Of Men and Trees

I've been laid low for five days. Today's day six and so far, it seems as if I may be able to get up and move around more comfortably. Yesterday sucked. The entire holiday weekend sucked. How lousy is that? You have your husband home for four whole days and you're both sick? Bleah.

On Monday, we were invited to his parents' home for Memorial Day celebrations; I had no intention of going anyway; being sick was just a convenient excuse. But I had decided long in advance that I was finished subjecting myself to the blank stares and uncomfortable silences from my father-in-law. So my husband and my son got ready to go as I lay in a ball on the bed in front of a movie.

You know, I really figured it was going to be ok. I thought *I* was ok. The thought I'd put into it over the past few weeks should have prepared me for being there alone while the rest of the family was somewhere else, celebrating. And ... I should know better. Of course I fell apart. I felt just as alone and segregated as I should be. Separated from family and the few loved ones I have, and alone. My choice. I kept reminding myself, it was my choice. But it was damned difficult, too, knowing that the reason that choice came to fruition was because a man couldn't seem to wrap his mind around the fact that someone in his family had mental health issues and insisted on taking his anger out on me.

So I cried. Curled up around a pillow and cried, imagining what was going on, "over there", and thought about just how many people I DON'T have in my life any more. Wondering how long it will be before I have less than that. Thought about what the table would look like that my mother-in-law had set, with flowers and flags and ALWAYS something special for everyone. Felt thoroughly miserable, but got over it by the time my husband and kid got home.

And when he got home, he brought with him a magazine from his father; National Geographic, which contains an article on soccer, and a pull-out on it. A small thing: an olive branch. I looked at it with suspicion, tossed it on the bed and said, "So?"

He sighed. "At least he's trying."

Is he? I wasn't so sure. Why, all of a sudden? Why the quick change? And am I supposed to just dive wholeheartedly into this turn of events?

I asked my therapist. He had an odd idea. He said much the same as my husband did: "He's trying. He's never had anyone in the family with a mental illness, and he doesn't know how to deal with it. Now he's trying to come to terms. Accept it. Rate the behaviour. Maybe right now he's a -50. The magazine, that takes him to a -40. Give him till December and see where his rating is then."

Well, yesterday he (my FIL) came by the house to drop off a plumeria tree that they had been promising us. It was just he and I. In all seriousness, I was too sick to be nervous or unhappy. I just talked to him like I always did, and he responded the way he always did. We got our tree situated, and he even, at one point, patted my back. It was sort of surreal.

Now I don't know what to think. I'm scared to just forget everything that happened because if I do, I open myself up to a world of hurt. On the other hand, he seems to be offering that olivebranch.

I have one evening to spend with them before they leave for the summer, coming up on Thursday night. It's my son's Award's Night for his graduation. Apparently he's getting something.

I'll let you know.

Sniffle

Being sick sucks.

I was outside planting pretty thingies yesterday, along with transplanting succulents into bigger pots (holy shit do those things grow fast), and it was 90 freakin' degrees. As always, I went out during the heat of the day. Why do I do this? I don't know.

Part of it is because I have a terrible time getting motivated in the morning. The only thing that's guaranteed to get me moving is a trip to the Coffee Roasters cafe. Other than that, it takes an act of God to get me out of bed most days. Add the time it takes to get cleaned up and dressed, check email, read everyone's blog, let the dogs out, etc, and it's noon.

The other part of it is because ... well, it's work. While I enjoy working in the yard, it's still WORK.

Anyway, I worked for three hours during the heat of the day, and while I made an effort to get out of the sun and into the shade on a regular basis, going back and forth, I was feeling nauseous in short order. I'm very fair-skinned, so obviously this isn't a good idea. I could feel my arms burning again, having burned them twice already this year during sporting tournaments. Little blistering bumps were rising on them as they reddened. Now I noticed this, and you'd think it would be enough to get me into either the house or some sunblock, wouldn't you? But me being me, I just kept on going. I'm like that. Once I start something, I tend to just go til it's finished.

Well, by the time I finally got into the house, I was feeling wretched. The muscles in my legs were like rubber, my back was sore, my head ached, my arms burned and my stomach churned. Hurray for pretty yards! I'll have to figure out how to post pictures and put up some shots of my roses.

When my husband got home, he was very understanding and got dinner on the table. By the time bedtime rolled around, I really wasn't moving too much. Things were seizing up. So I chocked it all up to too much physical work and time in the sun. Unfortunately, when I woke up this morning, I realized that I still feel like twelve miles of bad road.

Like many of my posts, I get to relate this to BPD/Bipolar shit in some form or another (maybe). Many medications make people more susceptible to the sun, even allergic. It happened to my husband three years ago in an absolutely fantastic fashion. Now I haven't yet checked each of my meds out in relation to sun, but I'm going to. I am betting that I'll find one or more of them has this side effect. I've never been this vulnerable to the sun before, even with my fair complexion.

