Jury Duty

Oh, and I got out of jury duty. When it asked if I had any mental or physical disability, I explained I was involuntarily committed to a mental hospital after a suicide attempt. Evidently, that works! And I am out. I am very glad. I am not sure if I could have handled it. Heck, I am not sure if I can handle the interim position with teaching.

Nov. 30, 2010

Today has been a month since my suicide attempt. It is amazing to think that it has been so long. In a way, I feel that I have made great progress and, in a way, I feel I have floundered. I have had two great days, though, and that is amazing.

I was exhausted all day. It is rainy and cold and blah. I was worn out as soon as I got up so I took two naps today. Wonderful. A came in and laid down with me for awhile and said, "Mom, now I understand why you do that! It is so relaxing." I laughed.

I had a job interview today for an interim teaching position at a middle school. It's seventh grade for a teacher on bedrest with a twin pregnancy. I have mixed feelings about it. For one, it could be greatly chaotic and also it might not have a firm end date. I have decided, though, if offered, I will take it. I must admit, interviewing without desperately needing a job is greatly relaxing. I was not nervous. I did feel slightly off and I was, perhaps too honest. I guess I will know by Friday or so.

Tomorrow, I only have one thing to do then rest and writing. Yeah!

Nov. 29th, 2010

Where did November go? Oh yeah in a haze of self-remore and pity.

Today was an awesome day. Yes, read that again. Awesome. I had a lovely night with The Boyfriend, great conversation with my friend Kira and did not feel responsible for my mother's feelings.

I am also baking up a storm. This is scary but I am not a great baker. I enjoy cooking but desserts always get me. Today, I decided to make Christmas cookies. I cheated and got the store bought sugar cookies. Then, I got Christmas cookie cutters, wax paper and a rolling pin. First problem. I couldn't tell what the cookie cutters were. Alex patiently explained that I was not looking at a snowman because snowmen don't have feet. It was a gingerbread man. Then, he lost his patience when I thought Santa's sleigh was a deformed dove. This really should have been my sign that I was not cut out to make decorative, cute cookies. I had dreams of ornaments with white and pink icing, christmas trees with cinnamon dots as ornaments and santa all perfectly red and white. I got giant blobs of nothingness. I did manage one Christmas tree and one gingerbread man. He, though, suffered a tragic amputation when taken off the cookie pan. I also blinded my huge ass Santa Claus with the M and M eyes. That is OK because tomorrow I am doing it again. I have three packages of cookies and all the time in the world to perfect it. So there all you Martha Stewart types.

I also cooked brownies with M and M "I Love You" written across it and a quiche. I am contemplating strawberry cake cup cakes with cream cheese icing and sprinkles. I am still trying to lose weight so I can eat none of it (well, three sugar cookies). I would like to make cake pops too but they require dowels and edible pens. That seems high tech. Bakerella  had really cute reindeer pops but mine will never be that cute. They had pretzels as ears and little dots for noses. Ruldoph has a cinnamon dot. I think mine will be the reject reindeers in the back of the reindeer barn.

So, anyway, if you want strawberry cupcakes or deformed Christmas cookies or brownies, just comment or email. Cooking is relieving stress and I am just cooking away when I have time. I have fixed chili and made chili pie. Kids did not like. I loved. I also made Chicken Tortilla soup. Kids disliked. I loved. I am considering meatloaf even though I have bad memories of it from childhood. Also, maybe caramel pie or pecan pie. I am trying to fix stuff I have never fixed before. I almost got brave and thought about cookies from scratch but I am not a masochist. So frustrating and irritating. I tried once and had such a goopy mess that I had nightmares that night about a blob attacking me. Of course, the cat was sleeping with me too.

So, let's hope between cooking and writing and therapy that I keep getting better and things keep improving. I have been told by my lovely kick-ass therapist that I must stop running away and must verbalize my feelings. I can't write about them. I have to verbalize and use words. Oh ouch! That is why she is kick-ass--very direct. Very funny. Very sensitive. I like that. I have a friend that has agreed to listen to my verbalizations of my overwhelmedness and a back up friend. The whole situation is ironic to me because I constantly tell Z to use his words but now I do too.

The boys have therapy in the morning. I hope it goes well. A wrote me a note that said that when Z and I argued with each other, it messed up his life. Poor child, his life is going be messed up. Z is fourteen. We are going to fight. And I am not responsible for A's feelings. I don't even need to call my overwhelmedness partner to know that. He is responsible for his own.

Progress.

Devin

I married Devin knowing he was dying. I still struggle with why I did it. Did I love him? Feel sorry for him? Feel obligated because I had a child with him? I knew, if I didn't marry him, my eldest would never meet him. His family would have scooped Devin up and isolated him from me in a New York second. They were already trying when we started dating and after he found out he had a brain tumor. So, I don't know. I have never really dealt with it. I figured I did it and that is what counts. No reason to analyze the past. I do know, though, after all this chaos that I have never dealt with it and neither has my in-laws.

I have very few memories of the night I tried to kill myself. They say I walked to the ambulance. No memories. They say I yelled at the ER doctor and told him I would do it again. I do remember, though, yelling at my Father-in-Law. I remember screaming and begging not to take my children. I knew, if I survived, that there might be a move to take the kids from me. So far, no one has. I keep expecting it. He was shocked and he was frightened. My aunt said later that he was raising a child (his fourth wife is twenty-two years younger than him) so why would he want two more? One of the many reasons I love my aunt. She is so sarcastic but truthful. Anyway, relations are bad right now between my FIL and I. Looking back, I think they always have been. He always felt I was not good for his son. I think he got over as Devin died and he was proud I went back to school etc. But now, I am scared him and he realizes I am not dependable and I have issues. And he even told someone Devin and I didn't have a good relationship. That hurt.

But it's true. In our early marriage, we didn't. We had so many stressors and we tore and bit at each other. I know, without the cancer and without Zak, I never would have married him. I also know I never would have stayed married without those factors. I filed for divorce once and it was the same day that he found out that his tumor returned. I stayed with him for many reasons. I did love him but I am not sure it is the deep abiding love people think we had. It was not the great romantic story of the ages. There was violence. There was tears. There was vindicativeness and there was yelling and screaming. It was not the best atmospere for anyone. Thank goodness, after the removal of his temporal lobe, things got better. And we learned to support each other. But, honestly, those first years were a train wreck.

Lately, I think about my past-usually at 3 AM-when I can't sleep. I think about what I would have told myself at twenty. I know what it would have been. Go back to school. Don't marry Devin. And it makes me feel guilty. I never would have had Alex. I never would have had many things but I also would not have this pain that has become a part of me. Of course, if I had gone back to school, maybe he would have followed me and we would have gotten married anyway. I think, though, the perception was that I forced him into it. I just wish I had more independent. More willing to try to explore me. Instead, I hid in him just like I would love to hide in my boyfriend. And he enabled me to stop thinking and just put one foot in front of another until now. I hid in his cancer. I hid in his pain and I matryed myself into his dying. I didn't like myself. I didn't love myself but I could love him. I could like him. Who needed to be me? I would just be the servant to his cancer. The dutiful wife. The loving wife. The woman with the weight on her shoulders. And it worked for years. Until now.

I was driving last night to the boyfriend's house. He was sick and I was bringing him some stuff for his throat and I just started bawling. I was so angry-angry that I hadn't died. Angry that Devin left me with this fucking mess. Angry because, if I had died, Devin would have remarried. Angry because I always think he would have done better with the kids, with my parents, with his parents then I do. Angry because I was left behind. Angry that I married him. Angry that I had my children young. Angry that I am at cross-roads again at the age of 35. Angry at the world and furious at myself.

 I looked up and saw a sign through my tears. It was in rememberance of a man that died from cancer. Like Devin. Did his wife feel guilt? Feel anger? Feel the desperation that I did after he died? Where will she be seven years from now? I doubt she will a complete mess like I am right now. I also felt guilty because he tried to live while I tried to destroy myself. A man told me in the ward that he often wishes he could take someone else's cancer on because he wants to die and they don't. I shivered at the thought. That is a dark, desperate, pitiful, terrible thought. One that shouldn't be vocalized. And I looked at that sign and thought why did I live? Why did he die? Why did Devin die? Why is life so fucking random and painful?

