofutti right now and cuddle animals, but I'm trying really hard to not become an alcoholic or that crazy cat lady with the Tofutti.
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| I lied. I am a dog person. Please tell me where to adopt this adorable playmate. |
I'm so good at hiding it. So good at faking that I'm happy. I know what people look for in depression patients, so I know how to avoid every single stereotype, every single sign. I'm tired of feeling like I'm lying to everyone by writing these blog posts that I'd read to feel better, but don't actually convey what's going on in my head. I'm just really tired.
I'm going to go start adding clear water to my glass now. It might only be a drip at a time, but I'll get there eventually, right? Or maybe I'll just go back to bed. Writing this was exhausting.
