My Thanks for Wellness : The 12 Days of Thanks

In the past, I have experienced a lot of trauma directly related to holidays.  As a child, my father would throw these epic temper tantrums, because he really wasn’t interested in participating in them.  He didn’t want to go out, and he was hell bent on making everyone pay for forcing him into it.

That, in turn, had some serious effects on the family.  My mother would get into a frenzy and suffer from terrible anxiety prior to each holiday.  On the day of the holiday, she would frantically try to get everything together and do as much damage control as possible.

My brother, who has autism, would pick up on this and throw temper tantrums of his own.  He also has the OCD component involved with some forms of autism, so things would have to be absolutely perfect.  If they weren’t, all hell would break loose.

Then, we would arrive at the homes of our family members.  They were just as stressed out as our own family, and always in plainly terrible moods.

The holidays season was usually a complete disaster for my entire family.  We were pretty poor while I was growing up.  There was the business of buying a complete Thanksgiving dinner, despite the fact that we would dine at my overly crowded aunt’s house anyway.  It was at my brother’s demand.  Then, there was the obvious inconvenience to my mother for cooking a Thanksgiving dinner when she absolutely despises cooking.

Rinse and repeat for Christmas.  However, with Christmas, there was the overwhelming burden of buying Christmas presents on a very limited budget.  As much as I can fault my parents for things, when I was a kid, they really did their best to not disappoint us on Christmas.  However, the stress of it all saturated the air around me.  The mood that hung around me was charged and dark.  And I picked up on all of it.

As I grew into a young adult, Thanksgivings and Christmases became disappointing and tedious.  Presents became fewer, and my parents became almost resentful toward me for having to buy me presents once I was an adult.  I was still obligated to participate with a smile on my face, even though I carried all of the bad memories of fighting in the car and vicious attacks from my brother.

My husband and I married, and just before our first Christmas as a family, he was laid off.  We were scraping by with a newborn son.  It was probably the most disappointing Christmas of all, when we basically had to ask our family for handouts, just so we could get by until the New Year.  It was just more likely that Xan would be able to be hired in a new job in January.

That was the Christmas the broke me entirely when it came to the holiday season.  I had few fond memories of Christmas to draw from.  The ones in the recent past had been so gloomy.  Everything about it was depressing, and there was hardly a reason to look forward to it.

Instead of loathing the holiday season this year, I decided to start a project called The 12 Days of Thanks.  This year, I would like to focus on all of the positives.  And I want to practice expressing gratitude for all of the wonderful things in my life.

Today, for my first installment of my series, The 12 Days of Thanks, I want to give thanks for wellness.  Both in body, mind, and wellness in those in my family.

I have had some serious health problems in my life.  In addition to having a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, I suffer from somatic health problems.  They are all relatively minor.  I have been plagued with asthma and allergies my entire life, causing me difficulty with breathing and recurring bronchitis most times I get sick with something minor.  I suffer from “knock-knee”, which caused me to develop tendinitis   Every time the weather changes, my knees ache and swell.  Throughout the years, I have developed prediabetes and developing heart disease, mostly related to a combination of bad genetics and weight.

But, worst of all, I battled cervical cancer for four years of my life.  Thankfully, my case of cervical cancer didn’t require me to undergo the usual methods of treating cancer.  However, it did cause me to go through a number of uncomfortable exams, painful biopsies, and two different surgeries that may have compromised my reproductive ability.

Despite all of these, I am thankful for my wellness.  On November 10th of this year, I celebrated my one year anniversary since my LEEP procedure.  So far, I’ve been free of cervical cancer for over a year now.  And in another six months, as long as my tests come back fine, I will be cleared of it entirely.

I am grateful for the periods of wellness that I experience within Bipolar Disorder.

And I have so much gratitude toward the doctors that helped me get to this point of wellness in my life.

But, most of all, I am grateful for the wellness of my family.  Xan rarely catches any of the illnesses that pass through this house.  And if he does, it’s relatively mild.  Beast is well, with no serious health problems.  Although he does have Autism Spectrum Disorder, I can be thankful that it isn’t worse than it is.  I grew up with my brother, who has ASD much worse than my son.  I realize that it could have been a lot worse.  And, I’m grateful for the Early Intervention he received from the most wonderful professionals I’ve ever met.

I’m grateful that my family is well, and continues to do well.

Abilify, Not I : Adventures in Antipsychotics

Lately, I have written a series of posts over the last two months describing certain troublesome symptoms I associated with the worsening of Bipolar Disorder, or the potential for comorbid disorders.

