Signs of Life

A couple of days ago The Chair was moved to another room.  At my direction, my fully functioning command center/jail cell/dining room/office/bedroom was dismantled and moved to my bedroom.  The prescription bottles, notepads, over the counter medications, and everything else within reach was put away.  There are other chairs and sofas in the living area, but the self-imposed prison is no more.

I sat in The Chair all summer long.  I only left the house for therapy/psych appointments, and those were scheduled on the same day or one day apart because I still can only manage to shower once a week...sometimes.  I did not drive because my brain could not handle the speed of it, so I had others ferry me back and forth to my appointments.  On the rare occasion that I did drive, I had someone with me, just in case.

Over the last several weeks I have titrated my dose of Depakote up to 1500 mgs daily.  My side effects are mild and not enough to cause me to discontinue the drug.  My once thick hair has thinned, but it's not horrible.  I have stomach pain on occasion, but that is usually solved by drinking more water or taking my meds with food.  I have gained a considerable amount of weight, but am working to take it off.  I still continue to take valium, as needed, for severe anxiety/panic.  My psych doc added Zoloft this week to assist with that and depression.  I think we are on the right track pharma-wise because I do feel better ... more even.  However, I did have a week-long manic episode a couple of weeks ago.  I did not sleep for almost 100 hours (over 4 days), spent $2,000 on crap that I did not need or use (all of it was returned), and acted out in other ways that are not worth mentioning here.  I did the smart thing and managed to call my therapist and psych doc and they helped to bring me back down.

I do have angry outbursts on occasion, but those have greatly reduced.

Things are better on the depression side.  It has been several weeks since my last episode of suicidal ideation. 

While I still encounter hurdles along the way, I am improving.  The Chair has been replaced with a tidy living area.  I am engaged in the workings of my home.  We are moving in the right direction with medications.  The main concerns at this time are my weight and fear of leaving my home.  I told my psych doctor that walking outside felt so expansive - as though gravity had lost it's ability to hold me fast on the Earth.  Of course this fear has developed because of my extended in-home stay, so I do my best to get outside and take a few additional steps each time I venture out.

The good:
Meds are working
Moods are more even
Self harm has greatly reduced and is almost gone

Need improvement:
Self care
Overcoming fears / anxiety / panic / frustration / anger
   

 

The Chair

The weeks since my last post have been very difficult for me.  I know - broken record - but they were the worst in many years because they robbed me of the last thing I held dear: the ability to put my thoughts into words.  The fear consumed me, wrapped around me, suffocated me, and forced me into a tiny three by three foot square:  The Chair.  The Chair is my safe place - home base - no evil can touch me here.

Of course the warped part of that is the fact that The Chair is, in itself, evil.  It is my prison.  I don't see it that way, but it is.

The Last Stand.  

If you are of a certain age you remember the old tube televisions.  After turning off the set I used to watch the once vibrant and engaging picture get smaller and smaller until it glowed as the tiniest little dot in the middle of the screen.  That dot stayed there for quite some time, and then it was gone.  Much like that concentrated speck of light - an entire universe on the head of a pin - my world has shrunk to the size of a recliner.

After the failings of Lithium, Risperidone, and Lamictal, which gave me Stevens Johnson Syndrome (still dealing with the side effects of that), my doctors have moved on down the pharma line to depakote.  My doctor was so concerned about side effects that he started me on a very small dose - 250 mg daily for four days, and 500 mg daily thereafter for a couple of weeks.  We will move up at that time if all goes well.  I took my first 500 mg dose last night.  So far, so good.

Swallowing that first depakote pill took every bit of bravery and strength I had.  It took me two days to build up the courage...turning the prescription bottle over in my hands for hours.  Pills have not been my friend.  In fact, the pills charged with bringing me back from suicidal ideation nearly killed me. 

The words come so much harder now, so I have very little to say.  It is important to mention that I am not a victim to my diagnoses.  If you could see inside my head you would see an epic battle being waged against the disorders by my desire to be well and live a balanced and joyful life.  I do not sit here because I've given up.  I sit here because I'm holding this fucking mountain as a last line of defense against disappearing forever.           

