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.
Have you ever been so sad that you can’t move? Feeling so depressed and rejected that even moving your face to cry is impossible? Tears just roll down your cheeks? Chest unable to heave?
The feeling of unimportance finally proven to be true? That all along fighting the thoughts of being unlovable were in vain?
All of those coping skills learned, all of the meds, all of the triumphs to succeed in life against incredible odds fail?
The betrayal so overwhelming and complete that your broken heart can’t move you?
The only way to tell these feelings is in a blog, because telling anyone else just makes you look more pathetic than you already feel?
This is the place I usually insert the last line of hope or whit not to worry anyone that I might finally crack.
This morning sitting comatose on my couch for the first time in my life might just be a step closer.
Time for some honesty. My life has been hell for the last two years. It wasn’t that great before divorce, but never like this.
My oldest daughter and I used to be so close, but since the divorce, it has changed. She doesn’t text back, return phone calls or emails. There are plenty of ideas going around that have nothing to do with me, but the evidence is irrefutable, it’s me.
My youngest daughter, who came out to me last summer, is transgender. I’ve been coping, adjusting and trying to understand. He’s moved in with his dad (and woman he was cheating on me with) last month and has cut off all contact with me. If you will remember, his dad is a raging narcissist and still will not stop tormenting me. I suspect Caleb is a border line. Might as well throw that in to my family; border line, bipolar, narcissist….I’m surprised any of my children are functioning.
I have also be cut off by my beloved sister. I guess mental illness and the drama of my marriage, divorce, transgender child was just too much for her. I’ve sucked her dry.
My therapist is actually just trying to keep the boat afloat. Trying to give me ways to cope, because facts are facts, all this shit is happening and I can barely come up for air before some other event occurs.
I had to call 911 on Caleb before he moved into his Dad’s because he threw a tantrum and was destroying my bedroom and bathroom. Glass was everywhere and due to his mental health I was afraid for him. No one from my family has asked me, what happened and how I am. I am totally shut out.
What the hell is going on? I am alone. I’m supposed to be depending on my friends according to my therapist, but I’m not there yet. It’s not the same. I’ve never lived alone. As with most mothers, my family has been a huge part of who I am and now they are all gone.
I’m sure it looks bad for me. I must have done something. I must be something to drive everyone away. The only thing I am is … well the only thing I think I am is unimportant and not worth the effort.
I feel like shit right now. I feel like shit everyday. I’ll make it though and eventually get to enjoy my life. I’ve been telling myself that for 52 years.
Christmas is approaching. That’s when the old family hurts and feelings start to poke through the facade. Each year I wonder if it is easier to smile and ignore the past? So far it has been, but this year my skin feels a little thinner.
It begins when I start addressing Christmas cards. There are a few years here and there I haven’t had the mental strength to send them out and until now I haven’t realized why.
I tend to contemplate each relationship as I write the name and address on the envelope. I breeze through the names of my closest family members and friends, but then I inevitably have to write the names of those who have hurt me. I start remembering events where I felt like an outsider, feeling misunderstood and just being downright mistreated.
And more hurtful than those names I write is the one I don’t, my mother’s. Oh, my mother is alive and well. Physically that is. To be kind, she is a little “off” mentally. I don’t think this apple fell too far from the tree. The difference is I am well and she refuses to be. Therefore, with whatever mental illness she suffers from she thinks she is better off without me. I miss her. I’ve missed her for decades although it’s been only a year since I’ve seen her.
The biggest hurt was when she stopped sending me birthday cards. That cut deep. It’s been years and I still can’t come to terms with it. We each have our breaking point. That is mine.
During this last year I have been tempted to contact her because, well I still miss her. The idea will come and I will make a plan to call her. Then the opportunity arises and I put it off. Then I put it off again. Next thing I know a week has gone by. I know why I don’t call, I fear the rejection.
I could go on and on about my mine and my mother’s history together, but I really don’t want to. I’m tired of it all. Well, exhausted actually, otherwise I would dial her number again.
anincidentallife.com 
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