I wish I knew. I know I have talked about it before but I don't believe anymore. And it is things like this that make me not believe. I am in so much pain that my brain causes. Every day is some sort of different torture but it is internal. It is brought on by my actions and my choices and it is hard to describe. Praying more, going to church more, believing more doesn't stop it. And, to be honest, I'll struggle with it for the rest of my life. Why would God do that to me? Why would God take people that want to live away so painfully? Babies, teenagers, fathers, mothers? Maybe because God doesn't. I haven't felt God or God's love in so long that I find his existence impropable at this point. And honestly, the day Devin held Alex for the first time and I knew Alex would only have him a short time, I realized I had no belief in God. My God doesn't take away loved ones. Therefore, my God doesn't exist.

Anyway, I have such complicated feelings about Devin that it will take forever to sort through them. I torture myself with the feeling that he could have done better than me. Maybe by forcing him to marry me, I stopped him from finding true love..from living to his true potential. Maybe his parents were right. Maybe I did a diservice to myself by marrying him. And the truth is, I know I did. God, that hurt. I just told the kids my eyes were watering. They know that is bullshit but giving me space. I took away so much from myself when I chose to marry him. And I do regret it. I wish I could have stood up for myself more and made better choices. I could have gone back to school, could have taken some time to find me before submerging myself into him. And I didn't. And now I am floundering. It hurts and it, like the cancer thought, is such an evil, despicable thought that I feel awful admitting it. We were the Great Love Story to those on the outside. Truth was...we never were. Not really.

And I don't know if I will ever be capable of loving someone truly. Can you love someone else when you loath yourself? Can you love someone else when you wake up every day with a undefined feeling of anxiety and resentment? I don't know.

For me, love always feels like a sacrifice. I sacrificed for Devin. I sacrifice for the boyfriend now. I sacrifice for the kids. I sacrifice for my in-laws and my parents and I sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice. I don't even trust what I want anymore. Do I really want to go to grad school? Do I really want a puppy? Do I really to never have anymore children? Do I really want to write a book? Do I really want to teach? I have no idea. Maybe I just want a puppy, grad school, book writing and teaching to occupy my time. To give myself something to do-something to take care of-something that will make people happy with me. Why do I sacrifice so much for everyone else? Mom would say that what love is...Is it? Mom would say that it was being  a wife, being a daughter, being a mother is. I just know sacrifice has gotten me to where I am today and it is not a pretty sight.

One of the things I admire most about my boyfriend is that he is so clear about his boundaries. So clear about his limits and his expectations. I wish I could be that way but I am not. I have very nebulous boundaries-one of the reasons I will never be a great teacher-and I have very few limits. I believe love is about sacrifice and he believes love is about making himself happy. I wish I was more that way. I wish I could be more willing to draw a line in the sand and stick to it. Maybe I will learn from him. Love should be about making yourself happy and making sure your boundaries are respected. Even when writing this, I am cringing. Isn't that selfish? But, how different my life would have been if I had set boundaries and expectations with Devin instead of sacrificing my whole existence for him.

My week

It was OK. I tried to talking to my sister again and that was a bad mistake. She started in about how I took her words out of context and I just said, "red popsicle stick." See, I thought we should have crafts in the mental ward and make popsicle sticks painted red and green (see, my educational background has come in useuful). When I can't talk about something, I can hold up a red popsicle stick. When I want to talk about it, green popsicle stick. Brilliance! So, my sister is just one big red popsicle stick. Perhaps I could just make a giant stop sign out of pipecleaners and glitter just for her.

Anyway, I just told her to stop talking and it really helped. I also completely avoided Thanksgiving activities. I had to give up my no lying pledge to get out of it-Mom thought I was with a friend but it was totally worth it. I sat on the couch, ate nachos and watched 24. It was great. I dozed. I stayed in my PJs. It was wonderful. So, I feel like I am gaining more control.

I keep feeling flashes of anger and resentment. Eventually, I will probably need to vocalize them but I don't really want to. I feel like I have caused so much anguish and so much pain to my loved ones that I don't deserve to be angry with them. I am mainly very angry with my sister, with Devin, with my boyfriend and my mother.  But, my boyfriend has been so supportive and so loving that I can't be too mad. I am very fortunate to be loved so much. And to be able to love someone else again after Devin.

 Anyway, all in all, it was a good week. I still am having fits of anxiety and I was very teary and very upset yesterday but I got over it with no self-destructive behavior!

Willie (Entertainment in the Mental Ward Part 2)

Willie was an older, grizzled, black man. He was exactly like one of the homeless men that stops people in Nashville and asks for money. Throughout the day, I would hear "Willie, stop it!" "Willie is at it again!" "Willie, stop yelling!" He was like Dennis the Menace of the pysch ward. He would get upset and yell at people or rant at them but it was only people that deserved it. He never yelled at the women in the ward or the nice techs.

He took a deep, personal dislike of one of the techs and would call him "the African" and just annoy the hell out of him. It would make me laugh. I could always tell Willie was getting started because he would get a glint in his eye and then off he went. He would start by circling the tech then ask where he was from then start in about how he was not even an American. The tech really was useless-sexually harassing the women techs, making comments about some of the patients and generally was an ass. I couldn't help but laugh. Willie would start quizzing him about being an African and Thanksgiving and etc and we would just be dying with laughter. "You can't celebrate Thanksgiving..no turkey for you. You from Africa." "Why do you talk in that weird accent? You from Lewisburg? Oh that's right, Africa." Of course, the guy had to take it because we were all watching.

So, I liked Willie. He was smart in his own way. We had another girl there named Tammie that voluntarily put herself in the hospital. She had black outs and couldn't remember anything and it scared the hell out of her. Willie found out she was from Lewisburg and decided they went to school with each other. Then, decided they were married. He would bring in laundry for her to do (like you can do laundry in a mental ward) and write her love notes. He also created a whole history of their high school years. She helped him with homework and they began dating their sophomore year. It was hysterical because they had literally never meet before the ward. We thought he believed it but sometimes that glint in would start in his eyes as he would begin to weave stories.

He would also wear layers of clothes. We would play a game called "How Many Layers will Willie be wearing Today?" I never guessed correctly. He would wear two pairs of jeans and that had to be uncomfortable. The jeans also had writings all of them. He would sign them with markers. We never quite figured it out. Maybe he was scared people would steal them.

I finally couldn't stand it so I asked him what he was in for. It was a bizarre story-typical in the mental ward but I was crying from laughter at the end of it. Another reason I will go to hell.

Here's the story from Willie:

Some whiteys told me to go to the store and get some gum. They told me there was a giant rat there so be careful. I went and it was really dark. I got the gum and then I heard some noise. It was the rat so I ran then a pit bull was chasing me. I got a stick and started yelling at it. All of a sudden, these policemen jumped me and found a gun on me and lottery tickets. I don't know what happened to the gun. Then, I ended up here.

Ok. What got me was three things-the rat, the pit bull and how the police just end up jumping him and he has a gun. This poor man stole two packs of gum and lottery tickets and is now in a mental ward. It was so sad but so funny too. Who steals lottery tickets? And somehow jumps from a pit bull to policemen.

I really lost it though when, the next day, he showed me lottery ticket numbers that he had written down. He had a list of like ten. It was hard not to laugh cause Willie got offended when someone laughed at him. But, he really did steal the lottery tickets! I thought he had made it up.

Willie also loved Suduko and David would give him some of his. Willie just liked filling in the squares and never really tried to do it. He would have like 5 fours in one square. David tried to show him how to do it and finally gave up. Willie would hand it to David and David would pretend to check it and give it back. Willie was so proud that he would complete them and get them right. I must admit I would laugh again because David would just shake his head when Willie turned away.

Willie did steal my marker on my last day but I decided he could steal it. He needed to write more stuff on his jeans and he was busy writing a love note to Tammy.

Nov. 23rd

Not the best day. I went to bed upset with the world-upset with my mother, my family. the boyfriend. Instead of expressing it, I just pushed it down and that made me even angrier with myself. My poor friend Tammy recieved an expletive-filled email from me that ranted about various things. So, not fully recovered yet.

I do feel stronger. I looked at private facility therapy places today. I can't really afford one but I keep thinking maybe it will help. They still take away your freedom and you have to earn privileges. That will scare me so I am not sure I can deal with voluntarily going. I think I need therapy more consistently than I am getting but it is hard over the holidays.

I am developing some bad coping mechanisms and that scares me too. I am taking my medicine but I still feel overwhelmed frequently and  still have the scary anxiety attacks. I don't know a healthy way to handle them so I find ways to distract myself. Sometimes they are not healthy ways.

