I stopped trusting you the night you didn't make sure I was okay after I ran out of that show. My trust for you vanished, and it never came back. In that moment, I learned that your public image was more important to you than I was. In that moment, it was over.
If I surround myself with people who prioritize their vanity over my safety, it is dangerous to my mental health. I need people who will check on me when I do things that are out of character. I need people who react when I show signs of panic (like squeezing their hand under the table with all my strength). If I surround myself with people who ignore my mental health, I put myself in danger.
You apologized for me. That felt like taking the side of my abuser. No matter what role you may have played in my escape, these have been your actions most recently. For someone who preaches living in the moment, you have spent an odd amount of time encouraging me to stay in a certain past.
I don't know if I will ever be able to rebuild trust after it's broken. I don't know if I'm supposed to be able to do that.
*****
Black-eyed susans still get me.
One of the nights you helped me escape from my house, we ended up in nature, or some semblance of it. You plucked a black-eyed susan and tucked it behind my ear. For the first time I could remember, you made me feel pretty. If I am worth decorating with beautiful things, then maybe I am beautiful.
Maybe that's how I can reshape memory. Black-eyed susans can just remind me that I have beauty. They don't need to go through you to get there. But they do. The smell of them can still stop me. My heart skips. You loved me, once. I trusted you then.
Showing posts with label mental health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental health. Show all posts
09 October 2017
07 March 2016
Neural Journey
I ran out of refills on a prescription and had to go off my meds this weekend. My SSRI. The one that keeps the happy molecules moving the right direction in my brain. Don't worry, I got it refilled today!
I hadn't been off my meds for longer than a few hours since I started taking them 2 years ago. I knew it was going to suck, but I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. My first missed dose was Friday night. I planned to run some errands Saturday morning, because I knew I wouldn't feel any different until later in the day. (I bought a new sofa! That was a weird adult experience.) Around 1:00 Saturday afternoon, I started getting a headache, which could also have been attributed to hunger or a nicotine craving. I treated myself extra gently, stayed close to home, and took an almost 3-hour nap through the afternoon. In the evening, I met with a small group of friends to do arts and crafts. By 8:00, it felt like time to go home, where I fell into bed and stayed there.
Sunday morning, I woke up--more or less--at 8:30. My head felt foggy, almost like I wasn't in it. My bed was the only good place to be. I knew I needed to get up for a cigarette, coffee, or breakfast, but I couldn't tell which one. Somehow, I managed to make it through a morning routine of all three. It felt like I was moving my limbs through thick air. Initiating movement became difficult: Once I crawled back into bed, there was no getting up. I hid in caves of my blankets, playing in my phone. At one point I watched a 30-second video of a couple dancing to Bad Romance at their wedding reception, and I burst into tears. I barely moved until almost 3 PM.
I was surprised to realize in the midst of Sunday morning that I could tease apart what was withdrawal, what was depression, and what was anxiety. I worried about unlikely things: What if the doctor's office has to cancel my appointment? What if this new doctor won't write my prescription? Anxiety! I didn't want to leave my bed, and even when I was in it, moving was hard. Anhedonia found me again. That deep, dark place where there is no joy. I felt guilty and worthless for doing this to myself because I couldn't just make an appointment before the prescription ran out. I felt helpless. Depression. I'm not sure if I remember saying aloud, "Who unlocked the cages on these beasts?!" It was a solid reminder that I need these pills for more reasons than just avoiding physical withdrawal. I had been starting to question that. I wrote in my journal, "Life is ugly when my serotonin is fucked. My brain doesn't regulate that on its own, so I need to take medicine to help it."
I had saved an emergency dose for sometime Sunday so that Monday morning didn't have to be so awful. Within 5 minutes of taking it, I knew that I was going to get my brain back. Within 30 minutes, I felt like I lived in my own body again. What a simple solution for a brain disease that kills thousands of people every year, and almost killed me.
I hadn't been off my meds for longer than a few hours since I started taking them 2 years ago. I knew it was going to suck, but I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. My first missed dose was Friday night. I planned to run some errands Saturday morning, because I knew I wouldn't feel any different until later in the day. (I bought a new sofa! That was a weird adult experience.) Around 1:00 Saturday afternoon, I started getting a headache, which could also have been attributed to hunger or a nicotine craving. I treated myself extra gently, stayed close to home, and took an almost 3-hour nap through the afternoon. In the evening, I met with a small group of friends to do arts and crafts. By 8:00, it felt like time to go home, where I fell into bed and stayed there.
