This will, possibly, be the most honest post I ever write. If you know me (e.g., if you are related to me or know my mother), you may not want to read it. If you do read it AND you know my mother, please don't share it with her.
Over the last few weeks I realized that I have generalized anxiety. I always thought my anxiety was based on situation. The first time I was given a medication, it was Ativan and it was when J and I were getting ready to move to Ohio. We were leaving our homes, going some place with no money coming in until the end of October (when he would get his first stipend), and we'd been told he probably had lymphoma. We wouldn't have paycheck until October and we were moving July 31. That was the actual day we were told, no, the day before, that he probably had lymphoma.
He didn't but the stress was immense so my GP gave me an anxiety medication when I asked for coping mechanisms. The next time I was given something it was Klonopin, which is hard core. I'd just been diagnosed with MS and separated from my husband and my work situation sucked. My stress levels were at their limit. Situation. Anxiety.
I didn't realize that the weird panicky feelings I got on a daily basis weren't normal. One day, after moving to Texas, I realized the leasing office was closed so I couldn't get my laundry card. "Fuck. I'll have to get it tomorrow after work. I'll have to leave a bit early to make sure I get there in time". I panicked the entire way there. Over a laundry card. I thought that was just how I was.
On Wednesday it finally hit me. I have anxiety and I can take a medication to make it better. Instead of feeling relieved, I was thrown back to the place I was in my early 20's, when my Bipolar was still undiagnosed. I was thrown back to ten years ago August, a few months before I would be diagnosed. The time when I was writing suicide note after suicide note, never getting it right and so I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't kill myself until I made damned sure everyone in my life would know it wasn't their fault, they hadn't contributed, they couldn't have prevented it.
I spent years being mad. Living in the blackest and scariest of caves that I couldn't escape because the alternative was the blinding whiteness of the other form of pain awaiting me at the entrance. The self hatred, the physical pain in my limbs and my chest, the hell, the utter fucking hell that was my life for so long.
And one day I realized that I had a problem that could be treated and I got help. I was diagnosed on Halloween 2003. I got really good about taking my meds when I was 25. The horror went away.
I should have been relieved to know that the panic and anxiety could be treated but instead, I was thrown back to those horrible days and I panicked. I had, what I assume, is a panic attack. I cut myself. For the first time in a long time, I cut myself. Then I did a google search and called a criss hotline. A nice girl talked to me and helped me, recommended another hotline should I need to call again.
I did the next day, almost immediately after work. I talked to a gentleman named John Paul. I kept thinking he was trying to locate me so he could send police or men with white coats so I let him know I had no plans of taking my life, that I have pets that I couldn't abandon like that. But he just talked to me and told me I had no reason to apologize... because I kept apologizing. I just wanted it to stop, these terrible thoughts, this terrible fear. I kept saying "I don't want to go back to that.".
Then I called Tits, who I've known for less than a year but who knows me the best. "What's wrong, honey?" she asked. I asked her, between sobs, to just tell me about her day, to talk about normal shit. When she was done and I was calm she asked me again what was going on and I told her.
She was the one to tell me that I was never going back to that place because the only way that would happen is if I stopped taking my medication, which I will NEVER FUCKING DO. She reminded me of how far I've come, how healthy I am, how strong. She didn't invalidate my fear, she just helped me.
I emailed Murdoch and told him what happened. His response was that he was concerned and that we should take some time apart, that he was sure he was part of my recent unhappiness. That he had to think about his kids. Cutting is serious and he can't expose his kids to that.
I haven't heard much from him, although I've emailed him since. But since those days, something has happened, some strange transformation. It's as though all my chemicals balanced out and my brain just said "Fuck this shit. You aren't worthless. So what if shit doesn't work out with Murdoch? You are a pretty girl, you are smart, you are funny. You have a lot of love and joy that you are just dying to give and someone out there is going to want that and they are going to want to give it back."
I have a confidence I've never felt before. I don't feel worthless anymore. I'm actually happy. Maybe Murdoch dumps me, maybe he doesn't. But I won't be devastated the way I would have should he have done it before my panic attacks. Instead, I think I had an emotional growth spurt, or maybe I just finally clawed my way out and found myself. I may not be special or spectacular, but I am damned well as worthy as the next person and I am NEVER going back to those days. NEVER.
Full disclosure, I am kind of weeping as I write this, but only because I can't talk about it or write about it or think about it without feeling what I went through and feeling so sad for all those years spent in pain. But the best of my life is just beginning and I've never felt better in my life. I did things differently this time. I didn't just go crazy and hide. I called a crisis hotline, the first time I have ever done something like that. I did it two days in a row. And I told two people who actually know me. No sitting in my bedroom, clutching my stuffed cow and rocking back and forth, trying to be so quiet no one would know. I reached out immediately after cutting myself because some part of me knew I didn't have to go back there and I didn't want to.
Maybe Murdoch handled it badly. Maybe he's just being a father. Maybe he's wanted to take a break for awhile.
All I know is that it doesn't hurt like it would have. Because I know who I am and I know that I am worthy. And I know I have a lifetime of happiness just waiting for me. It hurt. It was terrifying. I went to depths I didn't know existed but I came the fuck through.
