Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

Oh, So It’s to Be Depression Now

CONTENT WARNING: Discussion of bipolar depression and suicide.
(Absolutely do not read this if you are not in a good headspace.)

**********

I thought i saw water coming up the banks, but it wasn’t water.

It was sewage.
And i am standing at the bottom of a septic tank.

I should have seen it coming, due to how much loss i’ve suffered this spring.
But i couldn’t see it, because of how much loss i’ve suffered this spring.

Depression is a rising tide of rage.
Like magma boiling inside a volcano.
Like the creeping death.

I’m gripped with it, shaking my own guts in a childish fist, impotent with fury.
The sadness, like the wax my grandmother poured on top of her jams and jellies.
Underneath it — sweet poison.

But all of the anger at the unfairness –the absolute torrent of shit–
has left me open to being absolutely and utterly done.

Breath seems like a waste of energy.
I took to my bed and swam in a bottle.
Cans of cold, fizzy oblivion.
I could breathe as long as i wasn’t sober.

Friendship — dead.
Dear friend — dead.
Dearest companion — dead in my arms.
Marriage — gasping, much like my sweet girl. I’m holding it in my arms, too, watching it labour for life.
And then to think my fondest wish had finally been granted, only to have it snatched away from me, YET AGAIN.

I’m tired. So tired. So done. So over all this work. All this work that comes to nothing. Over and over and over and fucking OVER AGAIN.
I’m sick of being at the mercy of this fucking malfunctioning brain.
Of being spirited away by little bits of myself that i cannot seem to fully control.
And i’m so over all of the chaos they bring.
The pall of inescapable death over me.
If it’s not one shitting on me, it’s the other.
And now, it is both, and i simply cannot.

I know that my brain in depression is a liar.
I know that the other people in my brain are traumatised children.
I know these things… but i am tired.
Tired of this acid anger and tired of this aching pain in my heart that climbs up into my throat and chokes me. Throttles me like an abusive lover.
My throat aches and my head pounds.
ALL THE TIME.

And i look around for love and goodness to come and help me–
BUT I CANNOT FIND IT.

A plan is forming in the back of my mind and i’m not even afraid.
I’m far too tired.

I put the plug in the jug and i pulled myself out of bed… For what?
FOR FUCKING WHAT?!
For the death of democracy and the rise of fascism?
For the demolition of human rights and the celebration of indecency?
For the millions who died for the good of all to have come to NOTHING?

To watch millions of overfed babies pat their bellies and yawn while everything good and right in the world is murdered in front of their vapid, staring eyes, like they’re watching a new show on Netflix?
Like all of this death and destruction is a show being produced for their entertainment by their putrid and foul god?

And so this is how my depression seeped in, like an odourless gas, filling my pores and dulling my senses… Now it can talk to me and i will hear its lies.
I have barely the will, let alone the strength, to fight it.

It says the problem has been me all along.
It says my friendship died because of me.
It says i’m being ridiculous about the death of my friend.
It says it’s my fault my dog died.
It says i’m the problem in my marriage and i should just go away.
It tells me i was a terrible mother and my son will never forgive me.
It tells me my children’s struggles are all my fault.

It’s telling me the world is shit and it’s only going to get worse.
It’s telling me everyone would be better off if i just wasn’t here anymore.

This is the worst depression i’ve had in 15yrs.
It’s clobbering me.
I am doing little things as i’m able, but it takes so much energy just to not die.
Just writing this has taken all i have.

I got up and made breakfast for my husband and son.
I made my husband’s lunch and got him off to work.
I stripped my bed to wash the sheets that are ripe with the smell of my recent detox.
I cleaned the kitchen and made conversation with my son as if i’m real. As if i’m alive.
I don’t feel alive.
I feel as if death already has me.
There’s a tumour in my brain and it’s eating me.
I know at this point that intervention might be necessary.
But there will be new doctors that think they know and old ones that KNOW they do…
And they’ll want to pump me full of drugs, and those drugs only make me sicker.
They’ll argue about my diagnoses while the nurses treat me like a thing because i’ve been there before. Because i have a long history…
And i’ll try to remind them to look at my doctor’s notes that say i’m extremely drug sensitive and that psych meds have only ever made me sicker…

And so depression gains a stronger hold and its voice becomes clearer.
Sensuous… Seductive…
It says, Why bother?
You’re tired, and everyone would be better off without you, and the world is total shit.

