I'm scared

For the past few months my mother has been going to a doctor because she had some blood tests that didn't come back normal.  She has some levels with her liver that show something is wrong.  So an ultrasound was done and masses were found on her liver.  I live over 1000 miles from my family so I have to hear all of this over the phone.  My mom has been down-playing the severity of what's going on.  She's trying to protect me because she knows that I am automatically thinking the worst.  She keeps saying "don't worry", "wait until we know more", etc.  So she was referred to a hematologist but when she received the pre-appointment paperwork it said The Cancer Center.  So her appointment is tomorrow, she got a call to reminder her of the appointment and at that time she was told that she should bring someone with her "for support".

I'm sorry but does any of this sound like it's something not to worry about?  I am so sick about all of this right now.  My husband is scared of how I'm handling everything.  He actually said that he thinks I'm fragile.  First his sister commits suicide and now this thing with my mom.  I asked him what he means by 'fragile' and he said that he's scared that I'm going to fall apart.  He pointed out that I've fallen apart (meaning becoming suicidal, disassociating and ending up in the hospital) when life isn't very stressful.  Some times I just lose my shit and get locked up.  Right now I feel fine but that doesn't mean anything because I've gone from great and functioning to hospitalized in less than 24 hours.

I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do.  I'm trying to stay strong because my mom is scared that this is going to push me over the edge, my husband is scared that this will break me.  I'm kinda scared too, but I'm clinging to my sanity.  I can't afford to fall apart.  Who can?  I'm scared because I can see it happening.  It makes me feel weak.  Life isn't fair to anyone.  Why do I get to check out?  It's times like these that I really despise my "mental illness".  I know what's happening, I see it coming; but then it hits and I have zero control.  I'm just stressing myself out more.

not this again

I am so tired right now.  Tired physically and tired mentally.  I'm tired of having to take pills everyday just so I can go out into the world and pretend that life is great because no one wants to hear when life isn't great.  I'm tired of the fact that I want to hurt myself constantly.  I'm wanting to drink more and I'm thinking about how I can get drugs to make me numb.  I have to be careful right now because times like these land me in the hospital 90% of the time.  My husband is noticing which means that I'm not doing so good pretending.  A month from now I'm going on vacation for 12 days, maybe that's why I'm weakening.  I have a temporary end in sight.

Does anyone else have much experience with different medications?  I've been on approximately 20 different meds over the last 10-15 years.  Right now I'm on Lamictal, Seroquel, and Wellbutrin.  I'm always on 3-5 different meds at any time.  I'm wondering if there's something out there that I haven't tried.  There must be.

I know I'm feeling bad for myself and it's pretty pitiful.  I just get resentful sometimes and I know that I need to find a way to deal with the things that eat at me.  But sometimes I can't deal.  I'm angry that I have to take pills everyday just to pretend that I'm normal.  Even with all these drugs in me my mind still screams "suicide" constantly.  I hate the men that raped me and sexually abused me!  I hate the fact that they are living their lives.  I hate that they killed me inside and have probably forgotten that I even exist.  I meant nothing to them yet they still haunt me today.  I can't forget that they exist and I wish I could!  God I fucking hate myself some days.

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!

sick thoughts

Am I alone in obsessing about hurting myself?  When I'm at work my mind constantly revolves around killing myself.  I have a rude customer and I want to end it.  A customer touches me, just in handing me money, and I cringe with disgust.  I look around at all the people shopping and all I can think are horrible thoughts.  I wish they were all dead.  I wish there was an apocalypse and most of the world died.  This is not healthy.  I'm only happy at home.  If I never had to leave my home I would be in heaven.  Once I start thinking about hurting myself, whether it's cutting or suicide I end up obsessing for days or sometimes weeks.  I know the name for it- suicidal ideation but that doesn't tell me why I do it.  It drives me crazy.  I truly wish I could move somewhere rural and I could work from home and then I could decide when I have to deal with people, on my terms.  Someday, hopefully.

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"Borderline individuals are the psychological equivalent of third-degree-burn patients. They simply have, so to speak, no emotional skin. Even the slightest touch or movement can create immense suffering."

Read more: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1870491,00.html#ixzz1VsYOL5R0

the path of life

Sometimes I am amazed where my life has taken me in the last 10 years.  That's how long I've been with my husband.  He and I met at work and it was literally love at first sight or rather first date.  He worked at a different location but for the same company.  He says that one day he noticed me and that was it.  Honestly, I didn't really notice him until he asked me out on our first date.  I didn't even know his name and when he called me on the phone, at work, I wasn't even positive what he looked like.  I was that oblivious to the people around me.  Have I mentioned that I'm not a people person?  Anyways, he asked me to go see Aerosmith with him- of course I said yes!  I'd figure out who he was when he picked me up for the date, right?!