In my last post, When Medications Go Wrong, I briefly wrote about my recent discontiuation of the pharmocological treatment using Abilify as part of my medication regimen:

Recently, I stopped my Abilify.  Admittedly, it was because I noticed an interaction between the Abilify and my weekend consumption of alcohol.  I started to find that I would fall asleep soon after taking it on Friday’s while we drank.  I decided that I would just stop over the weekend, and continue during the weekdays as normal.  But, eventually, I just forgot to take it at all.  And soon, I started to notice an improvement in my worsening condition.

I went on to describe some of the awful side effects I was experiencing as a result.  However, the list was truncated for the sake of keeping word count down.  The description is rather limited in terms of accurately depicting exactly what I was subject to.

• Cognition Disturbances and Memory Fragmenting.  Originally, I wrongfully blamed Lamictal in Vitamin L : Medication Adventures for my aphasia-like symptoms.  The disturbances felt like aphasia.  At first, it was almost indescernable.  I started word dropping again, meaning I would be reaching for a word, but was unable to grasp it.  Instead, I would be able to get to every synonym around it, however, those words did not fit the exact context.  Eventually, it became a more severe form of word dropping, and I found myself dropping sentences entirely at the loss of any word or synonyms around it.  It progressed into entirely dropping conversations at the loss of a sentence.  Then, I found myself

  I started forgetting things again.  These were simple things, like losing my purse or shoes in the house.  It seemed like just a simple case of forgetfulness, maybe stress related.

• Emotional Blunting and Partial Flattening.  I had never had too much trouble with emotional blunting in the past.  While I’ve found myself in times where it was difficult to express my emotions, this didn’t indicate a lack of emotional response.  I describe it as a partial emotional flattening, because it wasn’t an entire lack of reactivity.  It felt like my spectrum of emotions had been significantly reduced, although not completely removed.  There was a certain inaccessibility to certain strong emotions.  Rather than completely removing extreme emotions, it threw a wet blanket on top of them, leaving them to bubble under the surface.  So, the emotions still existed, but were muted and unable to be adequately expressed.

  At it’s worst, I began to lose most feeling entirely, with the exception of irritation and the sensation of boredom and fatigue.  I began to lose love and my attachments to meaningful people and my relationships with them.

• Dissociation.  I touched on a summary of the dissociative symptoms that Abilify had brought on.  I have been writing articles on the experience throughout the last few months on the subject, describing the feeling in great detail, but remained unable to exactly identify is appropriately.  The dissociation probably occurred as a response to the prior bullet points.

  The dissociation cited was experienced as a removal of self and removal from my own life.  I had felt as if I had been separated from myself and my world.  It was a feeling of something being stolen from me, or something fundamentally inaccessible.  Like, I was being locked out of my own life, or becoming transparent and just fading away.

• Worsening of Depressive States.   This is probably a direct result of the first three bullet points.  I started to disengage from my life.  I lost interest in just about everything.  Most things were considered to be either boring or tedious.  Important things started to lose meaning.  This was experienced as a part of the emotional flattening, but it caused a concerning and distressful reaction.
• Exacerbation of Social Anxiety.  Since I had lost the ability to carry on a conversation and found myself completely disinterested in socialization, my social anxiety went through the roof.  I simply didn’t care about anything anymore, especially trivial things I used to find interest in.  Therefore, I found it difficult to carry on a conversation.  This caused extreme distress in social situations, and encouraged further isolation.
• Disturbed Sugar Levels.  While I have no concrete proof in terms of tests, certain symptoms have come to my attention.  They are notated below in the next two bullet points as thirst and weight gain.
• Loss of Sensation of Bodily Hunger, Thirst, and Fullness.  Within the last few years, I started to become more in tune with my body.  I was able to feel the sensations of hunger through my sugar level, which probably caused the loss of bodily hunger.  The disturbed sugar levels probably also caused an extreme thirst that could not be quenched.  At first, I craved water.  Eventually, I started to put the soda back down, which probably caused part of the weight gain mentioned below.  And I felt an extreme pressure in my stomach, which was also exacerbated by the influx of so much fluid.
• Extreme Weight Gain.  Truthfully, I don’t dare get on a scale at the moment, so I am unable to notate at this time exactly how much weight I’ve gained.  By the fit of my clothing, I will estimate that I have gained somewhere between ten and fifteen pounds in the last three months.  That is a substantial gain for me, especially since I was losing weight prior to the start of this medication.
• Exacerbation of Eating Related Problems.  By all definitions, it’s completely possible that I am living with an undiagnosed eating disorder.  However, I am not entirely convinced, since it isn’t an ongoing and prevalent problem.  Therefore, I define it as eating related problems and difficulties.