I’m drinking water.
I brushed my hair and put on clean clothes.
Right now i’m going to vacuum and then check the laundry.
Then i will put on some music and write for my other platform.
Later on, i will take my little Roly for a walk.
I’ll be making a nice dinner.

All i have now is the years of work i’ve done to handle my brain.
It’s all i have to hold on to, and it is a tender thread. A tendril.
I’m too tired for hope — all i have now is the work.
It sets me in motion like a wind-up doll.

I will eat something.
I will drink water.
I will go outside.
I will clean my body.
I will listen to music.
I will talk to somebody.
Well…
I will write.
Okay?
I will write.

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 1 Comment

Seriously

WARNING: References to suicidal thoughts.

**********

Love and boundaries. FML.

I was raised to have none.
All the better to enslave you, traffic you, and just generally abuse you, my dear.
~ My mother the wolf

Whatever people wanted to do to me, i generally let them. Sex stuff was strictly controlled by my system, which saved me from sexual abuse by peers, but adults could get away with anything, and school-aged kids could humiliate and torture me at will. I did nothing. I never fought back. I would try to avoid, to stay away, but once some bully had me cornered, they could say or do whatever they wanted, as long as sex wasn’t involved. Somewhat strange, is that i was never beaten up physically at school, or after, although i was often followed and threatened and hurt by harsh words. I think my size (Amazon) was intimidating.

Over the years i’ve learned to stand up for myself. Despite the years of screaming and yelling that came from other parts of me, i myself am not violent. When my system was basically unleashed on the world around me due to a severe bipolar mania, i broke a lot of shit. Dishes, glasses, i kicked holes in doors and slammed them off their hinges. I threw things at walls, and one time i threw a chair through a front window. And even worse, there were times during this first, years-long bout of madness, where my people would confuse my partner for a past abuser. I couldn’t control them, and he didn’t know how to handle me switched, so there were times when he pushed for communication too hard, got in too close, and they would scratch and bite at him, and even pull out his hair.
I’m fortunate he stuck with me through that.
He would have been well within his rights to have me arrested and charged.
He saw me as sick and forgave my physical acting out.

It wasn’t long after i was first in therapy with the person i’m working with again now, that i was able to regain control of myself enough to stop the violence. It’s been a decade since i fought him off like a wet cat, and at least a half dozen since i’ve broken or otherwise destroyed anything (although i can still occasionally slam the shit out of a door).

The world’s current system of criminal justice, levied against my childhood abusers would have been nice. I’m in my 50s now though, and my primary abuser is long dead, some of the others that i have names for are either dead or dying, and there were many whose names i cannot recall, if i ever knew them in the first place. I’ve never thought about revenge towards them. Not even my mother. Oh, i’ve reimagined what i might say to her as she lay dying in her hospital bed, only days from the coma that would cradle her to her death.

I had my girlfriend drive me when i went to visit her. I’ve always been a crappy driver.* I’ve got too much going on in my brain to pay proper attention i think, and even back then i knew i was too emotional to get behind the wheel and not have an accident. This time i asked her to take me to see my mom because i’d made her a cassette with music on it (yes, i’m mix-tape years old) and wanted to talk to her. The song list was gross. It bore witness to me years later of how sick and twisted my relationship with her was, as it was filled with love songs, e.g. Without You, by Badfinger.

“I can’t live, if living is without you… “

And i begged her to love me with T’Pau’s Heart and Soul. Yeesh.

I went to her room and she graciously received me (/s), and i gave her my little gift, and then proceeded to apologise for being such a bad daughter. I told her how her accident made me realise how lucky i was to have her for a mom, and how desperately sorry i was for all the difficulties she’d had because of me.
Seriously.

She raised her arms up off the bed and spread them open to either side of her, splaying her fingers wide. She shrugged and nodded and with lips slightly pursed, she magnanimously (/s!) forgave me. I wept with gratitude.
Seriously.
Of course she didn’t say sorry back.

(My mother said sorry to me once in my life. I was 3 or 4 and i said “Fuck” while playing with my dolls. She slapped me across the face so hard i fell off my chair and later couldn’t see out of one eye. She did a lot worse things than that both before and after though, so i don’t know what moved her that day.)

At least she died a week or so later.
Of sepsis.
She rotted from the inside out.
Damn right it’s poetic.