Waiting to die

I've had a rough couple of days.  The good news is that I have an appointment with my psychiatrist on the 16th.  The bad news is that it is on the 16th, which seems like a lifetime away. 

I have no idea what "normal" is in life.  My life is not normal.  Other people are able to drive places, work, shop, clean, read a book, listen to conversation, take showers, laugh, love, feel - I am unable to do those things.  I want to do those things, and try very, very hard, but I just can't. 

It is impossible to accurately describe the difficulties that I am experiencing, because I honestly have no idea what is possible or normal.  My brain fails me.  I used to do so many things.  I was capable of great things.  Now I avoid causing myself any pain by staying in my home.  I rarely go out.  If I do, there are issues, and those issues are getting harder and harder to overcome so I've stopped testing the waters.  I very quickly move from one mood to the next and have lost the ability to "snap out of it" or respond to assistance from my husband to either calm down or climb out of a deep depression.

I want to be angry about this.  I want to be sad.  I have no feelings.  I have no life.  I serve no purpose.  I am of no use to myself or anyone else like this.

My day:

Wake up.  Breakfast.  Prednisone (still dealing with the Lamictal Rash).  Check email (if I can - fear of the unknown causes me great anxiety). 

And then I sit.  And sit.  And sit.  Sometimes I fall asleep, but mostly I just sit and think about how much I hate myself.  I do not watch television because it moves too fast for me.  Conversation makes me very angry.  I do not clean the house or shower or brush my teeth.  I have some facial wipes that I will use if I remember, perhaps once or twice a week before or after bed. 

I'll have some lunch.  If the dog has to go out I see if someone else in the house will put her out.  I'll do it if I have to.  I hate looking outside. 

If the dog barks, I freak out.  If a car drives by, my heart jumps.  If I receive bad news I will cry and want to end my life.  If something good happens, I feel nothing. 

I only go to the restroom if it is an emergency.  I spend my days frozen in place.  It is mentally and physically painful to do more than that. 

My therapist says that I am not lazy.  I argued with her, but she's right - I'm not.  There are so many things that I desperately want to do - take a walk, clean my closet, fold some towels, make a phone call - but those things cause me actual pain. 

I have been like this for years.  Back when I was working, I had to make a choice - do I shower?  If I shower I will have a hard time driving to work.  When I get to work I will have to find the ability to work.  Most days I just sat there and quietly cut my skin.  I would do a couple of things (type a letter, draft a document) but that was it.  When I got home I would hit the chair and dig my skin until I fell asleep.  I usually woke up the next morning in the same spot, wearing the same clothes.  If I'd showered the day before I would just change my shirt and brush my hair before heading out the door for another day at the office.  Near the end of my employment it was common for me to go for 4 days without showering. 

Right now I only shower if I have an appointment with my therapist.  I usually go at least 5 days in a row without a shower. 

My therapy appointments are scheduled on dates and at times when my husband is off work so that I have a ride.  I do drive on occasion (to buy a breakfast sandwich or go to the market), but I should not drive.  I stay within a 4 mile radius of home so it feels relatively safe, but it is not safe.  My brain has a very hard time keeping up with the speed of driving.  I used to zoom my ass down the street like a maniac.

The zoom is long gone but the maniac remains. 

I want to take care of myself.  In my mind I do not deserve a walk or nutritious meals.  Those are reserved for people who earn a living.  I am not working and should not be spending work hours (8:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.) doing anything but sitting and thinking about what I should and would be doing if I had a job.   

This is not a life.  I do not have the tools to figure out how to live my life.  At this point, I have not found anyone else who knows how to help me.  Several medications have failed.  I suffered a horrible reaction to one of them, and the other two contributed to a 40+ pound weight gain in a few short weeks. 

I've lost everything.  I don't know how to make this right.  I'm just waiting to die because this is no way to live. 


