Born Sleep Deprived

Courage

I lived in a camper solo for a while. I had a job working at the campground. I was home alone most of the time. I slept little and stared at a screen a lot. I would go for nightly walks along the river, blasting my tunes for company. I think I was content, but lonely. Sometimes I was on enough medication, but mostly not. I don’t know what the catalyst was, but I started thinking about my kitchen knives a lot. I didn’t open the drawer often, but it pulled in my thoughts like a magnet. I felt uneasy, then scared. One night it had gotten very late, and I couldn’t settle down. I paced and debated with myself.

“It’s too late at night.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s not even a big deal.”

“I’m just scared, nothing has actually happened yet.”

“I can’t call into work tomorrow, they need me.”

Fear overwhelmed me, completely drowning my objections. I don’t recall the tipping point, but I knew it was time to go. Unsure if I was safe to drive, I got into my car anyway and headed to the crisis center. Once I was sitting across from the intake worker answering her questions, I knew I had done the right thing. Confirmation comes after you ask for help.

 

 

I’m almost to the door when he asks me to wait a moment. He wants to know if I want to kill myself. I didn’t come to see this psychologist about depression or suicidal thoughts. Between my psychosis from eighteen months previous, and the long recovery with the many antipsychotics, I started to worry I might be schizophrenic. I’ve been assured that my diagnosis of Bipolar I is intact. He did add a note about psychotic tendencies. Apparently when I get really unwell, it’s indistinguishable from schizoaffective disorder. That explains my curiosity.

What I really wanted to discuss, is the likelihood that I will have more delusions in the future. High. The likelihood is high. I’m not surprised. I got the same answer from my APRN and therapist. A full psychological evaluation still seemed in order. The fact that I have more mental illness guaranteed in my future is why he’s asking if suicide is on the table. I ponder for a moment, thinking about what he said about Bipolar being weaved into the fabric of my life. I answer that I’m alright with it. He seems satisfied with my answer, so I leave.

I really am alright with it. For over a year I’ve had to reckon with the fact that I will always cycle through mental illness, and never come out the other side of it. Since I’ve survived so many times in the past, I figure I will in the future.

I try to get people to see the humorous side of this encounter. How often do you talk to a doctor and after the prognosis, they ask you if you want to kill yourself? The fact that a professional thinks their news is bad enough to warrant that question is morbidly funny to me. So far no one has agreed.

I’m standing in the parking lot outside the E.R. I have been discharged after being examined, but before I could be admitted. They have no room. Thirty beds are full, and another cannot be opened for me. If I had hurt myself, if I had hurt another, I would be welcomed in. The papers they gave me say to go to the E.R. if you are suicidal. I did. I am. The beds are full. Where do I go? What do I do if I’m sick enough to need treatment but not sick enough to receive it? I imagine drinking hard alcohol with my meds so I can finally lose consciousness. I asked the doctor to drug me so I could finally sleep. They agree that I’m manic, but the beds are full. I asked if I could lay in the hallway but that’s not a thing. I’ve never had to fight the urge to cry so hard in my life. There is no room at the inn. The beds are full.

A sad truth has come to light while I’ve been waiting for the best parts of me to reappear. The recovery is coming along more smoothly now, and I’m feeling more and more like my old self. Myself before all the years-long manic/depressive episodes. But I’m still waiting for the funny, energetic, engaging, and optimistic person to emerge from the wreckage of those episodes. 

It’s been months and she hasn’t shown up. It’s starting to dawn on me that the happiest, “best” version of me wasn’t happy, but was manic. I realize I’m probably remembering things as better than they were. But the fact remains that a lifestyle of treatment and medication management means I’ll never feel like I’m touching the stars again.

I won’t have the intensity I’ve always had. My projects and writings don’t make me feel like a tortured artist the way they did during deep depressions and god-like highs. They just feel like hobbies. My favorite mood music doesn’t invoke the same depth of emotions, now it’s simply enjoyable. I’m not relying on random bursts of energy to get through to-do lists anymore.

Now I have to get motivated intellectually. This is uncharted territory for me. What is a lifestyle of consistency and standing on steady ground? And why do I feel powerless to thrive within it? Maybe I’m trying to adapt too fast and I haven’t given myself enough time to adjust. Just because I’m not sick doesn’t mean I’m well. Perhaps this is some kind of purgatory no one warned me about because they didn’t know. 

I’ve never been educated on the psychological backlash from going from chronic illness to good health. The unknown is still the unknown. And I’m registering it as a possible threat in my lizard brain. I hope I can maintain treatment without relapsing. I guess time will tell.

A long time being heavily medicated got me used to a narrow spectrum of emotions. I became accustomed to being numb. I didn’t have to feel much of anything. I never thought I would miss it. I’ve switched to a less heavy medication and I can suddenly feel my own feelings and reactions again. There’s an undercurrent of panic. I can’t discern between sadness and depression, or a clear head with mania. It’s like waking up with bruises sensitive to the touch. Any stimulation of intense emotion feels like a threat.

I have other medications that numb. Taking a little extra Ativan or Ketamine here and there could do the trick. Ketamine will grease the wheels socially and Ativan calms my nerves. It’s for the anxiety I have for no reason, so why not medicate the anxiety of real life. When I’ve lost my step in a relationship or made a mistake at work, what’s the harm in healing the discomfort with medicine. I’m prescribed to take it regularly anyway, so why not?

What is the danger here? Shouldn’t I be able to regulate my emotions at a level I’m comfortable with? Isn’t it my right to protect my emotional self? Where is the wrong in this?

I guess I’ll be separated from the people in the room with me. If I’m slightly suffocated all the time I’ll have a hard time connecting. But how am I missing out in that regard? Who will I eventually lose completely?

But what if do I take on all my sadness, disappointment, and rejection and just freaking feel it. Is that part of the spectrum so bad that I cut myself off from the better half? What about joy, satisfaction, and connection? And really, what are the bad things going to do to me? Totally wreck me and then kill me? It feels like that sometimes, but it never happens. I’m still here. I’m still connected.

I guess it’s not worth numbing if it severs those connections. I need living, growing, expanding relationships with my loved ones. People who feel like family, people who are family, and family who feel like friends.

When it comes down to it, to numb is to exist and existing isn’t living. I need to do more than just exist. I need to live.

The depression checklist of self-care and medication becomes the to-do list from hell when added to a regular day’s workload. Fortunately, I was given some great advice once; “Anything worth doing, is worth doing half-way.” Sometimes when I’m too depressed to do anything, anything I do feels like an accomplishment.

Except for most of the time when it doesn’t. Even when it takes everything I have, doing things half-way makes me feel terrible. Even when self-care becomes an accomplishment with benefits, I just feel worn out anyway. In a way, I prefer nothing gets done so I don’t feel the pain of falling short.

I have a belief in my heart though. I believe it’s more than ok to give myself full credit for imperfect work. Caring about my health should include caring about how much self-compassion I feel.

Recently I made some major hygiene goals with my therapist to address so many things I’m terrible at. The other night it was time for my daily face wash, but I was lying in bed feeling overwhelmed, unsure if I could get up. Suddenly I realized that I could just dab my face with a wet towel and call it good, as it was something “worth doing halfway”. I was so proud of my work-around and gave myself full credit for imperfect work. It was a small high, but it was mine to enjoy for the rest of the night.