  The concern for weight gain and the sensation of fullness caused a very terrible reaction of binging and purging.  I was unable to control my eating, as notated above, therefore the sensation of extreme fullness would cause me to perceive the overeating as worse than it actually was.  Unfortunately, this led to a very vicious cycle and encouraged further weight gain.

• Disturbed REM Sleep.  I was waking up tired, and noticed that it felt like I had stopped dreaming.  This caused my mental state to take a considerable dive.  It caused extreme fatigue and excessive, unproductive sleeping.

While I am cleared of most dissociative symptoms, emotional flattening, and my depressive state is lifting a little, some side effects have remained.

• Cognitive Disturbances.   The aphasia-like symptoms remain, but to a lesser degree.  I am back to just being a little forgetful, and have some minor word dropping.
• Memory Fragmenting.   Some of my memories remain dull, but seem to be returning.  However, most of the last three months remains inaccessible.  It may never become accessible, due to the disruption in the formation of short-term memory.
• Disturbed Sugar Levels.   I am still thirsty, but I am no longer engaging in carbohydrate seeking consumption behavior.  I figure it will take awhile before my sugar is regulated properly again.
• Weight.   Thankfully, my weight does seem to be coming down.  I have only been completely off of the medication for less than a week, and my clothes are already fitting better.  I’m going to assume that in addition to the weight gain, I was retaining water and constipation.  My regularity has come back, and I don’t feel as puffy as I did

Unfortunately, I am experiencing a return of some of my milder psychotic symptoms.  In Imaginary Enemies, I described a cognitive disturbance I described as “The Voice”.  “The Voice” can be characterized as a singular persona, as I wrote about in Conscious, Subconscious, and Extraconscious, where I described a theory of a third consciousness that exists between the subconscious and the conscious mind.

The Extraconscious is postulated as where the persona(s) reside, laying in semi-dormant waiting, perfectly aware of the current reality that is being experienced.  “The Voice”, in more severe psychotic states, can be experienced as a separate entity entirely, detached from the consciousness.  That is the defining line between a cognitive distortion and an auditory hallucination, when a persona detaches itself from the extraconscious as an external sensation.

As an extraconscious persona, “The Voice” can best be defined as a quasipersona, lying somewhere between Dissociative Identity Disorder and psychosis.  It is experienced as a semi-active part of the conscious mind, as the dominant persona is well aware of it’s existence and there is a certain interaction that occurs between the dominant persona and “The Voice”.

That is the best theory I can offer as to the existence and function of the quasipersona, known to me as “The Voice”.

The mild auditory hallucinations and visual hallucinations have returned, probably defined better as a sensory disturbance, rather than a symptom of psychosis.  When experiencing a sensory disturbance, it’s not full on hallucinations as described in the definition of psychosis.  There are not entities separate from the body.  They are recognized as a disturbance in the current reality, distorting shapes, colors, and contrast in the vision.  In the hearing, it is experienced as a distortion in sound, causing sounds to be sharper, duller, muffled, or louder than they actually are.  It can only be sensed by a sudden shift in perception.

So, instead of hearing things at a normal sound level, the sound volume may increase to deafening levels or may become muted and difficult to discern from nonexistent static that occurs in the mind.  My visual disturbances may be perceived as viewing the world in high contrast, extremely bright colors, and / or extra high definition resolution.  Or, they may be seen as duller than usual, muting colors, distorting shapes, and / or clouding the vision with that appearance of a veil or foggy goggles.

Intrusive thoughts have returned, but not with the same extreme nature as experienced several months ago.  In truth, they were never completely removed by the Abilify, and at some points were made worse by the drug.  Instead of experiencing them as a truth in reality, I am now able to separate them using logic.  I can talk myself off of the ledge and separate them from the reality of a situation using DBT techniques of mindfulness and distress tolerance.  Prior to the cessation of Abilify, I was unable to utilize those techniques.

I don’t mean to put anybody off of treatment with psychiatric medications, but I felt this was important to document and have as a resource on the internet for anyone who is thinking about taking the drug.  Some of these side effects aren’t listed in the pamphlet, as they are probably isolated to a condition.  But, I feel they are still a distinct possibility for anyone who is being treated for similar conditions.  It is vital that this information be notated and readily available for medication education purposes.  This information probably should not be generalized to all psychiatric medications, especially in the class of antipsychotics.

