something to think about

I had a good talk with my Mom yesterday.  We talk every Thursday at 5 pm.  We have to schedule it the same day and time every week or else we won't talk.  She would like to talk to me 3-4 times a week but I can't handle that.  Once a week is too much for me to handle some weeks.  Mom and I have worked very hard at developing the relationship we have now and it's means a lot to me, the relationship we now have.  She's worried about me because I've stopped seeing my therapist.  I told her that I was not going because I was tired of going over the same shit over and over again.  I have had so many therapists, psychiatrist, psychologists and social workers over the years.  I've told the same stories over and over again.  I open myself up to these people, pour out my heart and feelings, expose all pain and bullshit and you know what happens?  Nothing!  I leave after an hour of sharing and I feel like total shit.  I want to cry, then I want to cut, then I want to drink so I don't cut, then I get home to my husband and he asks "how'd it go?" and I tell him it was fine.  I tell him it was fine because I don't want him to worry.  I pretend that everything is good.  The problem is I can only pretend for so long and then I fall apart.

So-  I told my mom that I was done going.  She pointed out that this is a pattern for me.  She's right.  I do good for a year or two.  I stay on my medication and check in with the psychiatrist every three months.  I work and go through life telling everyone that I'm fine. (do you know what 'fine' stands for? F-(fucked up) I-(insecure) N-(neurotic) E-(emotional))  I believe it most of the time, but without fail I start to fall apart.  I continue to go through life showing and telling everyone how good I'm doing when in reality- I am on the edge of complete meltdown.  Finally I end up getting some drugs (I'll go to a doctor and complain of some pain and get a prescription for Percocet) or I'll start drinking.  Then it only takes about a week.  At some point within that week I will completely lose my shit.  I'll end up in a room crying, high, drunk and suicidal.  At that point my husband will find an inpatient psychiatric unit and I will be admitted for an average of 2 weeks.  While I'm locked up my meds will be evaluated, I'll be stabilized and some do good counselor/social worker will set me up with therapy and then send me on my way.  Then I return to the real world, put my wall back up and go back to pretending that everything is FINE.  Repeat every 2-3 years.

Mom's worried because I'm getting older, mid thirties (creeping up on 40).  I don't want to keep doing this.  I don't think I'll end up in the hospital again but I say that every time.  I never thought I'd end up in a psychiatric hospital against my will EVER.  So- Mom wants me to think about continuing therapy.  She points out that I should be dealing with the tough stuff while I'm doing well, while I'm strong enough to handle it.  She's right.  Am I going to listen to her?  Probably not.  But I promised her that I would think about what she had to say and I have.  I'm 'talking' it out with you and I still feel the same way.  The key for me is- not only have I stopped seeing my therapist but I've also lost my psychiatrist.  If I don't go to therapy then I can't see the doctor that prescribes my meds.  I've cut myself back, dosage wise, of a couple of my meds to buy myself some time.  I think I have about 2 months of meds left.  If I run out of my meds I will end up back in the hospital.

I don't want to go back into the hospital.  This last stay took a major toll on me.  I was so obsessed with suicide for months after I was released.  I literally spent hours thinking of nothing but suicide.  I would cry for hours talking to my husband about how I was feeling because some days I started to make plans to follow through just so that I would stop thinking!  There is nothing worse that having your own brain be your most dangerous enemy.  Having every ounce of your body telling you to kill yourself.  I almost had to check myself back into the hospital because I was scared of myself.  So, I must not run out of my meds!