And even though it hurt like eight bitches in a bitch boat, I have to be grateful. Without it, maybe I wouldn't be here.
Over the last few weeks I realized that I have generalized anxiety. I always thought my anxiety was based on situation. The first time I was given a medication, it was Ativan and it was when J and I were getting ready to move to Ohio. We were leaving our homes, going some place with no money coming in until the end of October (when he would get his first stipend), and we'd been told he probably had lymphoma. We wouldn't have paycheck until October and we were moving July 31. That was the actual day we were told, no, the day before, that he probably had lymphoma.
He didn't but the stress was immense so my GP gave me an anxiety medication when I asked for coping mechanisms. The next time I was given something it was Klonopin, which is hard core. I'd just been diagnosed with MS and separated from my husband and my work situation sucked. My stress levels were at their limit. Situation. Anxiety.
I didn't realize that the weird panicky feelings I got on a daily basis weren't normal. One day, after moving to Texas, I realized the leasing office was closed so I couldn't get my laundry card. "Fuck. I'll have to get it tomorrow after work. I'll have to leave a bit early to make sure I get there in time". I panicked the entire way there. Over a laundry card. I thought that was just how I was.
On Wednesday it finally hit me. I have anxiety and I can take a medication to make it better. Instead of feeling relieved, I was thrown back to the place I was in my early 20's, when my Bipolar was still undiagnosed. I was thrown back to ten years ago August, a few months before I would be diagnosed. The time when I was writing suicide note after suicide note, never getting it right and so I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't kill myself until I made damned sure everyone in my life would know it wasn't their fault, they hadn't contributed, they couldn't have prevented it.
I spent years being mad. Living in the blackest and scariest of caves that I couldn't escape because the alternative was the blinding whiteness of the other form of pain awaiting me at the entrance. The self hatred, the physical pain in my limbs and my chest, the hell, the utter fucking hell that was my life for so long.
And one day I realized that I had a problem that could be treated and I got help. I was diagnosed on Halloween 2003. I got really good about taking my meds when I was 25. The horror went away.
I should have been relieved to know that the panic and anxiety could be treated but instead, I was thrown back to those horrible days and I panicked. I had, what I assume, is a panic attack. I cut myself. For the first time in a long time, I cut myself. Then I did a google search and called a criss hotline. A nice girl talked to me and helped me, recommended another hotline should I need to call again.
I did the next day, almost immediately after work. I talked to a gentleman named John Paul. I kept thinking he was trying to locate me so he could send police or men with white coats so I let him know I had no plans of taking my life, that I have pets that I couldn't abandon like that. But he just talked to me and told me I had no reason to apologize... because I kept apologizing. I just wanted it to stop, these terrible thoughts, this terrible fear. I kept saying "I don't want to go back to that.".
Then I called Tits, who I've known for less than a year but who knows me the best. "What's wrong, honey?" she asked. I asked her, between sobs, to just tell me about her day, to talk about normal shit. When she was done and I was calm she asked me again what was going on and I told her.
She was the one to tell me that I was never going back to that place because the only way that would happen is if I stopped taking my medication, which I will NEVER FUCKING DO. She reminded me of how far I've come, how healthy I am, how strong. She didn't invalidate my fear, she just helped me.
I emailed Murdoch and told him what happened. His response was that he was concerned and that we should take some time apart, that he was sure he was part of my recent unhappiness. That he had to think about his kids. Cutting is serious and he can't expose his kids to that.
I haven't heard much from him, although I've emailed him since. But since those days, something has happened, some strange transformation. It's as though all my chemicals balanced out and my brain just said "Fuck this shit. You aren't worthless. So what if shit doesn't work out with Murdoch? You are a pretty girl, you are smart, you are funny. You have a lot of love and joy that you are just dying to give and someone out there is going to want that and they are going to want to give it back."
I have a confidence I've never felt before. I don't feel worthless anymore. I'm actually happy. Maybe Murdoch dumps me, maybe he doesn't. But I won't be devastated the way I would have should he have done it before my panic attacks. Instead, I think I had an emotional growth spurt, or maybe I just finally clawed my way out and found myself. I may not be special or spectacular, but I am damned well as worthy as the next person and I am NEVER going back to those days. NEVER.
Full disclosure, I am kind of weeping as I write this, but only because I can't talk about it or write about it or think about it without feeling what I went through and feeling so sad for all those years spent in pain. But the best of my life is just beginning and I've never felt better in my life. I did things differently this time. I didn't just go crazy and hide. I called a crisis hotline, the first time I have ever done something like that. I did it two days in a row. And I told two people who actually know me. No sitting in my bedroom, clutching my stuffed cow and rocking back and forth, trying to be so quiet no one would know. I reached out immediately after cutting myself because some part of me knew I didn't have to go back there and I didn't want to.
Maybe Murdoch handled it badly. Maybe he's just being a father. Maybe he's wanted to take a break for awhile.
All I know is that it doesn't hurt like it would have. Because I know who I am and I know that I am worthy. And I know I have a lifetime of happiness just waiting for me. It hurt. It was terrifying. I went to depths I didn't know existed but I came the fuck through.
And even though it hurt like eight bitches in a bitch boat, I have to be grateful. Without it, maybe I wouldn't be here.
No comments:
Post a Comment