 

The Costly Mistake

“A mistake was made.  Dr. G. needs a half an hour with you, so you have to come in at 4:15PM.”

The third attempt in three days on my doctor’s part to reschedule me.

I panicked.  The plan was for Xan to come home and cart me off to my 5:30PM appointment.  That in itself was stressful enough.  Xan rarely gets off of work on time anyhow.  I would be playing this pacing game where I wear a rut into the corkwood floor of my eroding living room.

“But, I can’t.  I don’t have transportation.”

She was uncompromising.  “Dr. G. leaves the office at 5PM.  It’s 4:15PM or she will not see you today.”

I anxiously stammered, “I’ll see what I can do.  I’ll call you back.”

In her cheery, patronizing voice she said, “Okay, we’ll pencil you in for 4:15PM.  Hope to see you then!  Bye!”

And the phone went dead.  I was cast off that easily.  Complete disregard for my needs.  She’s one of those people who is just doing their job and nothing more.  Patient care doesn’t matter.  My threads started coming loose as I desperately grasped at the fabric that remained.  Hope was dimming.  Trapped in my head, trapped in this perpetual hell called my life, completely alone with this demon so inadequately named Bipolar Disorder.

For a moment, I let the wholeness of the situation set deeply into myself.  I read my prescription bottles closely and they said in big, haunting letters NO REFILLS.  Waves of panic nipped at me at the shoreline.   The tide suddenly grabbed me, and ripped into murky, black waters with the undertow.  There was no sense of what was up and what was down.  The air escaped me, as if being viciously sucked from my lungs, and they shriveled into nothing.

My fingers flew fast as I texted Xan.  The idealization took control as my head filled with these surrounding waters.  My mind swam around my skull, looking for solutions.  Grasping at the fabric, the tearing fabric holding my sanity, my hope, any kind of connection to reality and sanity.

“Hold for a moment on this.”

I am a business call.  Twenty minutes elapsed.  It was like standing in a queue for my husband’s attention at a clear crisis.  Those glimmers faded as I clung to anger.  Anger, my failing life preserver as it began to deflate into complete hopelessness and despair.  I trashed with distress, but to no matter.  Anything.  Anything . . .

“I’m calling the scheduler.”  I warned him that wasn’t wise.  The ultimatum was set forth.  4:15PM or not at all today.  4:15PM I could see this new doctor, and maybe in coming days, I could exit the tunnel of misery and dimness.  I could reclaim myself, my life, and everything that awaited me on the other side.

I wanted to beg him.  I wanted to get down on my knees and plead with him to leave work early.  He would have put his eight hours in that day, and it would have been alright.  Be my knight in shining armor.  Save me.  Save me from myself.

I started crying, huge, loud sobs belting through my house.  My son, my little four year old son with autism spectrum disorder approached me.  And he said, “Mommy, are we okay?”  I cried even harder, despite any efforts to control myself.  My son’s first four word sentence, his first appropriately placed words relevant to the situation, occurred because his mother was hysterical.

I said to him, wiping the tears from my face and pushing everything down, “Yes, Beast.  We’re okay.”  I wish I could have meant what I said to him.  His first question, and I had to lie to him.

The phone rang, playing a melody that I hope meant promise.  Promise that someone had conceded or made an exception for my desperate pleas.  I answered despondently, even with my head overflowing with idealistic notions of the outcome.

“Here’s the good news,” he started.  My heart seized up, anxiously hopeful.  “The nurse agreed to put a fill in for your prescriptions.”

“And my appointment?”

He continued, “It’s a bit of bad news.  Dr. G. is booked up until December 11th.  I scheduled you in for that day.”

I choked on my own voice, the bile rising from my stomach and the wires of my brain sparking as they frayed.  “December 11th?!  I can’t wait until then!”

“It was the soonest she had.  It was the best I could possibly do for you.  But, at least you have your medication until then.”

The tears finally came, screaming down my faced as I sunk against the sink.  “I need a doctor.  I need to get this fixed.  I live every single day in this perpetual hell.  This was my last hope, my only hope.  It has been stolen away from me.  Is there nothing we can do?”

He started to become cross, “What do you want me to do?  What more could I possibly do?”

“You can’t leave work?” I pleaded desperately.

“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” he informed me, “The scheduler already complained to me about your poor attendance record, and gave your appointment to someone else, anyway.”