I bought "The Cognitive Behavioral Workbook for Anxiety" today and it has been beneficial. I am actually doing the exercises in them. I read a paragraph that really struck me. It said:"In the perfectionist state of mind, for example, parasitic anxieties and fears can be stirred by beliefs that other people are evaluating and judging you for mot measuring up to what you assume they think are acceptable standards. This is what pyschologist Charles Horton Cooley described as the looking-glass effect. You imagine what others think about you, you think the worst and you conclude that they think what you think they think."

 Reading it on paper makes it sound self-centered and wretched and miserable and that is exactly what it is. I totally believe everyone thinks, deep down, that I am a failure but they are too nice to say it. I have never lived up to my own standards so how I can I live up to someone elses? For example, today I went to an appointment in Nashville, did some shopping, went to Panera's, read, went to the bank, picked up the kids, cooked dinner and went to WalMart to get a fake Christmas tree. In my mind, I should have also exercised, written and spent less money. Therefore, I am a failure. And everyone that says I am not is lying. My perception has been so altered I don't even know reality anymore.

I think part of what threw off today is one of the sales asssociates at Davis-Kidd remembered me from when I worked there. She asked what I was doing nowdays. Awkward. I explained I was certified in English and History but had recently gone overseas. We talked about Devin. She asked if I was remarried or had any more children. Oh ouch. Two really delicate subjects in one ten minute conversation and I was crying in the Target parking lot fifteen minutes later. After I obsessively begged the boyfriend to tell me he loved me and trusted me. He is going to get tired of doing that. He said I needed concentrate on what I felt and not what other people are feeling. Frankly, I feel like I spend my whole day analyzing my feelings and worried something will trigger my anxiety and my feelings of failure.

Christmas is hard for me. My husband died on 12-27 and I just dread the whole Christmas-happy-joyous family crap everywhere. I dread dealing with my in-laws and negiotating extended family and avoiding bringing up Devin so I don't cause them pain. It is rough on a good year-this year it is just unbearable. I am quite the grinch. I hate the damn coke commericial on the radio. I hate the damn car commericals with cars with bows on top. I hate the Zales and other jewelry commericials. I hate the happy families gathered around the Christmas tree and I hate the entire commericialism of it. I hate the facebook statuses of "I am done with Christmas shopping" like it is a giant haha loser that didn't get done competition. I hate that I am constantly reminded, everywhere I turn, that people are celebrating with their families when mine was destroyed two days after Christmas. We are suppose to go to the Bahamas for Christmas and I hope to God we do. I can make it through with an escape hatch. Otherwise, bleakness this year.

Strangely, though, I have been fascinated with Christmas decorations. Others might want to gay up their house but I totally want to white trash mine. I want the glittering gold ribbon, the loud gold wreath, the black artificial tree and lots of reindeer. I want icicles that change color and lots of bubble lights so someone will look at the house and go into an epilectic seizure from the lights and the colors and the sheer trashiness of it all. I want to set up the reindeer in sexual positions and change them everyday. Kuma Sutra for reindeer lawn ornaments. I want to out Griswold the Griswolds. Cousin Eddy will look at my house and say, "Wow, that girl ain't got no taste." It is my Christmas dream, damn it, and I am trying to tame it down. But, it is tempting.

WalMart is a white trash dream. Artifical trees in every color. Angels in glitter. The ugliest wreaths and ribbon I have ever seen and I could just imagine them hanging from the house. Maybe it is my giant fuck you mass media for forcing me to live with Christmas for over a month so everyone can get into an orgasmic frenzy to buy shit. Fuck you, Black Friday and stupid jewelry commericials. Fuck you, Coke. Quit trying to spread happiness. I am not happy. I don't want to be artificially happy over Christmas and stop pressuring me. I like Pepsi better anyway.

Tomorrow is Zak's birthday. I am excited. He is not. Fourteen. God, we are so old. I look at the photo I have on my mirror of his first Halloween and can't believe he is this big. I also can't believe I almost was not here to celebrate it with him. The day after is the boyfriends. I didn't get him much. No money. But I am excited about it too. He hates his birthday so I kinda like rubbing it in. Plus, birthdays are cool. People celebrate your existence.

I am still trying to avoid Thanksgiving with the extended family. I hope I can. I find it so difficult not to cry and I never know what will set me off. My perfect Thanksgiving is staying home watching Home for the Holidays, Christmas Vacation, and Four Christmases. I might even wait and watch Home Alone with Alex. He might have never seen it. I will eat pizza and watch TV in my jammies. I will not watch TV commericials or do anything to join the world. Read my zombie books and think about taking off my PJ's. Bliss. Bliss. Bliss.

I'll tell you what happens. For some reason, people don't trust me lately.

A Christmas Haiku:

Christmas time is here
Black Friday, flying reindeer
Quit Advertising

Or

Fuck you, Walgreens
Celebrate Thanskgiving
Not Christmas Already

Or

It is not self pity
I would snap out of it if I could
But I can't right now

Or

Fuck, fuckitty, fuck you
I can't deal with my sister
my in-laws or life.

That one was kinda violent but I do love the beginning of "Four Weddings and a Funeral" when Hugh Grant manages to conjugate the word "Fuck." I had no idea there were so many deriatives. I have always wanted to do an English lesson on the word "fuck." It can be a verb, noun, adjective, adverb or interjection. Let's see:

1. I fucked her last night...verb
2. I named my racehorse Fuck you, Lane Kiffin....noun but stretching it
3. He was fucking hot...adjective
4. He fuckingly ran to the bathroom...adverb but doesn't make sense
5. Oh fuck, my hand got caught under a boulder and I had to cut it off....interjection

There we go. I stayed up one night thinking about this lesson and realizing I could never teach it but, in its own twisted way, it's brilliant. If I have used the parts of speech wrong, I apologize. It is not like I teach English or something.
                                                                             

Today, Nov. 22

I achieved all my goals today except for writing. I ended up doing a massive clean up of the kitchen. I still do not understand why the IPad and tortilla wraps were on top of the refrigator and how a Capri Sun ended up on the top of the cabinet. I don't think I want to know, though. I might not be the only crazy person in this house.

I bleached the walls, organized the spices and cleaned the pantry. We have a ground cinnamon spice bottle that I do believe has lasted since the sixties. The word Cinnamon is written in a great flourish with stars beside it, kinda like the Bewitched slogan. In fact, every time I look at it, the Bewitched slogan has gone through my mind. I told my mother we had three bottles of dill weed and had four but I threw one away. She said, "But, it still had some left." Correction: it had a pinch left and now it's gone, baby, gone. Like I said, I am not the only one crazy in this household.

Mom is a hoarder. She hides it well. We have spices on top of spices that we have had since my childhood. We have medications that were my father's. He left the household when I was thirteen. I am thirty-five now. She won't throw them away because they might still be effective. The therapist asked why I had saved the medications I took like it wasn't normal. I thought everyone saved medications. Evidently, "normal" families don't. Who knew? Evidently, I am not a hoarder. I just had a subconscious desire to kill myself ions ago and was waiting for the day. Considering it took years to save up the concotion I took, it will be years in the future before I can again. And no doctor is giving me Valium or Zanax or Loratabs with my history. Not bitter. At all.

All in all, though, I had a great day. A really great day. I felt normal for the first time in ages. I was trying to think of the last time I have felt like my old self again and it has to be early August perhaps. It is like Eninem says, in Love the Way You Lie, "I'm Superman with the wind at his back." Haven't we all felt that way at some point? Of course, I worry that is the start of a manic stage (even though, this week, I am a depressive not bipolar) or that I will relapse or I will fuck it up but I am trying to enjoy it.

Week 3

I had the flu this weekend and felt just horrible. Shaking, chills, vomiting. The works. Huge headache. And it was weird. When I finally felt better, I felt better mentally too. Why make yourself feel like shit when the flu can do it for you?

Today is the first day I have felt better mentally. I almost feel like myself again. I cleaned the house and have plans for tomorrow. I have actually talked to people about my problems and taken their support with great appreciation. I have decided not to talk to my sister right now and have been honest. It is huge. Absolutely huge for me.

I decided not to take a tutoring job. I am just not ready. Generally, that means lying to everyone around me so I don't disappoint anyone. Instead, I was honest and said I was not ready. No one rejected me. No one told me they thought I was a loser. No one hated me. Wow. Acceptance and honesty. Maybe my landscape is finally changing.