 

On my own...again

All of my appointments have been cancelled.  I have no therapy, psych nurse practitioner or psychiatrist/med management appointments at all.  I am on my own...again.  We've come full circle.  It's hard to avoid feeling down right now.  I thought someone had discovered the elusive answers to the issues that have consumed my life.  I thought that things would get better from that point forward.  There would be hard work, but I was willing to do that work - to put forth an honest effort to invest in my health, something I have been unable to do until now because I simply did not know where to begin...what was wrong...how to fix it.  I was told that it would "get better from here." I put faith and complete trust in that statement.  I believed that statement with every cell in my misfit body.  I had hope. 

Everything happened all at once back in April.  All of the balls that I had flying in the air came crashing down.  I was up and down and up and down and down and...down.  I wanted to die.  I wanted to live.  I wanted to squeeze the shit out of life with my fabulous plans...fabulous plans that I could not make happen because my mind was a jumble of bits and pieces and nothing fit.  Nothing made sense.

I fell into the deepest and most frightening despair of my life.  Self harm was almost constant.  I would cut my stomach with scissors under my desk at work (usually while my boss was grilling me), claw at my body at home, in the car, while I was sleeping.  When I saw blood, I felt better.  Contrary to what most people say about self-harm being a release and a cry for help - it was more; I wanted to die.  I made plans to die.  I was going to take my life.  The living world had lost its pull on my heart and all that was left was my mind.  My mind was saying yes to the end.  It felt right to finish the journey.  People would be better off without my negative energy in their lives.  They would go on.  Be better.  Do better.  Learn from my illnesses.  I had to give myself permission to stop trying so fucking hard to be well.  I gave myself permission to stop pretending. 

It happened all at once. 

After letting the mask fall, I told my husband that I had to leave.  I wasn't going to, but after 20+ years of marriage I was not going to leave him with a letter.  I was not going to leave this world without saying goodbye to my one true friend.  He did not ask me to stay, but he did beg me to wait.  He stopped everything and asked that I join him in a discussion with our family doctor.  I agreed and we saw him the next morning.  Our family doctor referred me to a therapist and psych nurse practitioner.  After some discussion and many tests, they diagnosed me with several disorders and started therapy and medicine.  I had hope, I think.  I certainly had something.  It gave me a moment to focus on myself - perhaps to stay alive and see if I could salvage the second half of my life.  Perhaps find joy.  No, not even joy.  I desperately wanted PEACE in my heart and mind.

The answer quickly turned sour and became a problem.  Another problem.  Another thing to endure and survive.  I tried.  I FUCKING TRIED, but the cure was just another cross to bear, and my weary shoulders had long since worn out.  I gained a massive amount of weight, pissed my pants, drooled, and started to loathe the very sight of my ever-expanding, hideous body.  This was not the answer.

I discussed my issues with Lithium and Risperidone at every appointment, but my concerns fell on deaf ears.  I felt like a prisoner to another problem.  It was my problem - they gave it to me and expected me to make it work.

That did not work.  I spoke and no one listened.  I became the patient.  The mental patient.  I was not a partner in my own care - my opinion did not matter.  I had no say - no control.  The people charged with my care - my life - would just ignore my questions and carry on as though they were never asked.  I would ask again, and the conversation would continue.  I was invisible.  My input did not matter on this train.   

In the meantime, I had a career and responsibilities.  I have a husband and children.  I have a home.  I have an extended family.  There were life events - graduations, college, new responsibilites, injuries, demands, bills...

It happened all at once.

My boss, who had abused me for years (and I permitted it because I needed that job), layed the final straw on the trembling pile when he demanded that I cancel two medical appointments and tell personnel why I had those appointments.  I made the decision to leave my job of almost 11 years.  In doing so, I knew that I would leave that career forever.  I'd lost my edge many years ago and it was time.

It happened all at once.

I wanted to die, attempted to die, left my job, received shitty care, was twice almost involuntarily committed, agreed to a forced intensive outpatient program that nearly killed me, gained 45 pounds, and lost every last regular contact with coworkers, colleagues and clients.  I lost control, my self-respect...I lost nearly everything.

