Thursday, March 10, 2011

A Different Sort of Fight

Last time I blogged, I was worried about genes, about risk, about living long enough to raise my son.

Now I'm much more worried about not wanting to live at all.

I've decided to blog through this. Since I've given up most of my online presence, it's hard to know how many people will know what, so here's this, pieced together from posts and chat and e-mails I've sent.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder some months ago, although that diagnosis may be wrong. It's Thursday. On Monday, I had a mini breakdown. This wasn't the first instance of something bad happening, but it was the first instance wherein I literally felt like I couldn't control my own actions, in any way. How did we get to this place?

I haven't taken my meds in about two months. I guess they were working when I took them, but the effects slowly started wearing off, and even though I was taking them, I felt anxious and depressed, and had these strange mood swings. I stopped taking them. At first it was just, oh, I forgot, take 'em tomorrow, blah blah... but then it became a habit, and then I wasn't taking them at all, and all of the sudden I started feeling things again, and it was this rush of euphoria... And then that passed. And I've been this way for a while. At least a month.

My psychologist is not around right now, and I can't afford to go pick up the refills I have waiting at the pharmacy. My meds are around $65 a month, so it's a big chunk of change for us, even with insurance. Added bonus, the Abilify wasn't doing what it was supposed to anyway, and the depression stuff he had me on makes me antsy. I was supposed to have an appointment Friday, but he got sick and canceled.

My depression and anxiety have built up to a point that they seem insurmountable. It's like being in a deep tunnel under ground, with the walls closing in. I am tense all the time. I have trouble sleeping. I had a panic attack today, after I spent the whole work day crying (yes, crying, at my desk, how fucking embarrassing) and waffling about blowing my conference savings on a plane ticket out of Dodge. I didn't, thankfully.

If I go to the health center, they'll commit me. They can't help me, and my psych will take too long to get back. I am hoping I won't have another day like this soon, but I don't know. I have no idea what is going to happen. If I'm snippy with you, or text you at weird times, or say odd things (like, today I told BFab during a fit of anxiety that I was going to drive to her house tonight... she lives in Vegas)....

I told Bun. I was genuinely concerned it might be too much for him, but he's struggling to understand. He kept turning it around so that it was about him, or about Jack, when it is truly just about me. I can't make him understand. He kept mentioning my "mental cocktail", as if the right amount of drugs would just fix me, and we'd never have any more problems. I just wish he could get it... that I might be this way forever. Broken.

So that's the back story. I have a therapy appointment in half an hour, and I plan to tell all of this to my therapist. I'm scared. I'm nervous. I'm sweating like a pig, and shaking all over. I'm tense. At least I'm not also angry and crying, today.

I will update when I get back.

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