So I'm sitting here, doing nothing.

On an upside, I feel better mentally. Don't know why, and I shouldn't really question it, but I do. What the hell. It's very interesting, in some ways, to feel "normal", and look back at my thought processes over the past month and try to compare them with how they are now. There are still things going wrong, and I still get hurt but for whatever reason, I can handle it in a more normally adult way. What the hell?? When will I understand?

I've gone back to the therapist who's told me he thinks I'm dealing with my "demons" better than most, and while that might sound good, it's really not as helpful as I'd like, but I have to get more "into" the sessions before I get anywhere. I'm still gaining weight and still fighting it, tooth and nail. I hate that with a passion. Blah.

I'll keep working at it.

Lazy

So tomorrow I'll blog.

Sometimes I just have nothing of interest to share!

Decision Time

So she's right (the psychiatrist). I AM, indeed, tying her hands.

All we're doing is tweaking meds. We're not changing them much, and because of that, I'm not getting any better. It's hit me with yet another of those blinding flashes of clarity I'm so fond of as I sat here rereading my last three posts. And while I've thought about the last several appointments and rehashed what she's said, I've realized that she's right: I keep saying the same things, SHE keeps saying the same things, and I keep getting sicker.

You see, I have this "Thing". I can't bear the thought of gaining weight. I NEED more antidepressants. The level of depakote in my system is relatively low. I should be taking approximately 50% more, and every month she tells me this, and every month I resist. So she tweaks what I'm taking, having me take topamax in the morning in an effort to suppress appetite, and increase seroquel in an effort to stabilize my moods. Seroquel is nasty, nasty, nasty...just the thought of it causes the numbers on the scale to jump. But what I really need is another damned pink horse pill with the big D on it.

You see, all the time I was growing up, my family was obsessed with how we looked. We were judged by our looks. We were the "G's" and we had to present a pretty picture to the community. No matter that my father was falling down drunk in the background. No matter that my mother was as sick as I am. No matter that by the time I was 16, I was completely messed in the head, had fought off a sexual attack, and had no place within in my family. As long as we LOOKED good, that was all that mattered. And I was already looking a bit "chunky"...and holy SHIT, did I hear about it. My older sister called me a fat cow (I believe I was a size 12 or 14) and my mother monitored everything that went into my mouth. My father, on the other hand, urged me to eat as a method of getting back at my mother. Talk about a sick game of chess!

It never ended. After I got married (to the first one), I fell into the same trap. My mother warned me that I would be a "rose in his lapel" because of his profession, and I needed to make sure I stayed thin. And after having three kids, I did gain weight. And he hated it. He mocked, he ridiculed, he called names. And he withheld his love as he tormented me, then sexually abused me. How does this make sense? "How can I love you when you look the way you do?" Size 16...God Forbid.

I lost some weight and I started liking myself. My current husband, bless his soul, has never let my weight be an issue. I have no idea how he feels about it. He says it doesn't matter and I don't know if I believe him or not because no other man, woman or beast on the planet has EVER not cared. It's just not how life IS. People care. He says he doesn't, and that helps me get close to him.

But the pills...they make me gain weight. And as I gain the weight back, the old hatred rears it's ugly head. Hatred you can't imagine feeling. Can you imagine walking past full-length mirrors in your home with your head trained on the floor so you don't have to see your reflection? Or deliberately NOT putting your glasses on in the morning, so you don't have to see the truth? Or, no matter how hot it gets in the summer, EVER wearing anything with short sleeves? And short pants? Not in this lifetime! I'd rather die.

Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I relax when I'm talking to someone and just become "me", for a few minutes, or an hour...then I'll walk away, past a window or some other shiny, reflective surface and the reality will hit me again that the weight is coming back. And once again I'm hit with just how much I truly, truly, hate what I'm becoming, what I am.

These are my choices: insanity or self-hatred, and neither will allow me any peace of mind.

The Joys of Psychiatry

So my psychiatrist says...

"You're getting sicker."

No fucking shit, you stupid piece of ever-so-observant, mother-fucking, ass-licking, dick-shifting, money-sucking, beemer-driving cock-sucker.

We could have avoided the appointment and had me CALL IT IN, you idiot.

Then we went through my entire diet and decided what I can cut out so that she can give me yet MORE pills I don't want to take that make me gain weight.

I can have: meat, vegetables, some strawberries, whole grains for breakfast, and limited low-fat or fat-free dairy. WOO! Now ISN'T MY LIFE IMPROVING AS FAST AS YOU CAN READ THIS?

Then she says, "You need to exercise to speed up your metabolism". No shit. I know this. We've discussed it before. I tell her I'm walking more but a) smog kills me and b) my back and knees are unhappy.