I'm right back where I started, only now I have nothing, save my husband.  I have less than nothing because my care up to this point has cost me thousands of precious dollars and did nothing but make things worse.  I am obese.  I am battling serious adverse effects of Lamictal.  The children (3) will soon be off (one is already) to colleges and careers.  We have to sell the house.  Life is forever altered because I dared to ask for help. 

I am exhausted.  There is nothing left under my burned skin.  I feel a small twinge of life deep inside, but those have let me down before.  The plan going forward is quite simple:  set goals, do my best, focus on what I have accomplished and not what is left undone at the end of the day.  If I run off the rails, I will seek help.  "Help" has been very unkind to me, but the twinge is telling me that I should keep trying.  Is this good?  No, no this is not good.  This is a dangerous time.  I know that.  My family knows that.  We tried.  I tried.  That twinge is all I have and I pray that it is enough to carry me through to the next source of help and hope, if there is such a thing. 

It's all me.  The scary part is that I have no idea who the hell "me" is.   

   

Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesus

Mania.  This is it.  Bloody screaming, crazy, out-of-control, shaking, running, speaking very fast, racing thoughts, see a knife, cleaning the counter, yelling, spitting, stomping, throwing, breaking, slamming doors, insulting, warning, yelling to others to go away and not witness....no, really - go away and do not watch this. 

Really.

Valium down the hatch.  Safe in a room under a blanket.  Trembling.  It will pass.  Very soon.

Aftermath

Yesterday was rough. Very rough. I am still in a state of shock. I met with my therapist today and she apologized a hundred times - had no idea that the program I entered yesterday lumped criminals and addicts together with people like me.  It was not her decision to put me there so I gave her a pass.  The rest - fired.  Done.  My therapist agrees and understands.

I'm ok.  My therapist said that I disassociate when faced with very difficult situations.  I kept it easy today - no challenges, no triggers.  I also have a private psychiatrist and will see him on Monday.  I reviewed his available resources and they impress me.  He seems to be just what I am looking for - a partner in my care. 

I have been physically ill today (dealing with other health issues at this time), but took a nap and that helped a great deal.

Not much to report today.  Yesterday was so traumatic that my brain is just too tired to function right now. 

Cluster fuck

I went to the hospital and left 45 minutes later. It was every horror you could possibly imagine and then some. Lock down, in with drug addicts trying to escape jail time, alcoholics, thieves, etc. I was told to be there at 11:00.  I arrived early, of course, with all of my things ready.  I had my healthy lunch, a snack, plenty of water - that's what I do, you know?  I am prepared for everything.  After waiting 30 minutes I asked why I was there and what was coming next, only to be told, "Sorry - your person did not show up today - you can wait or come back at 1:00."

I had vitals taken out in the open in front of others.   I asked to be in a private spot for such personal matters and they refused.  I had to take a drug test in front of someone else (I'm bipolar, not an addict). I had to take a fucking Breathalyzer test! In front of other addicts!

Listen, I'm not knocking people, but I did not belong there.  I did not belong there. 

Openly crying at this point, a recently relapsed heroin addict (I know this because that is how she introduced herself) walked over to me and said that I should leave my pretty rings at home and keep my purse on my arm...."we're all a bunch of addicts and stuff goes missing here."  She was trying to be helpful. 

I left.  I don't know how I managed, but I walked to my car, opened the door, closed the door, locked the door 8 times, then started to scream.  I screamed for a solid three minutes.  I then picked up my phone and fired everyone who said that I should go to that mixed company hell-on-Earth cluster fuck.  It was the most unhealthy thing for me at this time. I am in fucking shock, exhausted, shaking, sick.

My therapist (the only person to survive the mass firing) is taking care of the referral I need to obtain a private doctor to help me with my meds.  As of this moment I am no longer taking the Lithium and risperidone.  My choice.  I don't care.  Gaining 45 pounds in 5 weeks is BULLSHIT and not good for anyone.

