Okay, I haven't been here or at any other journal for a few weeks now... And I am trying to remind myself that this whole journal-ing thing can be very good for me, especially when I don't think I have anything to write. Writing is supposed to be a method by which I actually come to figure out what I am actually thinking or going through. I don't do enough of this self-reflection stuff, even though sometimes I feel like I do way too much of it...
I'm trying to utilize a lot of the skills I've learned so far in my Skills for Successful Self-Management workshop I've been attending through my school's Health and Counseling Centre. It's pretty cool to me that I recognized it as being modeled in part after Dialectical Therapy, originally designed for individuals struggling with Borderline Personality Disorder (omg, I remember things from my psych course Intervention: Process and Outcome). There's a pretty major emphasis on mindfulness, which can be a really good way to intervene in the kind of value-laden story-telling the mind tends to automatically produce. I'm aware that training yourself into using mindfulness can be a long and difficult journey of basically teaching yourself a different way of thinking and experiencing the world, but I still sometimes feel a little irritated that it isn't coming to me easier. It is a journey, though, and something that really needs to be practiced and learned.
I'm glad to find I'm already sometimes utilizing little things we've covered in the workshop, like trying to do things one-mindfully and focusing my attention fully on whatever it is I'm doing at the time. If I'm working on something and my mind starts to wander, I'll notice it, and determine whether it's something I can schedule time to think about later. Then I try to gently bring my attention back to the task at hand. I'm trying to be more present in individual moments, especially if they are enjoyable ones. I'm aware that all moments are fleeting, so if I find myself in one that I am grateful to be having, I try to notice it and be as present as I can. I see that a lot of the things we've been talking about could be really useful to my mental and emotional health and regulation in the long run, so I hope that I can keep up with it and keep practicing these skills. I'm so grateful that I am able to participate in a program like this, and that I don't have to pay anything extra for it.
I had an IUD put in a couple of weeks ago at the advisement of my doctor after I asked about contraceptive methods that could control the frequency of my period. My hope was: fewer periods equals fewer time frames when I'm at particular risk of extremely low mood and suicide ideation. Apparently after one year, some 70% of women with an IUD simply stop menstruating altogether. 'n if I so happen to be in the other 30%, we're probably going to have to discuss my being on an antidepressant lacking horrible withdrawal symptoms for about half the month (which I obviously would not be particularly pleased with). I reckon I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. I'm still on 5mg of Paxil every other day, but it's a small enough amount that it really shouldn't be having much of an effect on depressive symptoms. I'm just waiting til after school finishes for the semester to fully complete my weaning, lest I hit myself with withdrawal symptoms that would interfere with schoolwork.
A few weeks ago, a friend finished designing the tattoo I commissioned for my back, between the right shoulder blade and spine. It's meaning is of a few things, but probably most salient is its commemoration of the date of my failed suicide attempt over 5 years ago. There was no irony lost on me that around the time she finally sent me the completed design, I was struggling through my worst period of suicide ideation since before my partner and I got together. It's always difficult for me to reflect on these periods when I am so distraught and so depressed and so hopeless that all I can think of to solve things is to kill myself. Around late September / early October I was spending days just dwelling on it. It was especially hard because for a long while, I didn't want to talk to anyone about it. I'd gotten it into my head that I had to find a way to make it look like an accident, to spare my friends and family the increased risk of suicide that people experience because someone they knew committed suicide (you learn a lot of things when you take psychology). And if it had to look like an accident, then I couldn't tell anyone about my plans or my thoughts, because they could easily reveal that it was, in fact, an intentional death. I don't think I was ever more scared or concerned that I would attempt again than during that time when I decided I could tell no one about those thoughts. It's weird, because there's still this tiny little part of me that doesn't want to talk about it, because what if I change my mind in the future and commit suicide anyway? Since I've revealed I had this deep desire to make it look like an accident, I reckon any "accidental" death of mine will be highly suspected suicide.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
On the meaning of my stretch marks
Some days when I'm standing naked in front of the mirror, I become an archaeologist.
I notice the (many) stretch marks on this body and I investigate them as artifacts: leftover materials that may offer some insight into the past of this body and the person who inhabited it before I did. They require detailed study. I squint to observe where on the body they are located; several heavy anchors running from the upper corners of my breasts toward my underarms, with many lighter and less visible parallel and intertwining branches running down over the bulge of my stomach, sides, and lower back. I raise an arm to discover an entire array of lines cascading down my underarm and then rounding back up, reaching toward the top of my breast. I am certain there are others I haven't discovered because of the intensity with which I'm studying them.
