Grumble, rinse and repeat

I hate therapy and I hate my therapist right now.  After last Friday’s “session” I was adamant that I WOULD NOT be going back.  Now, 2 days later, I feel the beginnings of doubt.  **Maybe I AM the one at fault here.  Maybe he’s doing a good job and I just don’t get it, can’t see it**.   I’ve been going to see this fellow for about three years now and for about 3 or 4 months feel like he isn’t trying or is bored or frustrated with me.  I told him before and on Friday that I feel much worse after our meetings.  I think he said “really?”   Not why or explain yourself.

Anyway, for the past couple of months my depression has gotten worse, I’m barely functioning – by which I mean – I eat and drink daily, I get out of bed regularly to smoke a cig., I bring in the newspaper daily from the driveway (they’re in a pile on the guest bed), and I leave the house once a  week to go to therapy.  Any other ADL*  is not my ADL.  Sleeping, something I once enjoyed,  is a daily problem.  I can’t get to sleep before midnight or later and then I wake up every 30 to 90 mins. until I finally give up and haul my ass out of bed to sit in a  mildly agitated stupor on the steps for a smoke.  I hide from the neighbors and my family.  I don’t turn my phone on some days and then feel unsupported and abandoned when I deign to turn it on and there are no voicemails or missed calls.

I’ve told my T this.  I’ve told him I’m lost. I’ve told him I don’t know what I might do and that I’m afraid of what I’m capable of.  Two weeks ago his parting words were “I hope you feel better”, two days ago – “Have a nice week.”  Am I expecting too much from him?  If he can’t help me, who can?  I don’t know who to ask.

This past week he said something like “Are you ready to _____ (something I missed) the sleeping giant?”   My porous brain leaked out a weak “uh huh” and I waited for him to proceed figuring I’d catch on as he talked.  But he didn’t talk.  He sat there and looked at me expectantly.  I suppose a reasonable person (obviously, not me) would have asked him what he meant by sleeping giant.  But, I didn’t and I’ve spent the last 48 hours trying to figure out what it means.

I’m one of those people that reviews and dissects any conversation I’ve had – I guess for hidden meanings or insights I might have missed at the time.  I also have elaborate conversations with the future. ** If they say this, ‘ll say that**.  And I try to anticipate any twists and diversions that may happen..  Of course, I never get it right, but I do get a sense of pleasure if I get to use one of my carefully constructed responses.

I’m thinking I might have to go back next Friday just to find out WTF he was talking about.  But then again, I may just go to ask him for a referral to another type of therapist (does she have the balls?)  I think I need a more interactive, therapist-directed therapy.  I will sit or pace silently sometimes waiting for him to ask or say something because my mind is empty.

In the meantime, today I decided to start Zoloft again.  This was the last AD I was given when inpatient last spring.  I never could tell if it made any difference or if the ECT was the reason I was deemed better and allowed home.   Frankly, I just need a little break from all of this and would welcome with open arms any hypomania it wants to send my way.  I have so much shit that needs doing, plus I need a little happy.

Doc

*ADL=activity of daily living

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Suicide : An act of kindness.

I read somewhere that trying to explain the rational reasons behind the desire to die by suicide implies an irrational mind. Bullshit. I mean, I disagree.

My mom died a few months ago from metastatic lung cancer. She was in unrelenting, undermedicated agony for far too long before hospice stepped in to manage her socially acceptable illness and unspoken desire to die with dignity and less pain. Thank you morphine, dilaudid, and ativan. I was grateful when she died and wasn’t forced to face another day of misery. I deserve the same consideration, kindness, and compassion she ultimately received. I am not ashamed to give up. I have tried for the past 6 years to accept advice, treatments, and change without therapeutic success. I am not altruistic enough to continue the façade of contentment.

“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” Dr. Seuss

I’m not afraid to die a painless death by my own hands. OK.. I am a little. What I am afraid of is the fear, shame, and stigma my family may experience because of my decisions. It won’t be their fault. Societal pressure – moral and religious – over the past 1000 years has skewed and changed early civilizations’ beliefs that suicide is an honorable way to escape an unbearable existence. I’m an atheist so no qualms on the religion front. Morally, I could get entangled in the notions of being weak and selfish, not a contributing member of our society. The stigma of mental illness and suicide can’t harm me or stop me but it will probably hurt my loved ones.

Doc.

N.B. This is not a suicide note. I am just trying to organize my thoughts and feelings.

I feel like crap again

I’m writing this as a distraction. I feel like shit. Usually it ends with me doing something ultimately regrettable. I feel dangerous, but only to myself.

The local newspaper has a headline that says “Spring is the time of renewal and change.” It feels like it’s mocking me because I can do neither. In fact, I’ve been more on a straight path to self-poisoning as my current mood has beckoned me to push the envelope lately from within my impressive stash of drugs. Current poison of choice – narcotics. Nice buzz, side effects of headache, vomiting, and itchiness.

I’ve always planned for a painless death, but today I can imagine a more painful method because I feel like I deserve it. There has to be some guilt, right? The shame of failure for one.

I’m falling again. My normal or hypomanic mood has deserted me again. I want to cry but I can’t. I want to sleep but I can’t.

I know I cycle through my moods. I know that eventually my really low lows will change but it’s NEVER back to my old self-reliant, confident, contented self. Only “better” enough to gain release from a hospital or enough to fool onlookers into believing I can endure.

OK. Moan over . That took about an hour. Yea.

Doc.