I am having difficulty about Thanksgiving. No one wants to leave me alone but I want to be alone. I don't want to pretend my life is normal when it isn't. I don't want to socialize when I can barely function.  Most of all, I just don't want to be near extended family.

I have been feeling flashes of anger toward people. I think that is good. Depression is anger turned inward according to every therapist I have been to. I am not expressing the anger. It is not really deserved anger but at least I am acknowledging it. All good.

I have decided I am going to make depression T-Shirts:
1. I'm Anxiety's bitch
2. No, really I do have therapy three times a week
3. I am a failure at suicide...and that's a good thing
4. Need a mental illness..I've been diagnosed with three!

Goals for this week:
1. I am working on a superhero story..Must plot and write, write, write
2. Call about writing job
3. Avoid Christmas displays
4. No talking to my sister
5. Figure out Thanksgiving
6. Birthday shopping
7. Meds regularly

My sister

I have one sister and we have a complicated relationship that is full of envy, rage, resentment, and love. We need each other but we also despise each other. She reacts in anger to any given situation while I take it inward. She pretends things don't happen and I try to talk about them. I get therapy. She prays and goes to church. We are very different people. To be honest, most of the time, I don't even like her. If she weren't my sister, we would never be friends.

I am not a blameless victim. I pick at her. I know her insecurities and I delight in bringing them to light at times. Sometimes, I twist the knife just out being bored or just because I can. I am a bitch to her and she is a bitch to me. Then we make up and pretend we were never mean to each other.

She is under immense stress right now. Her husband, frankly, is a loser. Big time, fucking worthless human being. I have never liked him. He is judgemental, humorless, emotionally abusive and controlling. We, of course, never discuss this. She married him because she thought she would get security. He was older, had a MBA and a corporate job heading upwards. Perfect.

Then, my husband died. They came down "to support me" but it was to witness to my husband so he didn't face death without the love of Jesus. I almost kicked them out. Seriously. And didn't talk to her for a year. In that year, my brother-in-law quit his job because he realized life was too short to work for a corporate master. My husband had taught him that. Bastard used my husband's death to quit work. Words can't express my thoughts.

He decided to sell real estate. Hahhhaaahhhaaa...Mr. Personality can't even make friends. He was going to sell real estate on the computer. There was no talk of joining the rotatary, real estate organizations, networking. Just sell it on the computer.

Flash forward to now. They are teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. My sister has tried to work but he makes her life miserable so she quits. They homeschool but actually the kids work during the day. After three years of not selling houses, he got a job at Target. Provider, he is not. He is not stressed about it. Jesus will provide. Meanwhile, I talk to my sister and she starts crying. She tells me it is just a cold but one can tell. My heart aches for her and I am also frustrated because why does she stay? Security? Scared? Loyalty? I truly don't get it.

With all that background, we talked last night. It was a vicious conversation on her side and destroyed me in alot of ways. I was ready to kill myself again after talking to her. Logically, she has issues. Big ones. Logically, she is hurting about my suicide and she reacts out of anger. But, what she said was so vicious, so mean that it brought me to my knees.

She said I was fucked up because my father left when I was thirteen. That he was here for me now but she knows he will leave again. I am setting myself up for failure by depending on him and I have to realize that. My father can't even be there for my kids and the only male example in their life is a homosexual couple across the street. Dad was a motherfucker that had no feelings and no love for anyone and he caused my suicide attempt.

OK. Wow. I do have problems (obviously) and many of them stem from my relationship with my father. Not all of them, though. I have plenty of reasons I am suicidally depressed-genetics, coping mechanisms, perfectionism, family dynamics etc. And, strangely, since the suicide attempt, my father and I have healed. The resentment I felt has faded. The past has been healed. We already had been working on it and something just clicked for me when I woke up and he was staring at me in the hospital room, tears on his face. He loves me. I never should of doubted it.

Then, she continued in a bizarre conversation that I will remembe to my dying day. She started saying she stayed with her husband because they need a male influence. If they don't have a male influence, then they wil end up fucked up like me. I am devastated. She is staying with her husband because she doesn't want her children to end up like me. I really don't need that guilt. And I don't think I am that bad, really. She kept talking while I plotted going to WalMart and buying a straight edge to finish the job I started with the OD. My own sister doesn't want her kids to end up like me. She stays with an asshole because of me. Her life is miserable because of me.

The boyfriend and I had a date last night and we talked at length about the whole situation. He said I took the whole conversation wrong. She was actually saying she couldn't divorce her husband because then Dad would be the kids only male influence. She was actually talking about Dad not me.

Maybe. Bottom line: In the light of day, my sister may possibly be even more fucked up than I am. I am dealing or trying to deal while she blames other people and pushes down her feelings. It is going to be a tremendous fall one day.

In the course of this conversation, she also yelled at me for being upset and said the girls thought I did it because I was jealous of the cruise with Mom. I didn't want them to spend time with Mom. I hate to burst their bubble but I really didn't even think of them when I did this. She then said she hopes the youngest doesn't suffer from my problems and hopes church therapy really helps her. THe youngest has already started cutting but my sister has decided it is just clumsy shaving. Ah, the joys of a family that does not deal with issues.

Needless to say, after spending the night crying at a bar, I am not talking to her again any time soon. I can't. She really pushed my buttons. I can't for the sake of healing. And peace in my soul.

I didn't tell my sister, never will but my suicide note said: Tell my sister I am sorry I ruined her time with Mom. Again. Also tell her to divorce her asshole husband. He doesn't do anything but beat off to porn on his computer all day. OK, don't tell her that.

Good thing she has never read it. I stand by it, though.

Week 2

It has been a really rough week. I don't want to take my meds because I feel like they make me eat more. I feel so out of control that I would to control one thing...my weight. So, I have taken them very intermittently which obviously does not work. In other words, I am being destructive. Again.

I know I am spinning out of control again and part of that is just being overwhelmed. I am not suicidal. I don't feel totally bleak but I am despondent. I have all these thoughts just racing through my head and, when I give voice to them, they are insane. I worry that, if I don't get my shit, together then people will desert me. They will realize I am damaged goods and fucked up beyond measure. Of course, my deepest fear is rejection so it furthers my anxiety. And the vicious cycle continues.

On the good news side, even in the rough economy, I have had four jobs offer. Two for tutoring and two for writing. I turned down one writing job and still exploring the other one. With the tutoring ones, I am waiting on further details. They are quite lucrative so it might be good. It is also not a full time job.

I am still panicked about it. I keep thinking I need to have a plan for the future and I have no plan. I always have a plan. It is one of my coping mechanisms. Now, there is nothing. Just a big, empty void in my future. Part of me feels I can't rush stuff and part of me feels the void is scary. It must be filled. It has to be filled because, if it is not, then I will have to feel. I will have to face my fear of rejection and fear of failure. I will have to deal. I can't do that so I need to fill the void.

So, I am panicked about:
1. Gaining weight
2. Rejection of my friends and family because I am not snapping out of this
3. Being depressed and suicidal
4. Working
5. Going to church*
6. Lack of plans in the future
7. My medications
8. Children's therapy session tomorrow
9. Lack of contact with my in-laws. Am I obligated to call them? Am I a bad parent for not keeping up the contact with the children and the in-laws? Is it my responsibility? Does it make me a bad care-giver to Devin's legacy to not call his parents? Couldn't they call me?
10. My constant need to sleep. I want to be energetic and lively. I want to be back to normal. I am just a pale shadow of myself. And I am not sure how much Law and Order and Lie to Me a person can watch.
11. This is painful to admit...but I am terrified that, if I feel suicidal again, I have no options. I have no pills to take. I can't cut myself. I am incapable of bringing myself pain (strange, I know, because I did try to destroy myself). So, I am stuck. It is good to not have options regarding suicide but scary too. I have never taken it off the table. It is always my go-to when life becomes overwhelming. A world where it is not a go-to is a terribly horribly scary place. And it is my world now. Permanently.

I just talked to my sister. Why do I do this to myself? Do I just enjoy adding stress to myself? She wanted to go over all the gory details of the suicide and then probe what I expected Mom's reaction to be. Well, actually, bitch, her reaction is what I expected. She shut down. Then, she ignored me when I tried to talk about it. Then, she sought support from church while invading my privacy. Then, she decided it was all her fault. Then, she decided she would try to be supportive while also being critical at the same time.

