Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Sometimes I'm allowed to be sad.

Sometimes blogs are going to be sad because after all, this project started out as a self-help journal of sorts.  All of you, my dear friends and readers, are along for the ride.  So, with this said, I suppose this is my way of warning you.  If you're expecting a hearty laugh over morning coffee it won't be today. 

There are no violins playing in the background, just the sound of my finches nibbling away at their birdseed and the soft breathing of my dogs sleeping below me.  Yesterday was a tough one for this lady.  I've been suffering through a double-dip of my "deep dark"; what I somberly refer to as bi-polar depression.

I was climbing out of the first one last week.  It's hard work, not as hard as it is for others, but everyone has their own battles.  I see the depression looming off in the distance like a dark, storm cloud.  Sometimes I can hold it off for a few days. I try to stay as busy as possible. "Manic" is a great way to describe it.  If you're one of my close friends this is when it seems like I have everything together; a spotless home, dinners on the table at 6:00pm every night, cookies in the oven - and then - I crash.  I'm in bed.  Usually 4-5 days of absolute nothingness.  I can't function.  All I do is sleep.  It's not that I'm exhausted, I just don't want to think.  Thinking makes me sad, so I prefer to sleep.  Medicine doesn't help.  It's just what it is.  These are the bad days.  If a bi-polar person is going to take his or her life - this is when you watch them like a hawk.

There are lulls in the madness.  Nice, long periods of time where we're at even keels.  That's when the medicine helps.  It helps keep us balanced but unfortunately, this past month - this past week, I had a double valley.  It was ugly.  Last night was awful and this is what I'm writing about today.

Some bi-polars can't sleep.  They're insomniacs.  I have a friend who suffers from this. When she's in her valley, there's no escape.  She's in constant search for an "Exit Door".  I know it sounds unimaginable but I can only describe it as being trapped in a black room with nothing but hideous demons screaming ugliness.  At least those of us who can find sleep do it through medicine.  I'm one of the lucky ones.

Just as I was just pulling myself out of last week's valley, my friend the insomniac, couldn't listen to the screaming any more.  And, as usual, one of the ugly voices told her no one cared.  Thank God someone caught her before it was too late.  But this horrifying thought pulled me back into the muck.  My voices shouted louder.  I didn't do enough.  I wasn't there for her.  I failed again.  I'm worthless. 

I take a lot of pills to drowned out the voices.  Vicodin, Valium, and over the counter sleeping pills.  Whatever it takes to knock me out and keep me out for days.  I don't do it all time, only when my "deep dark" hits.  My serious manic depression kicks in perhaps 4-5 times a year.  Yes, I see a therapist and a psychiatrist.  Eric has tried to take the pills away but there's no point.  I'd only find more.

So last night, I was sad.  I was driving and because I had no pills in my system, I cried and - strangely enough, I beat the shit out of myself.  I started south on I-25.  I considered driving from Denver to LA to see my sisters and mom but I grew weary.  Eventually I turned around and headed home to my little suburbia.  With my windows down, I screamed all the ugly names people have called me over the years.  Pig.  Whore.  Worthless.  Fat.  Ugly.  Then I started on my own degradation, Loser.  Piece of Shit.  Fat AssPathetic. Then I raged.  I slapped and tore at myself.  This morning I have a fat lip, a swollen face, and torn shirt to prove it. I'm sore, beaten, and bruised.

Eric was waiting for me on the front porch when I drove up the hill.  He held me gently in his arms and thanked me for coming home.  He knows everything.  He knows where I've been, who I've been with, and what I've done.  He doesn't care.  All he wants is my happiness.  All he wants for me is to not be anyone less than who I am - this is the battered and broken woman he married.  This is the woman he loves.  He tenderly kissed my fat lip, dried my eyes, and helped me into bed.