I am resting now - that is all I am able to do.  This was one of the worst days of my life, and I've had some seriously bad mufuckin' days.

Intensive Care

I don't want to go to the hospital tomorrow.

I am afraid.

I no longer wish to take this medicine.

I am so tired.

I want my old life back.  It sucked, but it was something.  This is a whole lot of nothing.

I am losing the ability to do the things I love.  I am losing the ability to love.

I am falling apart.

Crawling

The bitch psych nurse upped my lithium even though I told her that it was NOT WORKING.  "You have not reached a therapeutic level," she said.  FUCK YOU.  I'm taking almost 2000 mgs now, all at once, all at bedtime, along with other antipsychotics.  My body wants to turn inside out.  I feel like absolute shit.

Everything is crawling.  Everthing hurts.  I feel wretched.  There are no words.

She made a point of telling me that she has been able to prescribe medicine for a year - like it was 25 years.  I laughed in her face.  What a self-absorbed bitch.  I told her it's not working.  She has a duty to find something else. 

And so it begins ... losing control of my life.

I start intensive care on Monday.  That will remove this bitch from the equation and put real doctors on the case.  I hope that they can figure this shit out because I am ready to take a nap on the tracks. 

Learning how to let it go

There isn't much to share today.  I set a goal to walk (waddle) a mile and did just that.  No fanfare needed.

I had a few issues that upset me, but worked my way through them and that was that. 

I have an appointment with the hated psych nurse in the morning, and also with the billing department for the Intensive Outpatient Program.  They will give me a tour of the facility at that time. 

I am scared.  Scared was the word of the day today but in the end I had to let it go.  I realized that it did no good to hold on to it.  Scared, scared, scared, scared....is this doing anything?  No. 

I learned to let it go - like that WOPR computer in WarGames.  I feverishly played the game of tic tac .. err... Scared until I finally realized that there was no possible winner, and then let it go.

  

I am not ok

I made the call to enter the intensive outpatient program at the local psych hospital.  It was difficult, but not as difficult as living inside of my own head - that place is full of pain.

I am not ok.  I am very down right now.  While I enjoyed my day and time on the coast this afternoon, the shadows moved in without my consent and have taken hold.  Every movement is a cut from a razor.  Every breath is a raging fire.  It hurts to speak, think, hear, type, sit up. 

It hurts.

My mental illnesses are going to take this poor family down.  We certainly weren't living high off the hog before (what a dreadful saying), but we did have a home, vehicles, jobs, support from family and friends - we had things.  Now I no longer have a job, unemployment will not happen (you have to be available to work), I am unemployable, entering the hospital for weeks and weeks, and somehow these bills that we barely paid before - with help - will still have to be paid without my paycheck.

HOW DO PEOPLE DO THIS?  HOW?

My husband is furiously working on this house - working against a deadline uncertain.  When will the money run out?  Will we make it that long?  Will the house be ready, show and sell before that moment when the song stops playing?

Will we be ready?  Able? 

I am not ok. 

The one thing I cling to is a statement made by a person who probably doesn't really give two shits about me - my therapist.  She said that it will be ok.  I keep saying that, but it's bullshit - how can we know?  We can't.  We don't.  We do not know. 

I am afraid to buy a bottle of water for fear that the $0.99 used to purchase that bottle of water may be necessary one of these days.  We've had those days over these last few years - not enough money for food or bills - but always paying the bills first because that is the right thing to do.

I am frozen in fear - unable to allow myself the luxury of taking a walk around the block because I should be at work right now.  I should be working.  Instead, someone else is sitting in my chair ... doing my work ... collecting my paycheck. 

I am not ok.    

Asking for help

Today I said the following to a dear friend and my therapist:  "Losing your greatest asset - your mind - is a scary thing."

It is scary.  It is frightening as hell to agree that you need help and submit to an intensive outpatient program or inpatient care.  How do I know that I won't be one of those crazy fucking whack jobs running through the ward halls with my ass hanging out, drooling, screaming...

