Right, I’m back from my unofficial hiatus. Real life has been kicking my ass and the blog just fell by the wayside. I had posts composed about quotas for women, catholic church and plenty of NAMA but somehow I never had the time to put fingers to keyboard and articulate my opinions. Of course the cold black cloud of depression makes every single action that much more difficult.
People really don’t seem to get that. Depression is not just a word or a feeling. It covers and affects everything from not sleeping to the horrific nightmares my brain throws at me if I manage to fall asleep. Remembering to act normally takes effort and I do it because if I don’t then I lose all defences and am patronised by the person around me. Why just the other day, I answered a question honestly to a member of my family and was told I was disgusting. And from outside my head, I probably am but depression is between me and everything and it’s hard to care when I’m spiralling.
In other news, my brother has found dieting just like other people find religion. So now I am expected to just accept that he will talk at me about my health. Apparently I get too emotional and defensive when people comment on my body. Well yes I do. I live in my body. I know my body. It is me. I am it. I know what works and what doesn’t. I don’t take kindly to others informing in that I am fat. I know I am fat. I know why I am fat and I’m through justifying my fatness. I am the way I am. No discussion.
In short, my sister thinks I’m disgusting and my brother, overemotional.
Life sucks right now
The black dog walks ever by my side. It is omnipresent. The drugs do not work. I am losing hope.
Every day my experiences and feelings are dismissed.
Everyday the will to live is drawn from me with gasping breath.
How much do I owe my progenitors? Does the debt diminish if I detail the abuses? Does kicking, hitting and belittling decrease my debt, even just a little bit?
I want to cut so badly.
I want to scream and flay the world, that my pain is real. I bleed inside. But that is another person. A person who was not beaten into submission.
I am thirty years old and I still cringe at her tone.
My mother is an abuser.
My father never stopped her.
My mother’s friend’s son is also depressed. But he tried to commit suicide so clearly he’s way more depressed than me. /sarcasm
My family thinks like this. My state of mind is written off as an temporary situation. I can’t win. I just cannot explain to them how serious this is. If I show my feelings, I get told to cheer up. If I fake being ok, in their minds it is proof that my illness is no big deal. My mother has seen me with blood running down my arms after I got cut-happy with a razor, but it hasn’t changed her ability to see me or what I’m going through.
I’m not trying to play the depression olympics with tis other person. I cannot measure levels of depression. He was always a bit of a manchild before his breakdown and I cannot imagine that he is coping well.
I don’t want to attempt suicide to make them see. I want to live (more or less). My desire for self-harm is increasing again. I want to carve my skin into pretty lines of blood with a sharp blade. I have managed to avoid buying the razor but my resolve is weakening.
I know that I’m generally a good patient. I take my meds and I am trying to get better.
I am in hell. Caught between the fake happy and the intense desire to shred my arms to pieces and see the red blood flow. Those closest to me do not hear my cries for help. They minimise and deny and I’m lost.
I don’t know. Things should be better but I’m having difficulty assigning a scale to how depressed I am. I’m not cutting but I think about it – a lot.
It’s only day 2 on lexapro so I can’t even tell what I feel apart from tired, manic, insomniac and other contradicting feelings.
I’m smoking like a chimney and wandering around in my nightdress.
I was refused disability allowance on health grounds. Depression isn’t a disability apparently when one is 30 – “sure you’ll get over it” and the doc will write me sick notes from week to week to allow me to get social welfare, which means I have no security.
I don’t know how other people manage? How do you hold down a job with manic/depression?
I’m to numb to rant even.
I have a new doctor. He’s proactive and says I can do better than ok. He’s changed my meds from 150mg of zoloft to 5mg of lexapro. Now for the new side effects. What fun!
I didn’t get out of bed yesterday cos I had a fever and felt like crap. Today I get read the riot act by my bloody mother for being selfish. She accused me of treating her like a piece of furniture. The thing is that I am the one she dumps on. She doesn’t take responsibility for her mood swings. She doesn’t dump on my Dad or on my sibs. I’m the comforter, the person she can yell at, the one who does the housework. She sees herself as an eternal victim. It’s always “poor me”.
She has this weird effect on me. She speaks in a certain tone of voice and I’m reduced to tears just like when I was a child. I can’t control it and I can’t hide it. When I want to show her how grown up I am and want to discuss thigs logically ot even yell, I can’t. I always end up bawling my eyes out like a child. It is beyond my control.
I don’t know what to do. I’m at home because I’m depressed. I’m on meds. But I can’t take living with her. I’m going on the dole and all that but I’m staying in my parents’ summer house in january. I know she’ll try and stay with me because she needs me to complain too. She needs to think that I need her. She knows I’m depressed. She knows I self harm but I am selfish beause I didn’t get out of bed on a day that I was sick.
I don’t know what to do…
The extra 50mgs of zoloft are definiately doing something. I feel antsy and crazy and weird but I haven’t cut myself (much) in the past two days. I have diarrohea of the mouth. My mother just arrived to help me with the transition to europe and I just spilled my guts to her. I told her everything – the cutting, the depression, the drugs, the possible heart defect. I don’t ever tell my mother this kind of thing. It’s very unlike me and I feel very weird about it. But I can’t shut the fuck up. She’s playing it cool but I can see that I’ve shocked her.
On another topic, I love xanax