Hell, while we are on it, my sister's reaction was obvious too. It is all about her. Her kids are sad because Aunt Abby fucked up. She is angry because I blamed Mom for part of my problems. Dad helped me and not her. Decisions were made to not contact Mom and her (they were on a cruise) while I was in the hospital. We left them out. And she is angry with me. Evidently, she was hysterical when she heard because she thought I was dead. Eye roll. I read the email Dad sent her. Nothing about death. And people say I am a drama queen.

So, there we are talking (actually, she fussing at me) when she yells out "shit!" and tells me she has to call me back. She won't. I don't know why I even bother. Really.

But, hey, I am not tired or sad right now. She pissed me off so now I am angry. And I feel kinda alive. Excellent.

Maybe I should put her on speed dial.

Oh, she just called back. Joy to the world, babe. Now she is complaining about the dog I gave her. Oh growl again.


*Mom and I are in huge conflict about church. I agreed to go Sunday to a dear friend. Church freaks me out, though. I know Mom told people and I can just see their looks of pity. I hate pity. The church secretary came out and hugged me tight the last time I was there. Mom told her. They are in the same Sunday School together. I feel lke my privacy is violated and I specifically asked Mom not to say a word about me. I wanted it to be framed as a relative. My sister said that was selfish. Mom needs support. Bite me. I am not going to feel guilty for requesting my privacy be protected in a small town. Growl.

Church for Mom brings great comfort and solace. She attends literally three times a week. To me, it brings great stress and anxiety. She wants to help me and she just knows attending church will help. Jesus in my heart will make me happy! I will feel his peaceful wisdom on my soul and the depression will leave. Everything will be right again in the world. Who cares that it has not been right for years now? Sigh. So, I am disappointing her by not going but I don't need the stress right now. My whole family are church goers so they don't get my opt-out. They think I am just being over intelluctal and difficult. And they lay the guilt on by saying the kids need religion. They need church and I am letting them be heathens. I finally told them they can take them if it is that important. Dead silence.

Week 2

Week 2 is starting off OK. My therapist is on vacation which makes me a nervous wreck. I did see the church counselor twice yesterday-once alone and once with Mom. The mom session was very awkward. I admitted that I felt like she thought I was a bad parent. She didn't correct the assumption. It hurt. Alot. On the other hand, I did try to leave them orphans which is not the sign of good parenting. So, maybe I deserved the silent condemnation that is often my mother.

I am exhausted constantly. It is one of the effects of depression and I hate it. I am so lethargic and it makes my mind soft. I feel like a blob instead of like me. No matter how much I sleep, I can't feel sharp and aware. I dread going to sleep every night because I just wake up. It is so uncomfortable. I am just up at 3 AM and my thoughts are already out of the gate like a racehorse. Instead of waking up slowly, I am just jarred awake. I resent it and it causes panic attacks before I go to bed. It is a destructive cycle.

Many people have been pressuring me about working. I don't feel like I am ready. I feel like it will be too much pressure and I will start crying in the classroom. On the other hand, the kids need health insurance and they need income. I have an obligation to them. Zak needs braces desperately. That is going to start a panic attack over being a failure so I will stop there.

I applied for tutoring positions and some writing positions. Absolutely no response as of yet but it has only been twenty-four hours. I have to relax. It is a hard economy out there.

Just mentioning working has made my heart race and a panic attack to start. I am feeling cold and shaky. I just really think I need time to work through my issues. It has been the most traumatic year of my life and I think, deep down, I am not ready. People around me, though, worry I am hiding out and indulging in self-pity. Maybe I am but I don't want to fill my life with outside stuff until I work on my inside stuff. I have to fix this depression. I have to fix my suicidial tendencies and deal with my shit. Otherwise, I will try again. Maybe not today or tomorrow but ten, fifteen years in the future, I will. I know it like I know my own body.

I have fallen in the mud. I am wallowing in the mud like a pig currently but I am not sure if it is a bad thing. Wallowing is something I don't do. I keep cleaning myself off, pushing my feelings in the deep crevices of my soul and marching on. Is it healthy? Hell to the no or I wouldn't have attempted suicide. Maybe I should stay dirty for awhile.

Destructive thoughts

If I had a dollar for everytime someone tells me to stop thinking, I would be on the Forbes Top One Hundred Richest People. It is very annoying because, if I would stop, I would. I just don't know how to turn my brain off and it becomes my own worst enemy.

When my thoughts start racing, I know rationally the thoughts are not making sense. I hate to even share them because they are insane. Obviously, I am off-kilter but I don't know how to get on-kilter. It is the most frustrating part of my existence and one of the most insidious parts of suffering from depression.

Friday night, I had myself worked into a fit of anxiety. I decided I was a failure at life. I had failed at my career, I failed at going overseas to teach, I failed at commiting suicide, I failed at parenting and I was failing at life. I am a failure. In my mind, no one will love me if I am failure, therefore; I am also unloved. It is insane once I write it down. In the space of thirty minutes, I had gone from being a failure to being completely unloved. Who could love me? I tried to leave my kids orphans. Who does that? A very selfish, horrible person. Who rips their family apart like I did? Me. I don't deserve love. I am a selfish bitch. A failure at life. I was seriously ready to just end it again. No one loves me. No one needs me. No one wants me.

Insanity right? Oh yeah. On a grand scale. So, I tried to take a deep breath and focus. Am I unloved? No. The kids love me. My friends like me. My boyfriend adores me and my family loves me. Am I a failure? Well, yeah but who isn't? Everyone fails. No one is perfect. Does my relentless drive to be perfect makes me fail? Well, yes because I have impossible standards for myself. I want to be the fastest runner, the best writer, the best parent, the greatest girlfriend, the best cook and the best teacher. Obviously, I can't. So why can't I let it go? I have no idea. I wish I could.

And that is why people tell me to stop thinking. Well, hell, I don't enjoy working myself into knots. I don't enjoy flagellating myself into self-pitying and self-loathing. I love the song One by U2 and it is because of the line: "It's too late to drag the past into the light." I try to remember that line when I wake at 3 AM thoughts racing. It's not the time to analyze the past. The past is the past. Leave it in the past.

I am still suicidal. It is not my constant companion like it was. My thoughts, though, wander to suicide when I start feeling like a failure. It is like I have opened that gate and now it is easy to enter into it. I have reasons not to do it, though, and that is great comfort. Before, when I tried, I was in so much pain, my thoughts were so crazy that I actually thought not being here would solve everyone's problems. I realize now that is not true. It just creates more problems.

I can't commit suicide again because:
1. I have too much potential. I can't do that to myself.
2. I can't go back to the mental hospital. I loathed it.
3. I can't do it to my children. They may dislike me right now, they may not act like they need me but they do. I am the only parent they have. That counts for something.
4. I can't do that to my family. This act almost destroyed them. The ripples are still there. Our family has suffered alot of loss in the past seven years. People fought hard to stay alive under impossible odds. I can't voluntarily destroy myself and add to those losses.
5. I can't do that to my boyfriend. He loves me. He deserves to be loved in return. He hasn't run from a messy, emotionally complicated situation and I should honor that love, that devotion, that loyalty by working through my problems.
6. I can't because it is not an option. It will never really be an option. Death doesn't really solve anything. How do I know what lies afterwards? How do I know it will solve anything?
7. I have dreams and goals and I love myself enough to meet those goals and dreams. I might fail at them but, at least, I tried.

It is driving me nuts that I ended at seven. It should be ten but I am going to stop there.

My ultimate goal is to love myself more. It is to let myself fall and not worry about failure, about being unloved, about abandonment. I keep trying to get people to save me and I have to save myself. I can't fade into other people. They will not always be there for me. I have to, absolutely have to, meet my own needs.

I won't succeed if I can't. I have to make my own contentness, my own peace.

Week One, Day 6

Somehow I have my days mixed up which is irritating. Next week, I am just going to do Week 2 and no days. I can't keep up. Currently, my neck hurts in just one spot which made me think of Michigan. Do I have a transmitter in my neck? Are they getting ready to set a bomb off in my neck? Who knows? I would ask him but that means going back to the mental hospital and I think not.

Yesterday was a good day. I was shaky all day. I feel so much pressure to get my life back together and I just don't know how. I don't know what I should be doing if anything. Honestly, I feel like I should take this time to rest and really mourn my losses in my life. I never have. I have just barrelled ahead so maybe it is time to mourn-my husband, my orginal family, my dreams of a future that won't exist. I think of the Bible verse "Be still and know I am God" (rough paraphase there) alot. I can't be still. Stillness requires me to feel and to think and that is too much.

