I talked with my dr and he said there is nothing in my medicines or withdrawal off antidepressants that would cause this depression or crying.
“I’m not diminishing your pain,” he said, “but often you have a hard time coping”.
Normally I would have been insulted or felt unheard, but I had already thought of something close to that myself.
Could these tears be grief?
Maybe I just need to cry it all out like I’ve done before.
When I was little I cried for weeks when we moved, when friends moved. Cried for two weeks when I had to put down my dogs, my daughter moved to Wisconsin, my mom died, etc.
Most recently my divorce, the other woman, ostracized by my sister and kept from my grandchildren.
Maybe what I am misinterpreting as depression is actually grief . Maybe this is the way other people handle their emotional pain and I used to because I recognized the event.
So I’m giving it a go. I’ll be crying my eyes out and not questioning it. Sounds like utter hell, I’ll just release the sadness and cry until the tears stop.
I’ve had a small glass of wine. I’m resisting the urge to write.
I have Ultra Rapid Cycling Bipolar Disorder. I’m not sure if there is “2” “II” behind it or not for this glamorous sounding disease.
Now, and for the last five days, I’ve taken a dive into the abyss of depression. No, I’m calling it a fall into the abyss of depression, that sounds less deliberate, because I certainly have no control over it.
If you know anything about or suffer from a mood disorder and read my last post, I think it is obvious that I had begun falling in a dramatic way.
I’m much more aware and less likely to fight against admitting defeat these days, so I call my Dr. and get in right away. There is always a lot of crying on my part and a lot of rifling through my three maybe four-inch-thick file folder on his part. I think I’ll mention to him next time – it’s time for a binder.
He looks, he thinks, I cry, I tell him what I think is wrong
and he comes up with yet another plan.
I’ve been cycling again, but not at all in a fun way, I’m not getting the pleasant phase. The productive, “Aren’t I amazing? “ and “I love me!” phase. All depressed and irritability. More like angry and pissed off. Either sobbing or berating myself as pathetic. Raw exposed nerves, don’t even talk to me and definitely don’t touch me! I want to be hit by a truck and throw things that aren’t cooperating. I’m not eating either. I cannot even enjoy the lack of appetite and therefore lack of calories because it is a danger sign that I’m getting closer to the edge.
No one knows I’m felling this way because I have way too
many responsibilities and way too high standards for myself to drop the mask I
have perfected over a lifetime.
So about now you might be thinking, where is all this going?
She has definitely not been able to resist the urge to write.
I was resisting the urge to write because I had a small glass of wine. I know I am not supposed to drink because of my condition, but when I feel this depressed it is the only relief I get until the medicine starts to work. Luckily, I metabolize medicine very quickly. That is also a plus for the very small amount of wine I need. I have been known, a year or so ago and before, to drink a lot every night. And now I don’t.
Writing my thoughts and feelings in a blog about being diagnosed with such a stigmatized illness was a great outlet for me. I couldn’t tell anyone I knew because of the shame I felt. It took me months before I told my husband. Drinking was the only way to feel anything. The medicine was levelling me out but there was nothing left. Being buzzed wasn’t the same, but at least I didn’t feel dead.
So what’s next for me? Drink and then write again? Today, and with the way I’m feeling, the buzz feels a tiny bit good and writing this feels good. It feels real. It makes me feel like me. The real me that I love. If other people felt this way about me I know they would love me too.
You know what I did today? I drank wine out of a mug so my son wouldn’t question me. It was 12:30 in the afternoon. I was feeling so depressed that I thought it might help. It was that second mug that finally put a dent in it.
I realize that the trauma of my mother dying is making me depressed. Very understandable. This may be the most normal reaction I’ve ever had to anything.
I have to get my act together. I think it’s the three weeks on overdrive trying to make her feel comfortable, help my family and come to grips with her dying. Now with nothing left to do I feel like I’ve fallen off the edge of a cliff. That’s when the depression set in.
I’ve got a mountain of laundry to do. The kitchen is a health hazard and my appearance has a lot to be desired. I think I’ve worn the same three outfits for the last two weeks. I cancelled my hair appointment and my legs are hairy. Allison needs her mother back and Tristan should be able to ask me how I’m doing without me turning into a crying mess. The dog hasn’t been walked, I haven’t gone to work in two weeks and my Christmas tree is still up.
I am still in shock, but isn’t it time to physically rise up and start participating in my life again?
Please excuse me if I my post is incoherent. I’m half-drunk with the wine I’ve been drinking since 10pm. I didn’t start out planning to get drunk. I was just trying to wait out my family in order to get some peace and quiet.
Oldest visiting daughter, Emily, went to bed at 10pm. Allison, the youngest, wanted to stay up until midnight. I let her stay up. Just as the ball dropped my husband came home!
After discussing the recent death of my mother, he wanted to know why there wasn’t a funeral. She didn’t want one.
He wanted to know why there wasn’t an obituary. She didn’t want one.
Why don’t I print up some photos and have them at the “Memorial”? She didn’t want that.
It’s hard enough trying to wrap my mind around what has happened in the last two weeks let alone try to experience it with someone who doesn’t understand the nuances and complications of my mother’s and my relationship.
It’s actually pretty simple to me, I loved her and I miss her already.
anincidentallife.com 
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