My fingertips trace the full lengths of these lines with varying thickness, trying to learn something. They feel like grooves that have been carved into elastic; qualitatively different from the surrounding skin.
I wonder when my body started to change enough to create these lines. I wonder about the person I was before I earned them. I do, in fact, mean "earn". I look at them, and what I see manifest before my eyes is change. These lines are proof of the change of my physical body over time. They bring a sense of comfort because there is nowhere I can look to visibly confirm the other changes I know I've gone through during my life; the emotional and mental growth I've experienced is invisible to my eyes. But while tracing my stretch marks, I see a young girl, emotionally abandoned, become an extremely insecure and emotionally unstable teenager, become -- something closer to who I am now. Someone who still struggles constantly with her history and the lessons she has internalized along the way. Someone who will likely be fighting depression for the rest of her life. But someone who has a far better grasp and understanding of herself, her struggles, and the tools at her disposal than former versions of herself.
I do not find my stretch marks as unsightly or unwanted as the beauty industry might prefer. They are too representative of change to me: sometimes painful to consider, sometimes difficult to accept, but always inevitable and valuable in ways I could not previously anticipate.
I notice the (many) stretch marks on this body and I investigate them as artifacts: leftover materials that may offer some insight into the past of this body and the person who inhabited it before I did. They require detailed study. I squint to observe where on the body they are located; several heavy anchors running from the upper corners of my breasts toward my underarms, with many lighter and less visible parallel and intertwining branches running down over the bulge of my stomach, sides, and lower back. I raise an arm to discover an entire array of lines cascading down my underarm and then rounding back up, reaching toward the top of my breast. I am certain there are others I haven't discovered because of the intensity with which I'm studying them.
My fingertips trace the full lengths of these lines with varying thickness, trying to learn something. They feel like grooves that have been carved into elastic; qualitatively different from the surrounding skin.
I wonder when my body started to change enough to create these lines. I wonder about the person I was before I earned them. I do, in fact, mean "earn". I look at them, and what I see manifest before my eyes is change. These lines are proof of the change of my physical body over time. They bring a sense of comfort because there is nowhere I can look to visibly confirm the other changes I know I've gone through during my life; the emotional and mental growth I've experienced is invisible to my eyes. But while tracing my stretch marks, I see a young girl, emotionally abandoned, become an extremely insecure and emotionally unstable teenager, become -- something closer to who I am now. Someone who still struggles constantly with her history and the lessons she has internalized along the way. Someone who will likely be fighting depression for the rest of her life. But someone who has a far better grasp and understanding of herself, her struggles, and the tools at her disposal than former versions of herself.
I do not find my stretch marks as unsightly or unwanted as the beauty industry might prefer. They are too representative of change to me: sometimes painful to consider, sometimes difficult to accept, but always inevitable and valuable in ways I could not previously anticipate.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Day 175: Totally still alive
I am very nearly amazed that it's been some 2 months since I've posted anything here. Except when I really think about it, I am not so very surprised; I have a pretty terrible history of taking the time to do important self-care activities such as journal-ing when everything isn't obviously falling down around me.
It's been a topic my counselor and I have discussed in our last two sessions together. It's interesting, because we were discussing the difficulty I have in making time for these things because even though I recognize intellectually that it's probably an important part of my mental health and self-care, at the end of the day, I don't really think I'm important enough. Taking time to check in and actively do good things for myself feels overindulgent and unnecessary. Having now been in counseling for several years, I am often impressed when I think about how far I've come and what tools I've learned to use to help cope with all the shit that bombards me when I've slipped into a negative place. When I think about all this progress that I'm still struggling through, it can be an unpleasant surprise to see how the values I've internalized over many years still affects my day-to-day framing, and impedes me from living as complete a life as I would like to. It's also a struggle to acknowledge that doing these self-care activities could help keep me from slipping back into those negative places I have been so intimately acquainted with these many years.
Two sessions ago, I walked out of the counselor's office with an optimistic idea and mission: I would actively schedule self-care time into my google calendar. Alas, even hours later I was thinking of reasons and excuses to procrastinate doing it. And then I was in the midst of finals and whatnot for school, so naturally I didn't have time for self-care, which was clearly inferior in importance to studying.