I admire people that can just sit. I have never been able to do that. Just sit with your thoughts? To me, that is hell. I will read pamphlets about Scientology before I can just sit and be with myself. Maybe that is telling. When you can't spend time with yourself, how can you expect others too? When you don't know yourself, how can expect others to know you? When you don't know your own needs, how can you expect others to meet them for you? Or meet them yourselves?

So, I really want to spend this time learning about myself. People tell me I am interesting, funny, smart, creative and caring. I realize I am interesting-mental hospital, death of a husband-but I don't know about the rest. I don't feel particularly caring since I almost left my kids orphans. Am I creative or insane? Am I funny or is it just an act? Am I smart? Well, yeah. Book smart. I have the common sense of a deer jumping in front of a car, though.

I am going away this weekend. And I am going to rest. I am not going to think about the attempt. I am going to try to not talk about it. Just rest and be and be and rest. It is very appealing. I feel like I have been on this mad run away train and it won't stop. Well, I am jumping off this weekend.

See you on Week 2...

Entertainment in a Mental Hospital (Michigan)

Finding entertainment in a mental hospital is hard work. I came into the hospital without my Kindle-the horror of it all-and had to read an actual book! I was reading Secretariat at the time and the cover alone sparked much comment in the ward.

"Hey, is that a horse?"
I nodded.
"I had a horse once. My grandpa killed it."
Wow, thanks for sharing.

"Is that a horse on the cover of your book?"
Another slightly suspicious nod.
"I use to have a walking horse."
"That's cool."
"Yep."
Then he walked away. So much for that conversation.

Even my psychriastist commented on the book.
"I was in KY when he raced."
"Really? I lived in Lexington. I loved Keenland."
"I was in Louisville. Why were you in Lexington?"
"Having a nervous breakdown. First suicide attempt."
"Oh." Glance at watch. "Well, I guess we should finish this up."
Nothing like being rushed by your own psychiatrist.

So, what did I do for entertainment?

I listened to the schizos rant. And encouraged the prisoners. And, occasionally, encouraged the schizos. Yes, I was reduced to bullying the other patients for fun. Reason #5001 I will be residing in hell one day.

We had two true schizos on our floor. One, as my roommate told me the first night, sounded like Billy Bob Thorton in Slingblade. It was an amazingly accurate description. He was very rough in voice and appearance. I kept thinking of gray when I saw him. His hair was gray, his skin was gray and he was gray. It was like life was so much that he became gray and wrinkled. There were no sharp edges anymore. He was the opposite of a Picasso painting-smooth and dismal.

I named him Michigan in my mind and he immediately latched on to me when he found out my husband died of brain cancer. It did not occur he was not normal when we first talked despite the fact we were in a mental hospital. Huge freaking clue there.

Here was our first conversation:

"Your husband died of brain cancer?"
Cautious nod. I don't particularly like discussing my husband's death.
"What do they think cause that?"
"Well, they think he was just born with it."
"No knocks on the head? No brain trauma?"
I shook my head. I was starting to get uncomfortable but the whole damn place was uncomfortable.
"Do you think they caused it?"
I blinked. Um, who is they? I have noticed, with schizophrenics, that there is always they. I could never find out who they were but they had alot of power.
"No, I don't think they caused it."
"But, you can't know, can you?"
I started thinking of Mel Gibson in that movie with Julia Roberts where everyone thinks he is a schizophrenic. Michigan's speech patterns were exactly the same. He came alive when talking about "them."
"No, I can't but I really think it was just bad luck."
He shook his head. He was adamant there was no thing as bad luck. "I bet he knew something and they did it. What did he do?"
I started looking around for help but everyone deserted me. Bastards.
"Banking."
His eyes lit up. "Ah. That's why. Ever since the Chinese took over banking, they have become ruthless. Damn communists."
David walked into the dayroom at that point. "Hell, yeah, fucking Communists."
Now I was just fascinated and done with being uncomfortable. Communists? Banking? I was talking to a guy living in the eighties still or maybe even the seventies. I thought shit like this was made up in the movies. I leaned toward him. "Communists?"
Michigan leaned toward me and lowered his voice. "They are everywhere." He looked up toward the sprinklers. "In the sprinklers trying to control us."
David, obviously bored, sat down beside him. He looked up and then at Michigan. "Gotta be careful of the sprinklers."
Michigan, realizing he had an audience, then gave the most bizarre speech I have ever heard in my life. That includes speeches given by the president of my university and George W. Bush. It was quite the accomplishment. It got garbled somewhere in there but I remember he asked me if I knew what a car coil was and I didn't want him to stop. I have no clue what a car coil is-I can't even change my windshield wipers but I acted like I did just to listen.
"I invented this car coil in Michigan and the Communists got really upset. They sent people to destroy me. I had this red truck and they caused me to wreck it. Then, they put a transmitter on my brain. And they still track me and I know the sprinklers look at me and I made money out of this car coil-see it created less wear and tear on the transmission-and I was earning money from it and they were just jealous. So, they came and no one could stop them. Well, maybe the Russians but probably not. They were mad though that the Communists were working in Michigan-only Russians are suppose to work there..." And on and on it went. I expected Reagan and Carter to pop up any minute in this speech. Who still talks about Communists and Russians and transmitters besides Art Bell? It was truly like reliving my eighties childhood. Freaking amazing.

Later, he would come in with just one-liners or a short speech. Evidently, the long conversation just wore him out. Obama was on TV at one point and he said, "I bet that n--- thanks Communists every day for his Presidency. They created him." I gave him a pass on that speech because I know supposedly sane people that probably think that too.

My favorite was when he came in and flung himself in a chair. It was obvious he was just done. Tired, frustrated and done. "I just saw that movie Tango and Kurt Russell stole my idea! I had that idea. Damn Communists!" I had to leave the room that time. Apparently, in his mind Tango and Cash had just come out and it was an eighties movie. Also, Kurt Russel as a Communist struck my funny bone. I was still laughing when I went to bed. Who even thinks of Tango and Cash now?

My last day there, I was sniffling with a cold and my roommate, Yvonne, was too. Michigan came in and Yvonne cursed quietly. Michigan was like nails on chalkboard for her. He got on her everlasting nerve and she couldn't understand my fascination with him.

Michigan stared down at both of us.
"Flu," he said, sadly shaking his head.
I blew my nose. "It's just a cold. All this recycled air."
Michigan looked at me with pity. "Yellow snot. Russian flu. It entered the country on the East Coast in 1964. It's bad."
Yvonne couldn't resist. "Is it curable?"
Michigan looked at her with surprise. "You don't have Russian flu. Your snot is green. That is Communist flu. It entered through San Francisco in 1978."
I couldn't help it. I snorted. Michigan was very sensitive to being mocked so he left. We laughed hysterically. Russian flu? Communist flu? We couldn't decide which one of us was going to die first. Are Russians more powerful than Communists? I contend I was in the most danger because mine was older and had a chance to mutate. She said hers was more dangerous because it came from the East Coast. I think she was just being ornery.

I didn't see Michigan when I left. He was in the other dayroom watching the TV trying to figure out how they are ruining America. Since I know many people watch Fox News for the same reason, I didn't disturb him. I will admit, when I get anxious, I think of that Tango comment and the flu comment and laugh myself silly.

I hope, wherever Michigan is, they are giving him a rest and not trying to destroy him. I also hope I recover from the Russian flu.

Week 1, Day 4

It was a day of highs and lows. Confusing and infuriating but positive. I have been very nervous today because I had an appointment with the mental health center to start therapy and recovery. I really want help but I am terrified of being committed again. I thought about skipping it but I have several great friends and family members that made sure I went.

My appointment was noon. I arrived at 11:50 and it took until 12:30 to get the intake process started. I had to talk to the director of the program and answer some general questions. The director was a total aging hippy-the type I notice hanging out alot in community mental health places. Saving the world one soul at a time. She had long, long hair that needed a good haircut and a lovely Walmart shirt stenciled with hearts. I desperately wanted to do a make-over.

Then, I went back to the waiting room and waited and waited and waited. Some idiot woman talked on her cell phone to her brother Steve the whole damn time. I learned she was homeless. She worked at Kmart. She was from Knoxville and thinking of going back. I was praying she would go back. Immediately. I learned Steve was getting construction on his house and his crown moulding was not to his satisfication. I also learned Steve could not yell at idiot woman because she was homeless and battered. I, unkindly, thought, I can totally understand that because I would kick you out and perhaps beat you too.