So she says, and this is my very favourite part of the whole appointment ... "Swim". Yup, I'm going to swim. I'm going to bare what I already consider to be a burgeoning body COVERED IN SELF-INJURY SCARS and get into a public pool. Sure. I can't wait for that to happen!

Go ahead. Ask me what kind of mood I'm in. ASK ME.

I hate that there's nowhere for me to drive. I briefly considered it after I left the appointment but I'd more than likely get lost. I just want to ... well, get LOST. For days. I need to be alone. Now whining is just whining, and here it is, folks. I just want to be ALONE. No reason other than I don't want to be touched, or laughed with, or reasoned with, or talked to. *I* want to fuck off.

Where do I go to fuck off?

There should be a map, at "Borders" that has a destination specifically marked as "Fucking Off". I'd go there. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd pitch a tent.

Oopsy

I guess I upset the applecart with my last post. Thus, it's been removed. I don't really want to go off riling people, but as always it's what I do best.

What I wanted, needed, was a place for me to write instead of tearing down walls and putting fists through windows and breaking pretty cups. But I guess even that has to come with a censor, as last night I spent a miserable night on the sofa and expect I'll spent another one there tonight.

The post is gone, but I still feel so lost. How do you describe lost to someone, when you're sitting in the middle of the living room and lost means that no one knows you're there? Maybe for me, lost means that no one DOES know where I am, on the inside.

I didn't sleep worth crap last night; but... night night folks. I took enough pills this time to ensure I sleep til morning.

Day Two Crazies

For some reason, I find the shower a place of solace. When things are really at their worst, and I'm in the shower, I'm loathe to get out. But put me in an elevator, or in a crowd, or any tight space, and I'll flip like a Big Mac at the Golden Arches. Go figure.

I stood there last night, and let the water stream against my neck and let random thoughts flow through my brain. I didn't bother trying to figure them out. Later, I leaned my forehead against the cool tile with the towel wrapped around my shoulders. As usual, tears flow in frustration because I simply don't have any idea WHY things change when they do, or how to stave it off. And still, the rock is in my chest and the mania is rising.

Today isn't a lot better. I gave in and took the pills. Things seemed a bit better this morning, but if I take any more I'll be asleep. It's hard to lead a normal life while you're asleep. Had I taken the pills over the past two weeks the way I should have been, my body would have been adjusted to them, and this more than likely wouldn't happen. Gee, who do you blame?

I'm so angry. Mania is supposed to be fun, but dammit, I missed that whole "hypomania energy" fun thing. I'm just pissed. I'm pissed at everyone and everything because there's a way to help me and I can't get to it. It's dangling just outside my reach. However it would be better to let it go and just forget about it because it's simply not going to happen. Unfortunately for me, I'm not thinking all that clearly right now.

I'm splitting.

For those "not in the know", I'm making things "black and white". This is such a bad thing for me to do. It means I'm looking at people as either "completely good" or "completely bad". My family is not responsible for this but I feel desperate for someone to blame! So in my head, the battle rages: rather than let it go, rather than spin off, I just withdraw~sit in silence, pull it in, go away. Go away, go away, go away. I have to. That's the closest that I can come to saving them~at least for today.

The Cycle Begins Again

I'm sitting here trying to figure out exactly why it is that I won't take the medication I need to stop how I feel. I don't have an answer.

Holy shit, I feel like hell. It's been like this since yesterday when we started driving back towards home after a trip away for the weekend. It was a wonderful trip....calm, relaxing and full of love and laughter. But inevitably, I have to come back to the stresses and strains of what is here, and part of the stupidity of it all is that I don't seem capable of dealing with it.

My chest hurts ... I'm not sure if it hurts because of the smog or because I'm so wound up that if you poke me, I'll explode. My hands are shaking; at first I thought they were shaking because of a hypoglycemic episode, until I realized that it was continuing after I ate. My concentration is shot to hell. I alternate between tears and desperation, but ... desperation for what?

Help lies in a bottle upstairs. I don't want it and I don't know why. Everything I've ever read about borderlines and bipolars and medications tells me that THIS IS WHEN TO GO TAKE IT. Yet here I sit, trying to justify my reasoning for maintaining the insanity that's threatening to take over entirely.

I've resented medication from Day One. While a rational mind understands that it's an aid, what I see mostly is a puppetmaster in a bottle. Feel down? Take a pill, come back up. Going up? Take a pill, go back down. Getting desperate? Take a pill, level off. Don't, by any means, allow yourself to feel legitimate emotion! At least, that's how it feels to ME; unfortunately, what it LOOKS like to the outside world when I'm feeling that "legitimate emotion" is pretty much utter madness.

So the question becomes:

Do I warn my husband before he gets home, or just let him walk into the damned storm??