“My poor attendance record?!“ I screamed.  “I have no way to get to appointments!  And people keep blowing me off, like I don’t matter!  Like I’m not in a bad way! Like this can wait and as if I’m doing so well.  The only time I get to go to an appointment is to get this stupid medication that doesn’t even work filled.”

I paused, only for the brief moment it took for catch my already shallow breath, “I don’t know if anyone noticed, but I haven’t been well.  I have spent almost my entire year in one episode or another.  It’s beyond discouraging.  It’s thrown me into the jaws of despair and hopelessness that I will never get any better!“

We sat in silence for a few minutes.  I sobbed violently, just waiting for some kind of word.  Some kind of solace.  Any rescue from the deep, dark recesses of my own caged mind.  Finally, I asked, “Are you still there?”

“Read your text messages,” was all he could respond.

I have people three feet from me.  I can’t talk about it.

My being shattered so deeply that I had felt fractures of each bone in my entire body.  I became enraged at his choice.  Work.  Work over his ailing wife.  No exceptions could be made.  And in his mind, I’m sure the thought had occurred, This too shall pass.

“Goodbye,” I choked out without another word.

The anger, the scraps that remained, boiled in the water.  The blackness around me turned scarlet and thick like the blood coursing through my veins.  I grasped my phone with a crushing forced and launching it against a wall.  It exploded into three pieces, the unit, the battery, and the backing.

Screams erupted out of shrieking sobs, “I can’t go through this hell anymore!!!  Why do I have to go through this?!  Why?!“  Endlessly, I raved and ranted like a mad woman.  A mantra repeated, “I can’t do this!!!   I can’t!!!”

“That job!  I hate that f***ing job!  His work, his work!  Nobody cares!  Nobody!” I grabbed my “Teacher”coffee mug from the cabinet and smashed it against the linoleum floor.  I’m not a teacher anymore.  It is a lie every single time I drink from that mug.  I am a nothing now.  I am a nobody.

I stood there staring at the pile of the remaining shards of ceramic, heaving panting sobs.  I slid down against the stove, next to the pile and pulled me knees to my chest.  A ball.  Nobody can hurt me.  I can’t hurt me.  No one can come near me.

Alone.  I am slated to be alone.  Alone in my own mess.

I WANT TO DIE.

It’s all I could think.  There is no life ahead of me that I want to live.  It’s only a life full of pain and misery, where I am tragically locked in my head.  No one wants to hear of these complaints.  I have no perspective to gain.  No more words left to give the world.  No hope for myself or anyone else.  I have nothing.  I am nothing.  I will always be nothing.  To anyone, anywhere.

And if I were to say goodbye, I would be wished well.  I would be let go without another word, another prayer or any thoughts left for me.

There is no treatment that will make better.  I will always be like this, with this crushing weight upon me.  My eyes are constantly fixed on the rear view when I’m not navigating the endless series of trials within this tomb of a labyrinth.  Even in the fleeting happy, peaceful moments, I will always be cautiously watching over my shoulder for the monster who will eventually gain on me, and overtake me.  I will never find happiness.  I can never find a place of peace and solace within this madness.

A plan started hatching.  There will come a day where I will take my life.  I can’t truly know when, but the day is inevitable.  I must make preparations.  I took a handful of Xanax and considered washing it down with a swig of rum.  No, it would be bad enough that I am doped up around my child.  My child.  My beautiful baby has to witness this in his already confused life.  It fueled the fire to hate myself even more.

I will get my house in order.  I will not leave a mess to clean up, because there will be enough of a mess when I am gone.  I will get my son into a program and have him taken care of.  My belongings will end up in boxes, so that they may easily shipped off.  I will leave nothing but mournful whispers behind.

I wish I had something inspiring to say.  I wish I could tell you that I went on about my life, went to class last night, and came back in better shape.  I wish I could tell you that the rays of hope descended upon me, and I am determined to hold out until December 11th.  I wish I could tell you that I look forward to better days, where this awful, gnawing feeling dissolves into some kind of happiness.

But I can’t.  I can only give up and start to let go.  I can only start to say my goodbyes and write my heartfelt letters to those that I love.  Because in the end, whether I want it or not, this is my fate.  To eventually succumb to my illness.  To eventually self-destruct.

The Friday Confessional : First Edition

Thanks to C, writer at Seasons Change and So Have I, I have taken on the idea of the Friday Confessional.  There’s something so cleansing about it.  I am not Catholic, nor have I ever been.  But, I can see why confessional is an important part of their Christian denomination.