It was now 1:30 and I still had not been seen. My appointment was at noon. Somehow, since the suicide attempt, I have been even more impatient. I did not know that was even possible because I am the most impatient person in the world with the exception of my father. Dad leaves carts at grocery stores. He paces. He complains. I really, really wanted to leave. It seemed like the perfect excuse. I texted the boyfriend and my friend Patrick and that helped me to stay. They basically threatened to be very disappointed in me and to confront my bad decision making. Therefore, I stayed.

She saw me two minutes later. And she was awesome. She totally caught my bullshit and answered my questions honestly and thoughtfully. I now know my parameters which is what scared me in the first place. If I am in direct danger of harming myself, then she will report it and I might be committed. If I am having suicidal thoughts and feeling overwhelmed, they have a step down from being committed. It is a facility that is supervised but not a lock down. That is very comforting. I feel I have options and I have not felt like I have had options a very long time.

She changed my diagnosis and my medication. So, let's recap this briefly: I have seen a NP, a psychiatrist, and a psychologist in the last two weeks and have received three different diagnoses. I have a borderline personality and need no meds. Ooops, wrong. I have bipolar disorder and must take lithium to survive. Wrong again, I am unipolar and depressive and just need anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication. They all agreed I have an anxiety disorder. I agree with that-I worry constantly about the most mundane shit. I also agree with the depressive diagnosis. The diagnosis was given to me during my second suicide attempt at 19 and I have always thought I have been much more depressive than bipolar.

The main difference is depressive means you don't cycle like bipolar. In bipolarness, one goes through mania periods then crashes into depression and back into mania and then back to depression. I do have very small mania periods but not long enough, I believe, to be bipolar. Also, according to this NP, I do not have the sleep cycles of a bipolar person. Evidently, bipolar sufferers can not go to sleep and will be so full of energy they will get up and clean the house or do some other activity. Uh, no. First of all, cleaning is evil. Second, I fall asleep quite easily but I wake up at 3 AM and worry. And worry. And worry. I never have any desire to leave bed and do something. I just lay there and worry about stupid crap until I wear myself out. If one finds me cleaning the house at 4 AM, I have totally been abducted by aliens and my body replaced by a pod person.

I have therapy tomorrow with a woman at the same center. I asked her to hold me accountable because I leave therapists quickly. As soon as they get too close, I leave. I don't want to talk about pain and abandonment and my dysfunctional childhood. I want to be witty and thoughtful and entertaining. Putting on a show like I do my whole entire life. I have promised all my close relatives and friends that I will be totally truthful with them and with the therapist. It scares the hell out of me. I have compartmentalized my whole life so much that I am not sure how to unite it again. I tell the boyfriend one segment, my friend another segment, my mother another segment but I never tell anyone the whole truth. It is dangerous and it is what brought me to this point.

She mentioned that my depression is probably a mixture of genetics and situational. Since it started so early (age 13), it had a strong genetic component. In a bizarre bit of unself-awareness, I told my father this fact and he responded, "Well, no one in my family is depressed. You must get that from your mother's side." I didn't say a word but the pink elephant in that conversation is that my grandfather committed suicide. Currently, I have a cousin having a mental breakdown also. She is in a twelve step program for bulimia and a budding alcoholic. So, yes, there is depression in my father's lineage. Also, in my mother's. Double whammy.

After the intake meeting, I went to therapy with my mother. One week-three therapy appointments. It is like I tried to kill myself or something! Therapy with my mother was infinitely more painful. I feel abandoned by her in alot of ways and she feels overwhelmed by me. She doesn't trust me, she is terrified I will hurt myself again and she feels that she didn't help me enough. We both avoid confrontation and are passive-aggressive. There were alot of loaded statements and uncomfortable silence afterwards. We are going to keep going. The therapist and Mom was worried I was too delicate to handle working on our relationship. I said we have to work on it in order for me to heal. I have to heal that relationship in order to recover completely but it is going to be really hard.

It was a long day. Very, very long. And I have been exhausted since I got out bed this morning. I am trying not to take afternoon naps. I refuse to sleep my day away. It would be easy but I need structure and routine and productivity. Also, therapists are very interested in my sleep patterns. Sleep patterns are a good way, apparently, to gauge a person's emotional mood. I don't want to sleep all day and have to admit to it. Plus, I won't sleep at night. It is just a vicious cycle of frustration.

Week 1, day 3

Today is not going well. It was going OK at first. I had a presentation at church and, once again, I felt like a deciever. It was for the older women at church-so I had to speak loud and I accidentally cursed-but then one asked how I was doing. "Fine," I said. I actually wanted to crawl in her lap and let her stroke my head while I cried. She looked like the type of woman, though, that would have told me chin up. Focus. Choose to be happy. So, it is a good thing I didn't do that. Plus, I might have crushed her. She was pretty delicate.

Then, I called my father in law back. He gave me a litany of things I need to do. It was very pressuring and he mentioned I need to go back to work. That might have been fine on the surface but he twisted the knife by mentioning my late husband, his son. "My son worked with a brain tumor for the insurance. You have to do what you have to do." I had no answer. I felt terribly guilty. I still do. I can't live up to that and I am paralyzed right now. Doing the presentation, pretending to be happy, took all my energy.

So, I caved. I looked for jobs and began to panic. I began to shake. I could feel the panic attack coming on and it hit hard. Very hard. And before I knew it, I was right back to where I was when I began taking the pills. Hopeless. A failure. Darkness. A blight upon the world and a blight in the existence of my family. I can't even support them right now because I can't support myself. What type of person is so selfish? So mean? So worthless? Why me, Abby Morehouse.

I called two people. No answer. I am trying not to emote on the boyfriend but I was desperate. I also called my mother. She told me to go to church to talk to the therapist and the boyfriend talked me off the ledge. I also had a good friend yahoo messaging me which helped. And now, I am OK. Not great but not ready to pick up any knives either.

I think that is why depression at this level is so insidious. People are so uncomfortable about it. You have to be secretive about the whole thing and no one knows how to handle it. My father in law was trying to be helpful and caring. He is terrified I will leave his grandchildren orphans. He is angry with me and scared and he knows we are all hurting. He probably feels helpless. And, if he had known that his conversation pushed me into a panic attack, he would feel horrible.

It's insidious because I never know what is going to set me off. One simple conversation and I am ready to search for some loratabs again. It is not a good sign and it scares the shit out of me. Will I ever reach a median point in my emotions?

I will say the mood swings are the worse. I feel like I have grip on things. I am going to recover then boom. I am covered in darkness. Shaking, crying, hopeless. Then, I am back to almost normal. I am not sure what normal is anymore. Then, depressed. Then, dealing. It is like a fucking yo-yo and I am exhausted from it.

I have therapy tomorrow. It is a good thing. I really, really need an outlet.

Life in a mental hospital

Life in a mental hospital is bleak. The lack of privacy alone terrified me but the loss of freedom brought me to a deep down primeval panic from which I might never recover. I tried to make myself as small and unobstrustive as possible. I just whispered the words, "Compliant, compliant, compliant" over and over to myself like a Gregorian chant. I needed out and the only way to do that was to the best damn behaving mental patient they had ever seen.

I am having a panic attack while I write this post which is making me think I should stop. I am not going to, though. I deal by writing so writing I am.

I was in Unit G. It was a lock down facility in which there were two groups of people. There were the paranoid schizophrenics and then the people like me that got overwhelmed. It broke down pretty squarely to those that would end up in a mental institution for the rest of their lives and those would make it back out to the world.

There were three dayrooms-two of which had TV's and one with no TV. Each dayroom had a courtyard to the side but, needless to say, they were locked. It was torture to look at the courtyards and know I couldn't go out there. I enjoy being outside. We would often look outside and comment inanely on the weather. "Still raining?" "Yep, still raining." There, wasted three seconds of a day that lasted infinitely too long.

The schedule was brutal:
6 AM: Lights on, thirty minutes to get out of your room
6:30 AM: Dayrooms
7:00 AM: Breakfast
8:00 AM-10:00 AM: Sit and wait. This is the time people get medications, talk to the psychiatrist, talk to the social worker, talk to the nutritionist, talk to the other patients. Most of us tried to nap in the chairs or read. Difficult to do.
10:00 AM: Snack
11:00 AM: Lunch
12:15 PM: Assigned to group
12:30-3:00: Groups (you had three groups and they were fairly useless)
3:00: snack
5:00: Dinner
7:00:Snack
8:00-meds, rooms open back up
10:00-lights out

Basically, I was not allowed in my room for fourteen hours and I only had therapy for maybe three of those. It was exhausting. Then, I couldn't sleep because the techs would check on us constantly through the night. They would sit by the door and sigh. They would turn their magazine pages heavily and move the chair. I had to pretend to be asleep because they study everything at the mental hospital. Not sleeping counts against one.

