I was under a flat sheet and the air conditioner was blaring. The TV had some kind of crime documentary -- the ones from late 80's to early 90's -- on in the background. There were no other lights. As I dozed in and out of basically a giant nap, I heard the TV but didn't really comprehend it. I didn't remember the last time I'd taken a shower, and I didn't care. Thinking to use the right soap product on the right part of me was a hurdle that was far too high to jump. Had breathing been voluntary, I probably wouldn't have been able to continue it. I thought about being a newborn and craved it: all I would need was taken care of for me. All I had to think about was sleeping and eating. I didn't have to manage anything -- I could just be. I kept trying to reenact it -- all I had to do was rest. I wish I had remembered it. It sounded like such luxury, such peace. I hated waking up. I just wanted to sleep. I didn't want to wake up. Lord, let me wake up dead.
But figuring out how to make my sleep that extreme was too much. Far too much. There were plenty of pharmaceutical ways that I could make myself sleep forever. But I didn't want to vomit, and I didn't want to hurt in the process. And if I woke up alive, I didn't want to be all screwed up. Lord, let me just wake up dead.
My husband keeps trying to interact with me at lunchtime, so I hide under my sheet. I emerge to do the laundry and go grocery shopping 15 minutes away. I love that grocery store, but I can barely get through the list before I absolutely must go home. I babble at the cashiers, trying to hide the filth in my heart and brain. I drive home and dive under the blanket or sheet. My goal is to sleep as much as the dogs do. Oliver cuddles in the crook of my fetal-position knees and Winston tries to sleep behind my spine. Their weight and contact helps comfort me. I don't want human interaction -- just the dogs. All dogs go to Heaven. Lord, let me wake up dead.
I go to a lousy therapist who tries to just socialize with me. She winds up being destructive. I bitch that Joe gives me the silent treatment, and she immediately says, "he's punishing you" in such bitter and vindictive tones. She makes no progress. Once in a while she shows me a video about my wounded inner child and later a video (some ancient VHS tape) about bipolar disorder that makes bipolar seem absolutely scary and basically tells me I'm going to the loony bin. Joe sometimes comes with me to the idiotic sessions. Once I raged at her and Joe talked her through the anatomy of one of my "flipouts." (Don't you think she could have handled seeing it?) I had "flipouts" often with Joe. I remember not really remembering what I said. Before this episode, several years before, I'd become convinced that he and I could never have children because we had a septic tank instead of town water. So many other things. Lord, wake me up dead.
I told my useless therapist that I wasn't paying her $120/hour so I could sit there and watch her outdated videos. My psychiatrist put me on Depakote in addition to the Effexor. I wound up with chronic diarrhea -- small "batches" about 8x/day. My right leg started to hurt. It got swollen. My hair got coarse and shed more than usual (which is a lot). I started skipping therapy appointments because I just didn't care. She kept telling me to stop drinking wine because it was a depressant. Fuck that. Wine was the only thing I absolutely enjoyed anymore. Close to Labor Day weekend I was sleeping through yet another useless session of therapy, and Joe came in and so he told me that I would go to an upcoming family wedding in Cincinnati and then I would come back and we would divide things up so I could leave. I jumped out of bed VERY quickly and went to the session with Joe. I was sad and scared. Joe was the only person keeping me safe. Lord, let me wake up dead.
My leg got worse and worse until Joe told me to go to the fucking doctor. Turned out I had a pretty impressive blood clot in my leg. Out came the shots and the warfarin and the swelling and pain eventually went down. I told my psychiatrist finally how poorly I was actually doing and she immediately switched meds around. Lord, maybe let me wake up semi-conscious.
Slowly I started to feel alive again. A little nap-craving but not as bad. The diarrhea stopped and my hair got less crunchy and shed less. I started going on the dog-walks with Joe more often. I got mosquito bites that I scratched into ruby-red scars. I told Joe that I was feeling more like myself. I could go to the grocery store without nearly fainting. Lord, let me open my eyes when I wake?
I got the nasty crunchy ends of my hair cut off and suddenly had curls. I started going to a Zumba class. I started exercising a little with Joe. I wasn't completely wrung out after a day of substitute teaching. I ate better foods. I was able to laugh. I started being a person again, slowly. Lord, let me wake up.
But figuring out how to make my sleep that extreme was too much. Far too much. There were plenty of pharmaceutical ways that I could make myself sleep forever. But I didn't want to vomit, and I didn't want to hurt in the process. And if I woke up alive, I didn't want to be all screwed up. Lord, let me just wake up dead.
My husband keeps trying to interact with me at lunchtime, so I hide under my sheet. I emerge to do the laundry and go grocery shopping 15 minutes away. I love that grocery store, but I can barely get through the list before I absolutely must go home. I babble at the cashiers, trying to hide the filth in my heart and brain. I drive home and dive under the blanket or sheet. My goal is to sleep as much as the dogs do. Oliver cuddles in the crook of my fetal-position knees and Winston tries to sleep behind my spine. Their weight and contact helps comfort me. I don't want human interaction -- just the dogs. All dogs go to Heaven. Lord, let me wake up dead.
I go to a lousy therapist who tries to just socialize with me. She winds up being destructive. I bitch that Joe gives me the silent treatment, and she immediately says, "he's punishing you" in such bitter and vindictive tones. She makes no progress. Once in a while she shows me a video about my wounded inner child and later a video (some ancient VHS tape) about bipolar disorder that makes bipolar seem absolutely scary and basically tells me I'm going to the loony bin. Joe sometimes comes with me to the idiotic sessions. Once I raged at her and Joe talked her through the anatomy of one of my "flipouts." (Don't you think she could have handled seeing it?) I had "flipouts" often with Joe. I remember not really remembering what I said. Before this episode, several years before, I'd become convinced that he and I could never have children because we had a septic tank instead of town water. So many other things. Lord, wake me up dead.
I told my useless therapist that I wasn't paying her $120/hour so I could sit there and watch her outdated videos. My psychiatrist put me on Depakote in addition to the Effexor. I wound up with chronic diarrhea -- small "batches" about 8x/day. My right leg started to hurt. It got swollen. My hair got coarse and shed more than usual (which is a lot). I started skipping therapy appointments because I just didn't care. She kept telling me to stop drinking wine because it was a depressant. Fuck that. Wine was the only thing I absolutely enjoyed anymore. Close to Labor Day weekend I was sleeping through yet another useless session of therapy, and Joe came in and so he told me that I would go to an upcoming family wedding in Cincinnati and then I would come back and we would divide things up so I could leave. I jumped out of bed VERY quickly and went to the session with Joe. I was sad and scared. Joe was the only person keeping me safe. Lord, let me wake up dead.
My leg got worse and worse until Joe told me to go to the fucking doctor. Turned out I had a pretty impressive blood clot in my leg. Out came the shots and the warfarin and the swelling and pain eventually went down. I told my psychiatrist finally how poorly I was actually doing and she immediately switched meds around. Lord, maybe let me wake up semi-conscious.
Slowly I started to feel alive again. A little nap-craving but not as bad. The diarrhea stopped and my hair got less crunchy and shed less. I started going on the dog-walks with Joe more often. I got mosquito bites that I scratched into ruby-red scars. I told Joe that I was feeling more like myself. I could go to the grocery store without nearly fainting. Lord, let me open my eyes when I wake?
I got the nasty crunchy ends of my hair cut off and suddenly had curls. I started going to a Zumba class. I started exercising a little with Joe. I wasn't completely wrung out after a day of substitute teaching. I ate better foods. I was able to laugh. I started being a person again, slowly. Lord, let me wake up.