October 25, 2000

It was quite an eventful day.  Not even a week earlier, I had come out to a teacher about my cutting that had gone on in secret for two and a half years.  I was on psychiatric suspension until I was able to see a doctor.  I suppose that was probably a punishment that was meant for my parents.  Their only respite from me was school.  It was likely intended to force them into seeking treatment for me, rather than ignoring the problem, as I confessed in that principals office.  They had known about it for more than a year at that point.  And it was my father’s taunts about it that gave me the little white scar with two teeth just under the freckle on my left forearm.  That was the nasty gash that led me to this very day.

My mother cautioned me before we left.  “Don’t say anything crazy, or else they’ll put you in inpatient.”  I was going to an inpatient facility for outpatient care.  It was twenty minutes away from my home, and filled to the brim with all likes of troubled kids, far worse than me, from all around the area.  I heard the horror stories of that place from friends that had complete meltdowns and whose parents were scared out of their wits.  “I roomed with this girl who had fifty stitches around her neck.  She tried to slit her own throat.”  Talk about cutting.  I was an amateur digging at my wrists with a dull steak knife.

My father was a bastard the whole way there.  I always hated being in the car with him.  It felt like I was trapped, forced to listen to him go on and on about whatever was grinding his gears, usually me.  It seemed like there was something I had done or not done that set him off on a raging tangent.  Today, it was the fact that I was going to therapy.  “This is a waste of fucking time and money!  I’ve been in therapy for 20 years, and do you know what it got me!?  A fat sack of nothin’!  So wish in one hand and shit in the other, girl!  See what fills up faster!”  At least I can say that he was memorable in those states.

It didn’t matter.  That day was about me.  It was the overdue response to all of my distress calls.  They took to prepping me in the car.  I was not to say anything about the family.  I was not to smack talk anyone, or else I was going to get taken away.  If I lied or exaggerated in any way, they’d go to jail, and my brother would be put in a home.  It would be all my fault that they broke up our family.  The fate of the family was in my hands now, and I’d better now screw it up, or else I’d never be forgiven.  They would leave me to rot in a foster home.  Eighteen was still two years away for me.  Two years is a long time in your teens.

We arrived, and I was greeted by a woman who looked to be about my mother’s age.  She was thin and had bright eyes.  Her name was Dr. H, but she preferred Ann.  I was hesitant.  It was impolite to refer to any adult by their first name.  It was a sign of disrespect.  She handed my mother a huge stack of paperwork and told me to come right in when my mother was finished.  My mother looked through the stack, and then started thoughtfully.  I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t signing my own consent, and then I realized I wasn’t of age yet.  It looked too large to be consent.  My mother leaned in to me and asked, “You don’t torture animals, do you?”

I was astounded that she even asked!  What the hell was on that form?!  She explained it was just an assessment, and that there would be ridiculous questions on there.  Some kids were a lot worse than me, she noted.  Clearly.

I went into her office, and it smelled like lavender.  The lights were dimmed, a candle was lit, and there was an inviting sofa with pillows and a blanket next to her desk.  “How are you feeling?”  I burst out crying.  I couldn’t stop.  I spilled everything.  All of my misery and isolation fell from my eyes and mouth into her lap.  I purged, like word vomit, until I felt empty again.

She told me, “This isn’t your fault.  You have a disorder.”  It was a relief.  All of these years, I had known that I wasn’t like other children.  Children aren’t sad and scared.  People don’t go around crying every single day of their lives, wishing they were dead.  She continued to explain was Major Depressive Disorder was, and assured me that I would see a doctor about getting medicine for relief.

“Will I have to be on this medicine for the rest of my life?” I asked.

“Sometimes, medication is just a crutch until you can get better.”

Famous last words.  (I’m on five psychiatric medications as of right now.)

I went home and went to bed.  Bed was home.  Bed was the only safe place there was in the entire world.

My boyfriend showed up later, and we went out to celebrate his eighteenth birthday.  When we came home later, everyone was gathered in the living room.  My mother announced to me, “We’re taking your father to the hospital.  We think he had a heart attack.  Your grandmother is coming to watch you.”

Fine by me.  My boyfriend and I went into the game room in the basement and had sex again.  He stayed pretty late, as my mother announced he had to go into emergency open heart bypass.  And all I could think to myself was, “Good.  I hope he dies on that table.”

Disorder and the Internet : The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

My newest Canvas post explores the positives and pitfalls of the internet when it is in the context of disorder.