I got in trouble the second night for talking too loudly. It was like fucking camp. She said we couldn't talk because it was lights out and then went outside and proceeded to talk so damn loud that I was ready to strangle her. Old me would have said something sarcastic and rude but new me decided it was a test and just thought of ways to kill her. Slowly.

The food absolutely sucked. It was the worst food I have ever seen in my life and I have seen some pretty disgusting food. It was from the prison system. We had to take the individual food out and then stack the trays. We might hit each other with them. The first day I came in and looked at breakfast and almost got physically sick. The egg looked like a sponge and tasted worse. The grits were like yellow. How do you mess up grits? Seriously. They gave us white milk and I hate milk. So I didn't eat after checking to make sure they didn't check our food intake. It is alot like the lunch room at school. We traded food and there was always one patient that would eat everything. He didn't care.

Snacks were just as dismal. Morning snack was a sad disappointment. Cornflakes and milk again. Lunch snack was vanilla pudding. Evening snack was the jackpot-pretzels and chocolate milk. I can drink chocolate milk. I would trade everything else but evening snack.

Everyone told me to try to get out before the weekend. The weekends are the worse because there is no group and no therapy. Just sitting in the dayrooms for fourteen hours. It sent shivers down my spine and made me shake to think I would be in there for more than three days. I wasn't sure I could survive it.

I was very fortunate. The psychiatrist and the social worker were worried about my safety and they decided I was coping well. They discharged me less than forty-eight hours. I still believe it was a miracle. My family was shocked. They were happy with reservations. Both my father and my boyfriend decided I had told the doctor what he wanted to hear and played the system. I did.

I can't say it was a helpful experience. It was eye-opening and crazy. I have great stories but, basically, the doctor medicated me. He talked to me for ten minutes-all while looking at his watch-decided I was bipolar and put me on massive amounts of lithium. I was medicated to docility. How can one think about suicide when one is zombified from the medication? The lithium caused my heart to race and my hands to shake and my mind to be unclear. Strangely, every single one of us-including the schizos-had bipolarness. It was the diagnosis du jour.

So, I never talked about my problems at the mental hospital. I never discussed coping mechanisms for when I was allowed out of there. I did receive medication and the helpful advice of "Don't think." Thanks, appreciate it.

I do know one thing, though, I am never going back to a lock-down facility. Never. Ever. Ever. I'm going to get better and pull my shit together so it is never an option. I have discovered they are not helpful. They are not comforting. They are to medicate you and throw you out into the world you couldn't handle in the first place.

One week, two days

I am one week and two days out from my suicide attempt. A week ago today, I woke up in the ICU having no clue where I was. Then, it slowly dawned on me that I had failed at taking my life but I had done a good enough job to end up in the ICU. I was terrified.

I haven't stopped being terrified yet.

Last week was the most traumatic week of my life-attempted suicide, ICU, involuntary commitment to a mental hospital, and release. I hardly know if I am coming or going or staying still. I am so overwhelmed that, at one point, I turned to a friend in the mental hospital and said, "Oh my fucking God, we are dead. This is purgatory and God is playing a joke on us." I was only half joking. I just couldn't imagine that I had managed to take a terrible time in my life and make it infinitely worse. I couldn't believe I was in a mental hospital, in a lock-down facility with no rights. Confined for my own protection. No drawstrings, no privacy, no razors, no pens. Just me, twenty other patients and whole days stretching in front of us. Trapped. Bored. Alone. This had to be hell. My life was not so bad I deserved this ninth circle of the Inferno unless I had actually killed myself.

I was wrong. I was in Recovery and Stabilization. It should have been called "Scared Straight for People that Self-Destruct."

It was madness on a level I have never seen. A writer's dream. A chance to take a deep breath, get medicated into submission, then released into the big bad world again.

I was released Thursday and I stayed in bed Friday and Saturday. Sunday I finally left the house briefly. Today was the first day I have been alone for any stretch of time and my terror overcame me this morning. I was shaking in the bathroom terrified I could not make it. Terrified I would be scared to leave the house. Terrified I would end up watching endless stretches of daytime tv and start quoting Oprah.

I made myself stop shaking and I took the kids to school. I went to Sonic, my safe place and ordered food and sat and ate. Nirvana. Route 66 diet Coke. I will never underappreciate Diet Coke again because the damn mental hospital was on state cuts and didn't serve caffeine to the loonies. Ugh. Torture.

After that, I drove to my first of two therapy appointments this week and I had time to kill. So I sat in the car and read. Then, got extremely paranoid and jumpy as a police car pulled near me and a policeman got out. I thought, oh fuck. He thinks I am trying to kill myself. How could he think that? I am outside. I can't go back to that hospital. I held my breath and released it when he went to the car next to me to get a diaper bag out of it.

Maybe it was good I was going to therapy. I don't think I am dealing as well as I could be when one police car makes me want to run.

Therapy went well.  I emoted all over the place in the office and it is amazing the couch and the kleenex box survived and the therapist survived. Then, I decided grooming was in order. It struck me in the mental hospital that I tried to commit suicide with my roots showing and my toe nail polish all chipped. My freaking toenails were like velicoraptor talons. Not really, only one but Lord knows I wasn't allowed clippers. I could slit my wrists or something. So, in retrospect, there were several bonuses to surviving. It would have been embarrassing for the pathologist to comment on my roots or my toenails to the morgue attendant. Self-care is important.

The hair cut and the pedicure took all afternoon, thank you God.

The staff kept asking me questions, being friendly and trying to learn their clients. What do you do? Well, I have no idea. I am having an existential crisis right now is what I wanted to say. I just said, "I used to be a teacher." How is your week going? Fabulous because I just got out the state mental hospital. A prisoner on suicide watch admired my toes and it scared the hell out of me. He said I could break my pinky toes and set them straight. I just nodded and moved. Instead, I said, "Fine so far." Enjoying the day? I am not sure because I am scared of the hours until I pick up the kids and I would like to stay here all day and hide in your massage room. Is that possible? I was a good girl, though, and said, "It is gorgeous outside."

I desperately wanted to blurt out "I tried to kill myself last week." I don't even really know why. I just felt like I was trying to act normal when I feel the least normal, the least sure of myself than I ever have. I thought they have to know I am off. They can probably see the damn sticky hospital tape residue on my skin. That shit is impossible to get off...they should use it for the space shuttle or something. I resisted the urge to be confessional. I don't always have to be a drama queen. Sometimes, I can act normal even when I feel horribly unnormal. It is called being an adult.

Then, I sat at the park and read People Magazine and thought vaguely that Prince William should always wear hats. He is balding and it makes him look like his father. That is unfortunate except when you are heir to an entire country. People magazine is always such drivel about people that I give less than a flying fuck about that reading it eases my mind. I figure I lose a few brain cells every time I read it and I could stand to lose a few brain cells. Fewer brain cells to think would probably make a happier me.

After that, I picked up my kids. My youngest got in the car and said, "Mommy, I didn't expect you to pick me up. I thought you would kill yourself today." Oh, baby. Destroy me with your innocence and your fear all at the same time. I wanted to cry but he has seen enough of that side of me. I just smiled and told him it was not going to happen again.

He needs therapy. He is hiding Advil, Tylenol. Clarintin and every other pill from me. I am not even sure where he is putting them but the child is terrified. I made him terrified. I shook him from what little security he had and rocked his world. The therapist said it is what it is. None of us grow up without trauma. His is because of my actions. We deal and we move on. Sage and wise advice. I have enough to crucify myself so I am letting that piece go. No reason to feel guilty because I can't change the past. It has happened and we will deal with it.

So, what did we do after I picked up the eldest? We went to Sonic. I guess it is my whole family's safe place.

And, most importantly, I made it through the day. I only have five more to go. Two of those will be with my boyfriend so I am down to three. Two of those days I have appointments so I am down to one. Completely and utterly doable. I haven't broken it down and analyzed it or anything. Why never. Not me. I never over think stuff.

It is now 10:30 and I am exhausted. I am going to consider one week, two days successful. I am on my knees but, at least, I am not on my face. Good signs, my friends, good signs.