Well, he was the most respectful man I had ever met and I didn't know what to do with that.  He walked me to the front door when he dropped me at home that night and he didn't even try to kiss me.  He asked me if I would like to go to dinner some night and I agreed.  We had a very "normal" dating period, maybe for a week or two, where he didn't try to even hug me.  I was starting to wonder if he really wasn't interested because I was used to men only wanting me for sex and for a while I thought that that was all I was good for. 

He finally asked my permission to kiss me goodnight one night and we've been together ever since.  We never once 'broke up' or 'needed a break' or questioned our relationship in any way.  Less than a year from our first date we were married.  He bought the ring in our third month of dating, he knew right away.  We were on our honeymoon on the actual one year anniversary of our being together.

Just over a year into our marriage things kinda fell apart.  I hadn't cut or self injured in any way for over 3 years.  I thought I was over it, I never even told my husband that I SI'ed because I was that sure it was a non-issue.  I told him everything about my history with depression and he knew about all of the abuse in my past, I thought that I had shared everything.  But one day he got really mad about something and he threw the car keys.  Let me preface this by telling you that he is the most gentle man and non violent man I have ever known.  This angry outburst and the physical outburst shocked me.  I had to leave my house immediately so I went for a drive.  I ended up in a park and the next thing I knew I was ripping up my arm with a paperclip, the only thing I could find in my car.  It just happened.  Just like that I was cutting again, almost like I never stopped.  At the time I didn't know what had triggered it but after going over it in therapy I realized that his outburst caused me to flashback and disassociate to the violence in my past.  He has never reacted in a physical way when angry ever since then.  He knows what triggered my return to cutting.  I have struggled with it ever since then.

A few months later we were evicted from our apartment and we lost our car.  We had to move in with my mother in law because we were homeless.  I was seeing a psychiatrist at the time for my depression and I was on Paxil at the time.  I had also been diagnosed with PTSD by then as well.  Within about a month we got enough money together to get an apartment but by then I was already falling apart.  Not too long after we moved into our new place I lost it.  I took a whole bottle of  klonopin and started butchering myself.  My husband was at work at the time and somehow I ended up at my mother in laws.  (I know now that I was having a psychotic episode)  My mother in law called my husband at work and then called 911.  When the cops showed up I guess I was a little uncooperative and I was telling them to get the fuck away from me.  An ambulance showed up and took me to the ER where I was evaluated.  I was then sent to my first psychiatric hospital.  I woke up the next day in a locked room and was scared to death!  I ended up spending a week inpatient and then 2 weeks outpatient.  I also lost my job.  Believe it or not, I was working for a Mental Health agency at the time and not one of my "friends" from work ever spoke to me again.


During this hospitalization I heard the words Borderline Personality Disorder for the first time and those words have followed me everywhere ever since.  Leaning about BPD was kind of like a light bulb going on.  All of my life suddenly started to make sense.  For the first time in my life I realized that I wasn't just "crazy", I had BPD.  It was a relief to finally have some answers but it also created so many more problems in my life since then.

The months following my first hospitalization I was unable to work.  I was unable to function at all.  All I did was drink, do any drugs I could get my hands on and cut myself daily.  I also proceeded to spend almost 2 more months in the hospital.  I attempted suicide twice by od'ing.  After my first attempt I was sent to a womans trauma unit and that changed my life.  I meet other cutters for the first time.  I was shocked.  I didn't even know it was a psychiatric symptom.  I thought I was that fucked up, that I was the only one.  This is long before cutting became popular.  Before kids were doing it because it was cool.  I'm shocked at how mainstream self injury is now.  It makes me sad how common it is.

Due to my multiple hospitalizations we lost another car and became homeless again.  We lost all of our belongings because we couldn't afford to pay for our storage unit and I had to bring my cats to a shelter because we had no where to live.  To this day I hate and blame myself for us loosing everything.  I still have nightmares and cry over the loss of my cats.

The only good to come from all of this was I finally got on the right meds.  I stopped drinking and drugging myself to death because I started to feel okay for the first time in my life.  I've been hospitalized 2 more times over the past 4 years.  I guess I need a 'tune up' every now and then.  One thing I hate is how comfortable I get when I'm in the hospital.  I'm almost afraid to leave by the time I'm discharged.  Being in the hospital is like being able to finally breathe.  I don't have to pretend when I'm there.  I don't have to act like life is great and everything is okay.  I can let down my wall and relax.  I spend so much energy everyday pretending that I'm happy and I am so exhausted by the end of my day.

