Sleep now eludes me. Words and images have become my enemies, lumbering in and out of the dark places of my brain which only exist during the quiet of the night. The images are Kafkaesque, not the images one usually associates with metamorphosis. I am becoming someone I vaguely remember from long ago before medication and before I knew what was wrong, when my mental illness was scarier and more unpredictable. I’m a little concerned that my posts may not be good for my stigma-busting; but because I am nothing but open and honest about my mental illness, I refuse to edit my experience. Perhaps it will show the dire need for affordable mental health care, because that is one of the reasons I’m doing this. A correct diagnosis is vital (as accurate as one can get in this field); and as I’ve mentioned previously, I’m concerned all the different types of meds may be have been masking or even causing symptoms. The truly helpful meds are so expensive, even a very old generic medication is barely covered by my insurance simply because it is rarely used anymore. Our local newspaper just ran an investigative series on the appalling lack of good mental health care. The state of this issue in many parts of the world that one would think of as advanced is frightening.
It’s been over 25 years (since my last pregnancy), that I have not been medicated in some form (self-medicated or prescribed) at night. It’s been about 40 years (except for my pregnancies and a few other brief periods) when I haven’t been medicated at all. My brain is not happy. I’m questioning my reality – do I feel this way because that is what I’m expecting? That’s what makes sense because I’m not even a week into the detox process.
The last time I did this I was in the hospital for four weeks. Two weeks detox, one week clear, one day of testing, one week with a new medication. I wish I could afford to do that now. I know my marriage will survive, my husband is unbelievably understanding and supportive. I have to rein in the feelings of guilt – why would he want to live with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde? I feel so unlovable; but if I can think of it in the terms of the fact that he wouldn’t leave me if I had any other disease, I should be able to get a grip on those unreasonable fears.
In the midst of the chaos which is my life right now, I received a pleasant diversion of another award. Although after the feedback I received when attempting to pass on the last award, I’ve decided that I’d rather be an award-free blog.
Jenny from Peace From Panic has kindly given me the Versatile Blogger Award. Jenny writes a heartwarming and informating informative (I don’t know, I kind of like that first word) blog about dealing with her own anxiety while raising a family which includes a daughter with anxiety as well. I can tell you from experience, it’s difficult enough to try to raise a family when you have a mental illness; but when one or more of your children has one as well, it’s even worse.
So thank you Jenny, and any one else who may think of me. Knowing there’s someone out there reading my important informating, as well as receiving amazing comments is enough for me.
Did I really produce this picture? Did this actually come out of my brain? Because I cannot remember the last time I actually felt hopeful. Does that make me hopeless?
My therapist recently asked me “What do you hope for?” My answer was “Nothing.” She looked at me oddly, “Do you mean you have no hope?” “Exactly.”
For many years during my lifetime I hoped for something from myself, employers, family, friends, lovers, life. The majority of the time, what I hoped for didn’t happen…so I stopped hoping. It’s interesting that the archaic definition is “trust.” Trust in whom? Trust in what? Nope, don’t have much of that either.
There are a multitude of positive and uplifting quotes to be found all over the interwebs (I typed “hope” into my search engine: “About 1,790,000,000 results.” My timeline is inundated daily with hopeful memes. Sometimes I just want to scream at the computer “Lies!” Sometimes I cry and sometimes hope tries to wheedle it’s way in to my brain.
There are times when I catch myself feeling hopeful, then I think “Oh yeah, that again. Sorry but no, not today.”
Hah, snagged you. Bet you thought “Oh yay, Sheri slipped; we get to read that she believes she was a badass armadillo in another life.”
Nope, sorry. I’m talking about my blog, which has been through many incarnations in the past few years. It started out quite eclectic, then there was The Wedding, then everybody got to watch Sheri crash and burn.
The most recent saw your intrepid writer wanting to give just the facts, ma’am.
An interesting phenomenon has made itself be known throughout…the majority of comments in all their forms (social media, comments, contact form, private messages) said in many ways, had to do with being grateful for having someone be honest about what it’s like in the trenches.
So I will stop my quest to be the foremost blog on mental health and domestic violence (like that would really happen), and just go back to being me, but still always willing to honestly answer questions, and research facts/fallacies.