The darkness consumed me so fast. The weight of my body and mind is too much. I have slept for 2 days except for getting out of the house yesterday for coffee and a meeting. Thank god for that Thursday ritual w my friend. I was drowning in my own thoughts at home: failure, worthless, no good to others. I shared at the depression in sobriety mtng reluctantly. I opened by saying I am not a beacon of hope today. Somehow I felt pressure that my share was to have some sort of message of hope woven in, that’s what I was taught. This is a different kind of meeting in that there is no judgement in where you are high or low. I feel safe with our foursome of recovering alcoholics who suffer w this dis-ease. One faithful attendee was celebrating 32 years of sobriety yesterday and was battling some of the same thoughts as me. Although I only have 1 year of sobriety I am welcome at the table.
It was a good exercise for me to share as I tend to keep things bottled up. I share the pain after the fact and preferably in an email. So there I was pouring my pain on the table. I shed a few tears. I told my truth. In the moment.
My depression has returned and is dragging me in its wake. Since about Saturday my mood has been in a steady state of decline. Up until yesterday I was hiding it pretty well. Kinda sorta fighting it off. If that equates to getting out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other, I was fighting. Now, I have no desire, no care to fight. Questioning taking my medication as I end up feeling this way no matter if I take it or don’t. I hate bipolar disorder.
The roller coaster is so very hard. I mean it’s all hard. Steady state of depression sucks. But for me, the tease of feeling better. The tease of feeling just about 100% functional is brutal. One week ago today I was laughing, planning for a weekend getaway at a friends house to include a hike and some music. I was texting offering to bring food for dinner saying how much I looked forward to it.
Saturday morning I awoke in a blanket of anxiety. I could not make decisions on what I needed to pack. I could not think. I was wrestling w my mind. Could I make this simple trip and be okay? What the hell is wrong w me. This is my friend we are visiting not some stranger. I overpacked.
On the hike I forged ahead. I needed to move faster. I needed to move quicker than the demon. I needed to outpace my mind. Most of all I felt like I had nothing to contribute. I felt stupid. I felt unworthy of company. I wanted to disappear. I did not feel this way the previous day. Nothing happened to me. No triggering event to change my mood so drastically.
We went to listen to music. I could not stay present. I was lost in my mind. I was chasing thoughts and then in turn they were chasing me. Standing in a crowded room. Others were singing the song, others were dancing. I was frozen wondering if I was ever going to enjoy things again. Was I ever going to feel my feet planted and be alive in each moment as they come and go. Will I forever be held prisoner by my thoughts? Will I forever be a prisoner of bipolar disorder?
The next day I was filled w agitation. I didn’t want to be at my friends house anymore. I wanted to get the hell out of there and get back to my house. Where I was safe. Where i could shut the world out once again. My husband and I drove home in silence. What could I possibly have to say. I felt like a worthless human being. No good to others. Especially to him.
This is what pains me the most. The idea of being a burden to others. As I lay in bed yesterday virtually unable to move, unable to will myself up to get ready for work, my husband became upset. I tried to tell him I felt depressed and I couldn’t face going to work. He stood in the door way and yelled at me to take control. He asked me at what point do I make the decision to move, to get up and force myself to get ready. I broke into sobs. Was he right? Was I just being a victim of depression. Was I not trying hard enough? I know my descent into depression is very difficult for him. This past year has been devastating for him too watching his wife being taken over by psychosis or carry a weighted backpack around w a suicide plan. Visiting mental hospitals 3 separate times in a span of 7 months. His reaction was out of fear. But it still hurt.
It hurts. It is painful to have this disease. To go from high to low in the span of a day. To think, believe, a period of remission is surely coming after this 7 months of hell. I’m exercising, taking my meds, going to individual and group therapy, trying to stay connected. Bipolar doesn’t care if I become president. Depression doesn’t care that I “need” a reprieve. I am left w knowing this will continue to haunt me throughout my life. My strength will grow and it will falter. My mood will spike and it will plummet.
Right now I need strength. My desire to fight and keep fighting is very low. Especially in this moment.
123 RV, SA!