As I write this, I am having a little bit of an episode. I got up at three in the afternoon, cleaned my tattoo, took my meds, took my morphine (to ward off the crippling pelvic pain I have every single day, will have for the foreseeable future), ate breakfast, read a book, couldn’t get dressed, dealt with racing thoughts for a few minutes, crippling anxiety because I am home alone until my husband returns from class at 4:00, cried, took an Ativan, stabbed myself in the arm with a fork because of the intense guilt I was feeling at the time.
This is my “normal.”
My sleep patterns are completely fucked at the moment because I’m working 7–2 (third shift) three days a week. I haven’t weighed myself in months, but the last time I was at the doctor (a week after I started dancing), I’d lost seven pounds. My appetite is, by turns, ravenous and nonexistent.
I’m seeing my psychiatrist on Wednesday morning, provided I can drag myself out of bed at that ungodly hour, and then I will tell him that my meds are not enough, never enough. I have one mg tablets of Ativan and am only supposed to take one to two per day, though I can handle much, much more. 150 of Effexor, which I am not even supposed to take because with bipolar (even type two), antidepressants can make you fucking crazy, and 200 of Lamictal. My moods have been more stable, but my default state is still numb and detached. I don’t often swing to hypomania (well, more than once or twice a day, and even then I don’t want to accept that it’s hypomania—I am just not depressed), though the crippling bouts of intense depression hit so many times each day, I can’t even keep track of them. They range from twenty minutes to several hours in duration, and then I’m back to flat.
I can’t get disability because I am technically still able to work, I am too young, I don’t think my doctors will sign off on it. I’m afraid to ask. I should probably ask at my next appointment, just to see, just to confirm that I’m not sick enough to actually get the help I need to take some time off and focus on recovering.
The thought is profoundly depressing.
Obviously, I’m not doing that well these days, though I’m keeping my shit together, as they say. What keeps me going is the knowledge that eventually this will break and I won’t have to deal with my rapid-cycle bullshit anymore, that I’ll have some reprieve from all this madness.