Life Under A Rock

Except not really. This is more like a post about being nuts and feeling like you should share, but not always wanting to dwell.

Yesterday, I posted about going to the Crisis Center or whatever it is they call it (hell if I know, and they even gave me promotional literature. Bad Mankiller! Bad!). I did so for two reasons. The first is simply that I’m very, very fragile right now, and online that manifests as never posting or checking my twitter or responding to comments. I just didn’t want anyone to wonder what the fuck was up, because I’ve been on the other side of similar situations, and it just gives you a really unpleasant “Oh, shit” feeling. I wanted everyone to know what the deal was, why I wasn’t online, where to send chocolate, etc.

My second reason for posting was that events like spending a night in the wacko shack can quickly become shameful secrets, and I am not okay with that. It took me a week to tell my parents about it, not because I thought they would shame me–for the record, they would never, ever do something like that to me–but because I was ashamed. And I would love to say that I’m doing this for all my fellow crazies, but really I’m just doing it for me: I will not act like this is something to be ashamed of, because it isn’t. I’m not going to hide it, because why the fuck should I? Lying is an exhausting activity if you’re not a psychopath, and since I’m not, I have no energy for it. Even lying by omission–which I would be doing, if I had failed to mention this–is tiring and humiliating, because you’re always aware of what it is that you aren’t saying. I’ve done some seriously stupid shit to myself in the last year, and I refuse to add pointless subterfuge to the list. I’m sick, and I had to go to the hospital for it. End of story.

So those were my reasons. But I don’t want to talk about my feeeeeeelings every day, or even most days. I don’t feel like it would be helpful or interesting for anyone, especially MOI, so I’m not going to do it. If I feel like I need to say something, then I’ll say it, but otherwise I’d like to go back to ripping apart the lives and dreams of others by pointing out the flaws in their works of art. I miss critic me. She’s mean, but she’s funny. I’d like to go back to being her.

So thank you for your concern, and expect an abrupt change in tone to vicious-minded critique in your near future. You’ve earned it.

So I spent part of the weekend before last at the funny farm. The wacko shack. The Crisis Center. You know, that place where they house the crazies.

All in all, I really have to say that it wasn’t one of my better weekends. Disneyland was worse, but not by much.

I went because I was in that brilliant headspace where I’d decided that I was either going to kill myself or get some help, and killing myself sounded more permanent than I’d like. When I had to tell this part of the story FIVE MILLION TIMES to ten separate people at the crazy house, every last worker focused on whether or not I’d “had a plan.” Frankly, that line of questioning made me feel a little inferior. I mean, I had a very set idea about my method, but it wasn’t like I’d written a schedule for the day of or anything like that. I hadn’t made any reservations or called the appropriate vendors. I didn’t even have an outfit picked out. GOD, WHY DO I HAVE TO SUCK AT EVERYTHING?

Kidding. Although yeah, I definitely felt a twinge because I knew I wasn’t the valedictorian of self-murder. But then if I were, I’d be dead. So there’s that.

So anyway, I spent the night in a recliner surrounded by a bunch of other mentally ill people, and it was pretty okay. If they had been handing out awards, I would have won “most lucid,” and “least likely to scream profanities,” but generally everyone was just trying to do their own thing and not bother anyone else. I mean, of course there were exceptions; one guy responded to every minor annoyance by swearing with great fluency and creativity at the top of his lungs. His behavior didn’t bother me, though. Naturally, he was my favorite, and I want to be him when I grow up.

Ahem. Generally, it was a pretty positive experience. I cried a lot, but I needed to. I told my story eight million times, and by the end I was no longer embarrassed and things didn’t hurt quite so much. I finally admitted what I’d been doing with my medication, which was not actually taking the recommended dose at the recommended time, if I took it at all. I really never thought that would be my problem. I mean, before this I had a hard time understanding my fellow crazies who go off their meds, but now I get it. Truth is, I just stopped caring. I honestly felt like it didn’t matter either way, and the apathy made it very hard to give a shit about waiting thirty minutes before breakfast for my levothyroxine or taking my citalopram at seven in the evening every day. Or taking either one of them at all, for that matter.

I’m back on my meds, though, and I have an intake appointment with a new shrink next week. Things are hard, and I cry a lot. Even when I don’t cry, I still have trouble doing even the smallest things. But it is better. The sun is shining, one of my neighbors is walking that kind of dog that looks like a lamb, I’m rubbing Oliver’s tummy, and things are better. They are.

From PubMed Health:

Depression can change or distort the way you see yourself, your life, and those around you.

People who have depression usually see everything with a more negative attitude, unable to imagine that any problem or situation can be solved in a positive way.

Symptoms of depression can include:

• Agitation, restlessness, and irritability
• Dramatic change in appetite, often with weight gain or loss
• Very difficult to concentrate
• Fatigue and lack of energy
• Feelings of hopelessness and helplessness
• Feelings of worthlessness, self-hate, and guilt
• Becoming withdrawn or isolated
• Loss of interest or pleasure in activities that were once enjoyed
• Thoughts of death or suicide
• Trouble sleeping or excessive sleeping

Depression can appear as anger and discouragement, rather than feelings of sadness.

If depression is very severe, there may also be psychotic

symptoms, such as hallucinations
and delusions.

Emphasis mine, obviously.

Also, I am so glad that I get a gold star in crazy!