I really get off track don't I?!  I guess to bring this 'story' full circle I should say this-  Through unemployment, evictions, repossessions, hospitalizations, homelessness and 3 attempted suicides my relationship is stronger than ever.  My husband loves me more than anything and I still think he is the most wonderful man in the world.  I'm scared everyday that he might get fed up and leave me.  But he always reassures me that if he was going to leave he would have a long time ago and he's always saying how he meant every word of the vows he took when he married me.  "Through sickness and health."  I know that I am a very lucky woman.  We had no idea how sick I would be.

5-O

I'm trying to remember how old I was the first time the police came to my house.  I know I was in elementary school and for some reason I want to say I was in second grade.

My sister and I learned to hide when the yelling started to get bad.  Dad was very verbally abusive when he was angry but for some reason things changed this time.  This fight is my first memory of violence.  Since we were hiding we didn't witness it but I know that it sounded like the house was being destroyed.  Then it was quiet.  Finally Dad came looking for my sister and I.  He was telling us everything was okay, it was safe to come out.  We didn't see Mom anywhere.  We couldn't hear her crying.  Dad was telling us to put on our shoes and coats, that we were going out.  As I got to the front door I remember looking out and seeing police cars pulling into the drive way. 

It turns out that Mom had left the house and called the police.  I remember the cops coming into the house, my mom behind them.  One of the cops picked me up and was talking to me, I don't remember anything he said but I do remember him carrying me to the police car.  We stayed at my grandma's house for a while after that, without my dad.  I don't know how long we stayed there but I do remember crying about missing my dad and my grandmother told me that I needed to be a "big girl and stop crying about it."

sleepless and sick in a wet bed

As a child I was very restless.  I needed to be going all day long.  If I had to stop I was very unhappy.  There was never 'enough'.  "Now what are we going to do?" was always my next question.  I never slept much as a child either, from the day I was born I couldn't relax.  When I did sleep I was plagued by nightmares.  I slept walked a lot.  I talked a lot.  My inability to stay put when I was asleep meant that I couldn't go camping when I was a Brownie, I would have wandered away into the woods.  I would drag all of my bedding down stairs and dump it on the kitchen table.  I would get up at 3 in the morning to take a shower to get ready for school.  The stories of my nighttime/asleep adventures are endless.
 

I was a hypochondriac as a child.  I remember when I was in elementary school I would go to the nurse all the time.  In those days if you went to the nurses office you got to stay for a while.  That was my favorite place on earth.  I was happy there.  For some reason I don't think the nurse ever called my parents to tell them I was 'sick'.  She just let me spend time with her.  Looking back I think that maybe she knew.  As an adult I see it for what it was: I was an attention deprived child.  I needed to be nurtured.  Sickness was not acceptable in my home.  "Get over it" was a favorite response to possible weakness.  In order to stay home sick from school in my home- you better be hospitalized.

In these early years between first and third grades, I started to wet my bed and pants.  I would be outside playing and I didn't want to have to go into my house for any reason.  I would try to hold it but I was little and no one can hold it for hours upon hours.  It got to be such a problem that my mom made me wear diapers.  I had to wear them all the time.  "Since I wet my pants/bed like a baby, then I was going to be treated like a baby."  was my moms way of handling the problem.  I remember the shame on gym days.  Having to change into gym clothes while wearing a diaper.  It still hurts today.  "Get over it!" would be moms response.

I guess I finally learned how to use the bathroom because at some point I was allowed to wear big girl panty's again.

Me

This is going to be my attempt at venting.  I need to be able to say what I need to say without being worried about being judged.  I mean judged by the people who love me.  I don't care what other people think.  The only reason I'm doing it here is because maybe someone out there will relate.  Finding other people who feel like I do is so healing.  So, I guess I'll start with my story.  This will take some time so I will be writing it in pieces.  It may also be a little jumbled but I'm going to write it the way it comes to me.  I'll start with the basics, the stuff that really doesn't define me in any way.


I am female.  I am in my mid 30's.  I have been married for almost 10 years.  I haven't had any children but I am a step-mom.  I live in the US.  I graduated high school.  I have an associates degree and I am half a semester from my bachelors degree.  I've worked with the homeless, the mentally ill and addicts.  I am "mentally ill" myself but I'll go into more detail on that later.  I love tattoos.  I am very anti-social, to the point of being unhealthy.  I am very cynical, stubborn and sarcastic.


I welcome all feedback and comments but if you are being mean just to be mean I will block you.  If you have something to say and you can back it up, then I welcome you.  I will not hold back here.  I have to do that everyday in my "real" life just so that I can hold a job and be "responsible".   I will not promise to write everyday.  I do not promise anything.  Every word written here is my opinion only.  I represent only myself and I speak only for myself.  Consider this my disclaimer.  I hope this works well and I hope it is productive but if it's not I will end it without warning.  So be warned!