Raised with no boundaries and to take the blame for everything.
I come from a country that’s made gentle fun of for saying Sorry a lot. Take my cultural influences and my upbringing, and i’ve said sorry countless times. Every day, multiple times a day. My first response to so very many situations and happenings is, Sorry! I know that sometimes i drive my husband and sons batty with my constant apologising. It’s not just, Sorry, i oversalted the soup.
It’s, Sorry you have a headache (because i’m annoying and needy and do stupid shit).
And, Sorry kids, i know between the nature and the nurture i’ve completely fucked up your lives forever.
When we used to watch team sports on television and our team was losing, i’d say sorry and leave the room because i felt like it was my fault.
Seriously.

After years of counselling i’ve been able to tone it down quite a bit, but a new close friendship i have has made it clear i have a ways to go. She’s told me a number of times to stop saying sorry for things that aren’t my responsibility, have nothing to do with me, or were due to circumstances i couldn’t have helped. She lets me see the love and the frustration on her face when she says it, too. So i know i still have a problem.

I know now that i have an overblown, highly developed sense of blame, and i’ve been working hard over the years to temper it. To be honest though, i struggle. I’ve hermitted a great deal over the last number of years, because i’m just not well enough or together enough yet to do a lot of peopling. It’s too complicated and too fraught with emotion for me. It takes so much effort and energy to be present and conscious and stay in the face while being around others. Now i do it in small chunks, almost always with just 1 or 2 people. If it’s a group, i don’t last more than 3hrs, except for a wedding i went to this summer where i lasted just over 4 – but i was switched for the last hour and some, so yeah, 3 hours, tops.

I put my personal growth in this area to the test a few months ago, when i stopped taking the blame for a loved one’s problems, and removed them from my safe place. It was incredibly difficult, it took years of poor treatment for me to do it, but it was an empowering experience. I now know i can say Stop, and No, to a loved one, and i’m not bad and i won’t die.
The problem is, that was just a dress rehearsal for what i’m facing today.

Today i say Stop, and No, and draw a boundary around myself that’s been decades coming. It’s a big deal, the biggest, and i might pay dearly for it. The cost may very well be losing the relationship. I have to do this though, or there’s a good chance i won’t make it through the therapy i’m currently in. I’m afraid i’ll just stop it and walk away. I’m afraid i’ll get sick and locked up. I’m afraid i’ll get overwhelmed, lose control, and end the relationship myself, in an unhealthy way. I’m afraid i’ll fold in on myself, and those soft, suicidal whispers i’ve been hearing lately will get louder and start suggesting a plan**…

Right now as i’m writing, i’m reminding myself that this person’s reaction to my boundary will be their own. I cannot control it, and more importantly, i won’t even try. They get to think what they think about it. They get to think whatever they wish about me, and whether what i’m doing is right or wrong. They get to question my motives and even come up with an answer that i think is incorrect. They get to misunderstand and get as hurt and/or angry as they want to get.
I’ve written down what i want to say, because i know my Bits N’ Pieces are going to be active and talkative in my brain, so i’ve made sure i don’t miss anything that i think is important. I want to chicken out and not do this, but i can’t. This ache in my belly will consume me, and i’ll lose myself for who knows how long? I want to send the words by text or email, because it’s going to be brutal for me -i’ll probably cry my face off while reading it out loud- but this relationship deserves a face-to-face.
I
I
I
I deserve a face-to-face.
Seriously.

I know this is a little vague, but as i’ve embraced a more rational and critical method of thinking, i’ve learned that i’m the kind of person who prefers the unvarnished truth. You don’t need to sugarcoat it, and you can be as blunt as you’d like. I would just rather know what’s real and what’s not. I want to believe as many true things and as few false things as possible – even if it hurts and changes my worldview or drastically alters my circumstances.

Maybe i’ll write about that sometime soon.

Sorry this is a bit of a downer for the holiday, but it’s the truth.
Sorry.
Heh.

Love and Peace,
~H~

*I quit driving a long time ago, don’t worry.

**I’m doing all the things i know to do when i have suicidal thoughts. There is no current plan, but i’ve stepped up the frequency of my therapy appointments, and i’ll be sharing this uptick in invasive thoughts with her this week. I’m maintaining my house and my personal hygiene, but eating and sleeping are difficult. My BFF is spending the day with me tomorrow, and that will put a spoon or 2 back in my drawer for later. My thoughts do not determine my actions so much as my conscious awareness of them facilitates better choices and decisions. I’m not at the place where a higher level of care is required. I assure you that if it was, i’d go get it.