My greatest frustration I've faced during counseling has been the disconnect between my head and my heart; I intellectually understand plenty of stuff, like the importance of self-care, or the illogical cognitive processes I take when I'm sinking into depression, or that in actuality, I am a decent person who deserves love and happiness... and yet, and yet, and yet... it often feels so ridiculously impossible to emotionally buy-in to any of it. It feels so silly to be sitting there, refuting disordered thinking/logic out loud, while still crying and snotting because I'm emotionally buying in to that very disordered thinking! And all I really have to hold on to in this, is the hope that by reinforcing the actions/behaviours, I will be able to change how I feel. Yes, pretty classic Cognitive-Behavioural reasoning, and I think it could work... I really just wish it weren't so frickin' difficult.
And so, here I am, actively pursuing self-care through journal-ing. I have (for real) scheduled time in ye olde google calendar to journal at least once a week, whether here or elsewhere. I am also hoping that through this commitment to myself, I can instill the confidence to finish this weaning off of Paxil. I have been sitting at 5 mg/day since May 18th, definitely making this stage where I've longest lingered. At first I was simply not confident enough in my moods, and then I was unwilling to do the work on myself to feel secure in moving on. I am ready to take my last step before being completely SSRI-free: 5 mg every other day until I feel ready to stop altogether. The progress has been agonizingly slow, but in some ways, very necessary. I especially know that it will be absolutely essential for me to focus on self-care as I finish my weaning into the Fall and Winter season. November and December have historically been emotionally difficult months for me, and I will really need to be vigilant and guard against the usual factors that drag me down.
It's been so long since I last journal-ed that I've got so many disjointed thoughts about things I want to flesh out and discuss. I've already spent an hour writing, though, and I'm not sure whether it's a good idea to try my patience by getting everything out now, or to try the patience of the friends who may just end up skimming this post when they see how long it's ended up being :P. I will mention that I want to talk about some social justice/anti-oppression nihilism that I've been struggling with, and how that's been affecting my friendships. I'll also likely soon write about academic achievement/anxiety and the anxiety/fear of balancing things in my life starting in the Fall semester. (These are notes to remind myself about stuff i want to write about later) Oh, also, I am thinking about starting up some kind of weekly link/story roundup of social justice/anti-oppression articles, in which I will include my impressions and thoughts.
It's been a topic my counselor and I have discussed in our last two sessions together. It's interesting, because we were discussing the difficulty I have in making time for these things because even though I recognize intellectually that it's probably an important part of my mental health and self-care, at the end of the day, I don't really think I'm important enough. Taking time to check in and actively do good things for myself feels overindulgent and unnecessary. Having now been in counseling for several years, I am often impressed when I think about how far I've come and what tools I've learned to use to help cope with all the shit that bombards me when I've slipped into a negative place. When I think about all this progress that I'm still struggling through, it can be an unpleasant surprise to see how the values I've internalized over many years still affects my day-to-day framing, and impedes me from living as complete a life as I would like to. It's also a struggle to acknowledge that doing these self-care activities could help keep me from slipping back into those negative places I have been so intimately acquainted with these many years.
Two sessions ago, I walked out of the counselor's office with an optimistic idea and mission: I would actively schedule self-care time into my google calendar. Alas, even hours later I was thinking of reasons and excuses to procrastinate doing it. And then I was in the midst of finals and whatnot for school, so naturally I didn't have time for self-care, which was clearly inferior in importance to studying.
My greatest frustration I've faced during counseling has been the disconnect between my head and my heart; I intellectually understand plenty of stuff, like the importance of self-care, or the illogical cognitive processes I take when I'm sinking into depression, or that in actuality, I am a decent person who deserves love and happiness... and yet, and yet, and yet... it often feels so ridiculously impossible to emotionally buy-in to any of it. It feels so silly to be sitting there, refuting disordered thinking/logic out loud, while still crying and snotting because I'm emotionally buying in to that very disordered thinking! And all I really have to hold on to in this, is the hope that by reinforcing the actions/behaviours, I will be able to change how I feel. Yes, pretty classic Cognitive-Behavioural reasoning, and I think it could work... I really just wish it weren't so frickin' difficult.
And so, here I am, actively pursuing self-care through journal-ing. I have (for real) scheduled time in ye olde google calendar to journal at least once a week, whether here or elsewhere. I am also hoping that through this commitment to myself, I can instill the confidence to finish this weaning off of Paxil. I have been sitting at 5 mg/day since May 18th, definitely making this stage where I've longest lingered. At first I was simply not confident enough in my moods, and then I was unwilling to do the work on myself to feel secure in moving on. I am ready to take my last step before being completely SSRI-free: 5 mg every other day until I feel ready to stop altogether. The progress has been agonizingly slow, but in some ways, very necessary. I especially know that it will be absolutely essential for me to focus on self-care as I finish my weaning into the Fall and Winter season. November and December have historically been emotionally difficult months for me, and I will really need to be vigilant and guard against the usual factors that drag me down.
