My psychiatrist is teaching me how to handle my episodes. Lamictal twice a day, 200 in the morning and 250 at night. Seroquel for mixed episodes; never, never take lorazepam for a mixed, because it’ll do nothing but heighten the sense of detachment. The only problem is, I find it difficult, if not impossible, to differentiate between anxiety and a mixed episode. Both make me feel jittery, anxious, prone to sobbing uncontrollably and fighting so hard to hold back the urge to self-injure or finally do myself in that it takes all of my energy. I guess the solution is to take a benzo when I feel it coming on, and if that doesn’t work, the antipsychotics might. He’s instructed me to take the Seroquel 50 mg at a time, and I can take up to 200 mg a day if necessary.
I am trying very hard to stay off the Seroquel. I’ve read terrible things about antipsychotics—uncontrollable weight gain, tardive dyskinesia—and I am terrified of having them happen to me. I know it’s just my hypochondria kicking into overdrive, but I’m so unlucky, so prone to having bad things happen to me, that my fears about the worst coming to fruition actually don’t seem that silly or off-base.
And my memory is getting worse. I’ll tell the same story three times and not remember any of it. We went to Teslacon this weekend and had a lovely time, but by the time we left on Friday night I was unable to remember any of the panels we’d gone to that morning. I can’t focus on anything for longer than perhaps 20 minutes, which is disturbing because I used to be able to read or write or play the piano for hours on end. My psychiatrist thinks it’s ADD brought on by the concussion I suffered in July, but he can’t prescribe anything to help until my cycling stops and my moods are finally under control. Considering 450 is a higher than usual dose of lamotrigine (so high that I now have to undergo blood tests periodically), it seems like the manic depression is fighting hard to keep its grip on me, just as hard as I’m fighting to get rid of it.
Relief is always just within reach, but miles away.
I feel guilty and hate myself every single day. My husband works 40 hours a week as the shift lead at a drug store and is taking six credits at a local community college. He hopes to transfer to a large state university within five years. My inability to work full-time so he can go to school full-time upsets me so much that sometimes I wonder if he wouldn’t be better off without me. I feel as if I’m holding him back from his dreams—having to care for an invalid wife surely isn’t what he set out to do with his life.
Meanwhile, I stay home every day, reading books and watching movies and trying not to give in to the nasty little voices that whisper to me: I’m useless, I’m a drain on everyone’s energy and resources, I’ll never amount to anything because I am so sick and seemingly unable to recover.
I’m afraid to go back to work until this is under control because I’ve lost two jobs this year; I can’t handle getting fired again. D. agrees that a break from it all, time off so I can rest and work on my memoir, is the best plan. I made a budget; we can easily afford it if we cut out all luxuries. But I want to spoil him, want to give him everything he wants because I feel so awful and guilty, and then I feel bad because the money’s gone faster than we expected, and the whole cycle starts all over again.
We’ve applied for food stamps. I’ve applied for disability. Each day, I commit myself to two hours of research (reading books on dissociation, manic depression, PTSD, and anything else I feel might be applicable), jotting down quotes on note cards with obsessive precision—a purple heading for dissociation, green for bipolar. Most of the time, these quotes help me remember anecdotes, pieces of the puzzle that I can use when I actually begin to write this thing. I am determined to be as organized as humanly possible, despite all the things that are going on inside my head, because I want to finish this book. I want to keep going on this project and not give up; I’ve tried to write a memoir three times before and got stuck after the first chapter. How can I not know what happened to me? I’ve realized the failures were probably because I didn’t have everything laid out just-so: and then, and then, and then.
I know the cycles will make things difficult. I need to make the most of the mania and hypomania and try not to hate myself too much when I crash and can’t do anything but lie in bed and sob.
Jesus Christ, I just want to be okay and make something of myself, be able to provide for our little family again. I want to be good and successful and not feel like I’m wasting my life, like I’m already useless and dead at 24.
I want to make it to 25, and then 30…
I feel like I need to give myself some credit for staying out of the hospital through all the years of misery. Two suicide attempts, eight months of intense cutting, and that’s just this year. 2013 has sucked, and I’m ready for it to be over. I want a fresh start. I want someone to turn me off and fix me.
I want to not be me. I want to feel like it’s okay to be me.
I want my husband to always see me as interesting and pretty, not as a sad, pathetic mess.
I want my family to stop seeing me as a disappointment (they probably don’t, but I worry that they do) : If only I tried harder, I could go back to work. Mind over matter, J.
I’m seeing my therapist on Thursday, and I feel like that’s a very good thing. What I need most right now is for a neutral third party to reassure me, to comfort me and tell me I’m doing exactly what I need to be doing, that I’m right where I’m supposed to be at this point in my life.
I hope I’m going to be okay.