- if we actually say it hurts, that means it REALLY HURTS
- if we dont say it hurts, it probably still hurts
- if we spoke up every time we were uncomfortable/in pain we would be yelling constantly
- never ask if we’re “still sick”
- never act surprised that we’re “still sick”
- we’re probably gonna be still sick forever so please just be supportive and remember that we’re in pain all the fucking time and thats why we’re slow and forget stuff and flake out on you
Yesterday was a hard day. Not in a “Valentine’s Day is over-rated” kind of way; but in a deep-down, very dark place, which is all mine, way. I’ve been struggling with depression lately. It’s been rearing it’s ugly head again and again. Yesterday, as I was crying again, it finally hit me. It’s been five years.
It was five years ago on Valentine’s Day, that I brought a knife to the bath. It was five years ago today, that I drank myself into my last blackout after my kids went to bed. It was five years ago tomorrow, that I finally asked for help. For treatment. I finally realized, five years ago, that a low-dose antidepressant, (used spottily here and there), wine and Xanax were’t going to fix the kind of depression I was in. That they hadn’t fixed anything at all, for over 8 years. That in fact, I was the worse I’d ever been. I wanted to just be DONE.
It’s a scary place to be. And when you’re there? You really don’t want alternatives. You just want to sink, and be done. It was coincidence, or fate, or whatever you want to call it, that I had a Psychiatrist appointment on Monday, the 16th of February, 2009. It was my 2nd, ever, with this doc… following up a month later to see how the low dose antidepressant was going. She asked “how are you doing?” and I burst into tears. I really didn’t know how to ask for help, as I didn’t know what I needed. I just knew I didn’t want to go on as I had been.
She wanted me check into inpatient that afternoon. I was scared. I had no idea what to expect, how long I’d be there… I was terrified. After being inpatient for 12 days, they sent me home. I begged them not to. Things with my hubs were very stressful. The idea of being home scared me to death. I didn’t feel ready, at all. But our insurance ran out. So home I went.
After 4 days of being home, feeling confused, depressed, lost, and scared, (and all the while fighting with hubs), I attempted suicide, 100%. I took a huge mix of pills with a Pepto chaser … and then took at long, HOT, bath. Later, hubs found me losing consciousnesses in the tub, and rushed me to the ER. It was too late to pump my stomach. I was in and out. But I wanted them to just leave me alone. A doctor kept yelling at me. Telling me how stupid it was, what I did. That my body had metabolized all the meds. He kept trying to get me to stay awake. Kept asking me what all I took. There was lots of VERY hard rubbing of my sternum and yelling. Later, I was in the heart ward, on with a 24 hour person on me (suicide watch) … until then could stabilize my vitals. Then, it was back to the mental ward. This time, I actually worked hard to get out of there. I only spent 4 days, and then another 3 weeks in intensive out patient therapy.
It’s been a long journey, and I still struggle with depression. I still get sucked down, deeply sometimes, before my self-awareness kicks in. I’m not perfect, by any means. And the smallest things can trigger a full blown PTSD episode. But I’m getting better. Day by Day.
I am not writing about this for kicks. It’s very hard. However, my hope is that my story, and journey will give hope to someone else. Or that it will help someone to reach out to me, or someone else, for help.
Keep on, keeping on. And remember, Depression is a Lying Bastard.