Pills and pizza
Where do I begin?
I know where I would have liked to have ended.
That's sad, isn't it?
Well, that's depression. Sometimes I feel good. And sometimes I feel bad. And other times... the very air I breathe feels like poison in my lungs, and surviving is my only option, even it means turning away from something good and running like hell in a new direction.
Yup, you read that correctly. I am in flight-mode hardcore.
My body is shutting down. Every now and then I'm able to fake it for a few hours. Like, when Matt comes home from work and we run up town to get pills and pizza.
Yup, that's basically it. Pills and pizza.
My psychiatrist added Ativan to my pill cocktail yesterday. I'm only supposed to take it as needed and use my DBT training for the most part. Living in today's world, working at something sounds like... work. I'd rather have the instant gratification and numbing effect of a small pill take ahold of me.
People will find out soon. They always do. Then there's that awkward moment of sympathy, comfort, and finally the big question, "What now?"
Well, to be completely honest. I don't know 'what now'! If I had plans A through Z, don't you think I'd have surpassed Z and doubled back round to plan ZZ by now?
There's no planning with depression. No planning with bipolar disorder. There's just... surfing. You ride the waves of your emotions. Sometimes, you are able to stand up on your surfboard and ride the wave rather majestically and gracefully into the safe have of the sandy shores. Other times, you struggle to maintain a grip while the waves gently jostle you about. Then, there is depression. Why don't you attempt paddle boarding in a hurricane? Sound smart? I didn't think so either. But that's what it is.
The fight is dwindling. The light is flickering and diminishing before me. The spark is gone. The hope is fading fast.
I've been fighting so hard and for so long to get to this point in my life. Just to almost have my dream of becoming a mommy in my grasp, when the ice-cold hand of depression snatches it away from me before I can wrap my fingers firmly around it.
No job. No baby.
It's that simple.
No money. No way to support a baby, let alone yourself. And it's not fair to anyone.
Listen to me, justifying the reasons why I shouldn't follow my passion.
When what I really want to do is throw my arms in the air and scream, "IT'S NOT FAIR, GOD! IT'S NOT FAIR! WHY ME? WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME!?"
Then, I'll calm down to the voice of reason, my rock, my husband. And he'll hold me as I tremble and cry myself to sleep.
If only he knew. He can't always be there to fight my demons.
I wake so often throughout the night and cry some more. The demons progress. I fight them back with everything I have left in me to fight with. They subside and sleep comes back to me. But it's always restless. I'm always tired. And hungry. But there's not enough delicious food in the world to satisfy my hunger. And there aren't enough hours in my life to devote to sleep to get what I really need from it.
So, the questions will come and they will go.
I wait for others to give up on me, the way I have on myself.
They stick around. I'm not sure why.
Apparently, although it is not so apparent to me, I have some worthwhile quality that makes them stick around when I am happy and in a safe and comfortable space.
I don't know really.
I guess for now I will just eat cold pizza and take solace in my pills.
I know where I would have liked to have ended.
That's sad, isn't it?
Well, that's depression. Sometimes I feel good. And sometimes I feel bad. And other times... the very air I breathe feels like poison in my lungs, and surviving is my only option, even it means turning away from something good and running like hell in a new direction.
Yup, you read that correctly. I am in flight-mode hardcore.
My body is shutting down. Every now and then I'm able to fake it for a few hours. Like, when Matt comes home from work and we run up town to get pills and pizza.
Yup, that's basically it. Pills and pizza.
My psychiatrist added Ativan to my pill cocktail yesterday. I'm only supposed to take it as needed and use my DBT training for the most part. Living in today's world, working at something sounds like... work. I'd rather have the instant gratification and numbing effect of a small pill take ahold of me.
People will find out soon. They always do. Then there's that awkward moment of sympathy, comfort, and finally the big question, "What now?"
Well, to be completely honest. I don't know 'what now'! If I had plans A through Z, don't you think I'd have surpassed Z and doubled back round to plan ZZ by now?
There's no planning with depression. No planning with bipolar disorder. There's just... surfing. You ride the waves of your emotions. Sometimes, you are able to stand up on your surfboard and ride the wave rather majestically and gracefully into the safe have of the sandy shores. Other times, you struggle to maintain a grip while the waves gently jostle you about. Then, there is depression. Why don't you attempt paddle boarding in a hurricane? Sound smart? I didn't think so either. But that's what it is.
The fight is dwindling. The light is flickering and diminishing before me. The spark is gone. The hope is fading fast.
I've been fighting so hard and for so long to get to this point in my life. Just to almost have my dream of becoming a mommy in my grasp, when the ice-cold hand of depression snatches it away from me before I can wrap my fingers firmly around it.
No job. No baby.
It's that simple.
No money. No way to support a baby, let alone yourself. And it's not fair to anyone.
Listen to me, justifying the reasons why I shouldn't follow my passion.
When what I really want to do is throw my arms in the air and scream, "IT'S NOT FAIR, GOD! IT'S NOT FAIR! WHY ME? WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME!?"
Then, I'll calm down to the voice of reason, my rock, my husband. And he'll hold me as I tremble and cry myself to sleep.
If only he knew. He can't always be there to fight my demons.
I wake so often throughout the night and cry some more. The demons progress. I fight them back with everything I have left in me to fight with. They subside and sleep comes back to me. But it's always restless. I'm always tired. And hungry. But there's not enough delicious food in the world to satisfy my hunger. And there aren't enough hours in my life to devote to sleep to get what I really need from it.
So, the questions will come and they will go.
I wait for others to give up on me, the way I have on myself.
They stick around. I'm not sure why.
Apparently, although it is not so apparent to me, I have some worthwhile quality that makes them stick around when I am happy and in a safe and comfortable space.
I don't know really.
I guess for now I will just eat cold pizza and take solace in my pills.
Comments
Post a Comment