Sunday morning, I woke up--more or less--at 8:30. My head felt foggy, almost like I wasn't in it. My bed was the only good place to be. I knew I needed to get up for a cigarette, coffee, or breakfast, but I couldn't tell which one. Somehow, I managed to make it through a morning routine of all three. It felt like I was moving my limbs through thick air. Initiating movement became difficult: Once I crawled back into bed, there was no getting up. I hid in caves of my blankets, playing in my phone. At one point I watched a 30-second video of a couple dancing to Bad Romance at their wedding reception, and I burst into tears. I barely moved until almost 3 PM.
I was surprised to realize in the midst of Sunday morning that I could tease apart what was withdrawal, what was depression, and what was anxiety. I worried about unlikely things: What if the doctor's office has to cancel my appointment? What if this new doctor won't write my prescription? Anxiety! I didn't want to leave my bed, and even when I was in it, moving was hard. Anhedonia found me again. That deep, dark place where there is no joy. I felt guilty and worthless for doing this to myself because I couldn't just make an appointment before the prescription ran out. I felt helpless. Depression. I'm not sure if I remember saying aloud, "Who unlocked the cages on these beasts?!" It was a solid reminder that I need these pills for more reasons than just avoiding physical withdrawal. I had been starting to question that. I wrote in my journal, "Life is ugly when my serotonin is fucked. My brain doesn't regulate that on its own, so I need to take medicine to help it."
I had saved an emergency dose for sometime Sunday so that Monday morning didn't have to be so awful. Within 5 minutes of taking it, I knew that I was going to get my brain back. Within 30 minutes, I felt like I lived in my own body again. What a simple solution for a brain disease that kills thousands of people every year, and almost killed me.
30 September 2015
Freedom Day
Yesterday was Freedom Day. One year out. Halfway to divorce.
I keep feeling like I should write something, and finding no motivation to do it. I process this all the time. There's no reason for me to process it any more in-depth this week than I usually do.
Monday night was really hard. I started feeling all the feelings about it, and then feeling so much made me anxious. In a text message to someone who asked what kinds of feelings I was having, I used the word "traumatized," and it felt like the most honest thing I'd done all day. I need to remember that what happened to me was a trauma, and that I am recovering from trauma. That can take a very, very long time, and indeed forever. The anniversary of a trauma is likely to raise post-traumatic stress. Of course I was feeling all the feelings.
CBT works for me, because I was able to think about my feelings while I was having them and identify the reason for them. Having done that, I am able to move on.
"Congratulations on your new life," he said to me, apologizing because he hadn't made it out to celebrate last night. I was honored that so many people close to me--including a larger group of coworkers than I expected--recognize that this is something worth celebrating. This is the one-year anniversary of the day I chose myself over anyone else. The day I chose my right to happiness. The day I chose my right to freedom from abuse. I am pretty fucking amazing.
In this year of learning how to be alone, I have also learned how much I need other people. I am so grateful to each and every one of you in my support network. I truly could not have done it without you. Thank you to those who listened to me before I made the decision and immediately after. Thank you to the one and only person who ever said to me, "This sounds incredibly abusive." I needed to hear someone else say it before it became real. Thank you to the friend who came back to my house last night and listened to me talk for as long as I needed to. Thank you to the catalyst.
I am so lucky. I am free.
I keep feeling like I should write something, and finding no motivation to do it. I process this all the time. There's no reason for me to process it any more in-depth this week than I usually do.
Monday night was really hard. I started feeling all the feelings about it, and then feeling so much made me anxious. In a text message to someone who asked what kinds of feelings I was having, I used the word "traumatized," and it felt like the most honest thing I'd done all day. I need to remember that what happened to me was a trauma, and that I am recovering from trauma. That can take a very, very long time, and indeed forever. The anniversary of a trauma is likely to raise post-traumatic stress. Of course I was feeling all the feelings.
CBT works for me, because I was able to think about my feelings while I was having them and identify the reason for them. Having done that, I am able to move on.
"Congratulations on your new life," he said to me, apologizing because he hadn't made it out to celebrate last night. I was honored that so many people close to me--including a larger group of coworkers than I expected--recognize that this is something worth celebrating. This is the one-year anniversary of the day I chose myself over anyone else. The day I chose my right to happiness. The day I chose my right to freedom from abuse. I am pretty fucking amazing.
In this year of learning how to be alone, I have also learned how much I need other people. I am so grateful to each and every one of you in my support network. I truly could not have done it without you. Thank you to those who listened to me before I made the decision and immediately after. Thank you to the one and only person who ever said to me, "This sounds incredibly abusive." I needed to hear someone else say it before it became real. Thank you to the friend who came back to my house last night and listened to me talk for as long as I needed to. Thank you to the catalyst.
I am so lucky. I am free.
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