How do I know?  My mind fails me all the time.  I no longer trust what is real.  What if I walk through those hospital doors and never exit?  What if I am lost forever?

My therapist assures me that things will get better and that I will be better and that I will get my life back.  I don't know what to believe.

Do you have any idea how brave one has to be to walk through the doors of a place and not know if you will ever exit?  I will - very soon.  I am scared to death. 

I don't remember

I've been sitting here between moments of sheer terror, anger and despair, trying to think back to happy times; moments when there wasn't a care on my mind or in my heart.  Moments of pure joy...bliss...laughter...light.

I don't remember.

I remember (sad, bad, mad?) grandparents, naked and drunk.  I remember bad people at base housing.  I remember the word "NO" a lot from teachers when I first started out because I could already read and write and count and do so much more than the soft-headed spawn in the short chairs who ate paste and wrote in a some sort of retarded foreign language of lazy parents and hit or miss.  I remember packing boxes. 

I remember a record player and records that were different colors.  Some were yellow and one was even red.  That was pretty cool.  "Little Miss Stuck Up" was one of my favorite 45s.  I remember not being able to take a bath.  That sucked.

I remember Christmas being hard, but always having something.  That was bittersweet.  The joy always came with a price so joy was never joy. 

I remember church and God and the fall of men of God and then... no god. 

I remember family illness, wearing my grandmother's clothes, being teased, and skipping school.  I skipped a lot of school.  I didn't skip to play, I skipped to get away from the teasing and the eyes.  All those eyes - looking right through me.  Surely they saw that I had no idea how to be around them.

I remember protecting my sister - I always did that.  She was my job, and I took that job seriously.  I took that job seriously until she fired me a few years ago in the most painful way.  I will never recover from that.  Ever. 

I remember picking strawberries for money in the hot June sun.  I ate half of them so the money wasn't great, but ---- the moments at the lake after work, when I rode my bike to the point to swim and laugh and jump -- was that joy?  I think so. 

Things started to go wrong at about this time.  It was when I first remember engaging in neurotic excoriation and thinking about dying.  It was when I first started my attempts to solve things by walking ... solvitur ambulando ... and talking - to myself.

I remember abuse at the hands of others.  There isn't much to say about that.  I remember people coming and going - some good and some not - none of them really mattering one way or the other in my life.   

I don't remember much more after that.  Isn't that odd?  I remember only bits of pieces of a span of 40 odd years.  Was I ever happy?  Do I even know how to be? 

I don't remember.

When one door closes . . .

 

“When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.” - Alexander Graham Bell

After the horrific experience at work earlier this week, I was completely drained - had nothing left to give.
 
http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2305207368736623879#editor/target=post;postID=478760626101715239

It was as though someone pulled the pin on a grenade and threw it into the middle of my nightmare.  I did end up going to my appointments the next morning and learned that my illness had progressed to such a serious level - extreme was the word written on my chart - that my doctor told me that she was immediately admitting me to the hospital.  I refused.  She asked to speak to my husband and actually took my cell phone.  In the end, I assured my doctor that if I wanted to kill myself, I would not be in her office - - I would be dead.  She agreed, but insisted on daily telephone check-ins until Friday, when she fully expects me to enter the hospital for extended inpatient treatment.

I left the office with sincere promises that I would not crash my car or swallow pills and went to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription for Lithium.  After that, I arrived at work to an angry boss and a tossed desk.  Typical. 

I confided in a coworker and eventually made the decision to leave the firm.  Unfortunately, leaving the firm - quitting (such a harsh word for a perfectionist) - means that I would have no income.  I decided to meet with the personnel director to ask them to "let me go" so that I could collect unemployment.  After two meetings totalling 4 hours and many, many tears, they granted my request.  My last day at the office is Friday 5/18.  I have some training/transition work to do, but my days as a slave driver for satan are over.  That door will close.

Today was an interesting day.  The word was out and people were crying and in shock about my resignation.  While it feels nice to be wanted, the finish line is in sight and I am hyper-focused on crossing that line. 

I have moments of panic, extreme happiness, and great emotion; all of those a result of my illness, not necessarily due to the fact that I am leaving a place where I spent 11 years of my life...

Yeah - I don't believe it either.

I increased my risperidone dosage along with adding the Lithium to my meds.  I am also slowly decreasing, and eventually stopping, my sertraline, which was actually making me psychotic.  I am much more relaxed and the mania has decreased.  However, I am suffering from fairly severe migraine headaches and will discuss this with my doctor next week.

We have new doors opening every day, to include relocation and a potential business purchase.  Most people would let fear keep them from these new opportunities, especially during times of great stress, but I will walk through these other doors with my feet on the ground, my brain engaged, and my expectations flying high.   

I've been waiting

What an uneventful, quiet, relaxing day.  No major issues of any kind.  Of course the day is not over, but I am confident that the trend will continue until I retire for the evening.

With regard to anxiety and panic attacks, it is important to note that not only do these issues come about in certain situations, but certain people can trigger these events as well.  I did have to take a small bit of Valium today - just to head off some anxiety while a loud and boisterous person joined me this afternoon.  I have found that heading off a big issue by hitting it while it's still manageable is a wonderful strategy to keep things on an even keel.

Going back to this morning; I woke up groggy, which is normal.  When I opened my eyes, my dog (she is such a sweetheart) was sitting next to my bed with my slippers.  I am fairly certain that she put the slippers there while I was sleeping.  I am almost positive that I left them in the bathroom.  I patted her head, sat up, and put on my slippers while she waited.  Then she gave me her paw and smiled.  There are no words to describe how much I love my dog.  She brings pure joy to my life.  I am not always able to accept her gifts, but she is always there to give them. 

This was an "at home" day.  The dog napped out in the bright sunshine.  I spent time with my son, talked to my parents on the telephone, and surfed the internet.  I've been waiting for a day like this.  Tomorrow will take care of itself.  Right now I'll just enjoy the fact that everything is fine.


Update at 8:25 p.m.  I feel my mood slipping.  Nagging/negative thoughts are creeping in.  Work tomorrow - that place is not good for me.  I should leave.  Is any place good for me?  If I leave I will be a failure.  When we move we will lose our health insurance and we NEED our health insurance.  What if we do not find jobs?  What if I am unable to work?  What if we do not purchase a business?  Will we be able to afford private health insurance?  If I do not have my medications I WILL die.  There is no doubt about that.  I will die by my own hand. 

Fear and its buddies anxiety, panic, and depression are standing by.  I will probably hurt myself this evening in an effort to feel better ... to feel something ... and I do not want to.  I do not.  Causing new pain makes the old pain disappear, but pain is pain.  When will the pain go away?


Update at 9:51 p.m.  I AM SO FUCKING ANGRY.  ANGRY!!!!  I WANT TO SCREAM AND KICK AND THROW MY COMPUTER ACROSS THE ROOM AND BREAK EVERYTHING OF VALUE IN THIS HOUSE.  I WANT TO CRASH MY CAR AND TIP THINGS OVER AND KICK EVERY DOOR IN.  I do not have an outlet for this right now.  I am alone.  I am alone a lot.  I am fucking pissed off.  Outwardly I am just tapping and shaking.  Why are people leaving me alone?!?   EVERYTHING IS MESSED UP.  NOTHING IS RIGHT.  I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY.  SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE.  My chest hurts.  I just smashed my hands down on my legs and that did nothing to stop the anger.  This stupid fucking brain in my head is a piece of shit.  It is not mine.  I do not want it.

Update at 12:28 a.m.  Calming down now - feeling tired.  I have to work in a few hours and pray that sleep comes quickly.  Ha - I said "pray" - how odd.  Wouldn't it be wonderful to believe in a God?  Some sort of preternatural being?  I envy those who "give their woes" up to "God".  Damned sheeple.  My fucked up brain simply does not subscribe to such foolish notions, but I envy your simple existences.