It's been so long since I last journal-ed that I've got so many disjointed thoughts about things I want to flesh out and discuss. I've already spent an hour writing, though, and I'm not sure whether it's a good idea to try my patience by getting everything out now, or to try the patience of the friends who may just end up skimming this post when they see how long it's ended up being :P. I will mention that I want to talk about some social justice/anti-oppression nihilism that I've been struggling with, and how that's been affecting my friendships. I'll also likely soon write about academic achievement/anxiety and the anxiety/fear of balancing things in my life starting in the Fall semester. (These are notes to remind myself about stuff i want to write about later) Oh, also, I am thinking about starting up some kind of weekly link/story roundup of social justice/anti-oppression articles, in which I will include my impressions and thoughts.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Day 114: It's an underwhelming experience, recognizing one's apathy
The symptoms are familiar. Listlessness, the desire to shy away from my friends, a semi-constant weight in my chest saying, "This existence is so tiring, isn't it?" I open my google calendar and look at all the things to do, people to see in the next couple of months, and I realize, I could go without any of it. The things I usually enjoy don't really mean anything. The brightness of the sun is almost offensive to me. I am apathetic or misanthropic. This life feels like a burden. Emotions and apathy are burdens.
I remember adolescent Me. I'm mildly concerned in seeing the sense of her thoughts and ideas regarding alienating those who care about her for the sole purpose of making it easier on them when she finally got up the courage to disappear, one way or another. However, just as she wasn't strong enough to pull it off, I've got too much sense and experience telling me that it probably would not work.
I still sometimes lament the fact that I am generally a social creature. It does not matter too much in my mind if I die. I would sometimes prefer the peace. But by putting down social roots and creating relationships with people, I make it impossible to just check out of Life. It would be my right, I think. I believe in my bodily autonomy and my decision to do with my body and life what I choose. But I am forced to choose life out of empathy for those who are attached to me. This just seems to tire me even more.
These feelings are not everyday. They are not 24/7. But they have been often enough in the last few weeks.
I reduced to 5mg a little over 5 weeks ago. I last saw my counselor almost 2 months ago.
...I should probably make an appointment with her.
I remember adolescent Me. I'm mildly concerned in seeing the sense of her thoughts and ideas regarding alienating those who care about her for the sole purpose of making it easier on them when she finally got up the courage to disappear, one way or another. However, just as she wasn't strong enough to pull it off, I've got too much sense and experience telling me that it probably would not work.
I still sometimes lament the fact that I am generally a social creature. It does not matter too much in my mind if I die. I would sometimes prefer the peace. But by putting down social roots and creating relationships with people, I make it impossible to just check out of Life. It would be my right, I think. I believe in my bodily autonomy and my decision to do with my body and life what I choose. But I am forced to choose life out of empathy for those who are attached to me. This just seems to tire me even more.
These feelings are not everyday. They are not 24/7. But they have been often enough in the last few weeks.
I reduced to 5mg a little over 5 weeks ago. I last saw my counselor almost 2 months ago.
...I should probably make an appointment with her.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Day 83: Marijuana
So first and foremost, screw the haters.
And by haters, I mean, those who judge those who smoke/vapourize/ingest pot. An astounding number of assumptions regarding pot consumers are completely false. They are overblown, politically-charged, scientifically misinformed hear-say, and of the realm of discussion for individuals much more articulate than I.
I want to talk about the gratitude I have for marijuana, and have had since beginning my weaning process. And while I have, for a while, whole-heartedly endorsed and enjoyed the recreational uses for marijuana before my weaning began, I have not until now truly come to appreciate weed's medicinal value. I have (until this point) been rather closeted about my marijuana use, especially through my online presence. But I don't really feel the need to hide it and exclude it as a part of my identity anymore. That's another post though, I think.
...It is difficult to get up in the morning, and soon feel an overwhelming shifting combination of headache, nausea, stomach pain and vertigo. It is difficult to know that you will have to go most of the day like this. It is difficult to know that this will all repeat tomorrow, and the day after, and could last for up to two weeks. Shortly put, it really sucks to deal with withdrawal symptoms from an SSRI. It really wears on you, and makes it hard to get through the day not only because of the physical symptoms, but the intellectual understanding that these physical symptoms will keep going, and going, and going, for days.
Using weed medicinally for withdrawal symptoms has allowed me to get through days without the dread of feeling awful all the time. I've been able to sit and enjoy a conversation with my partner, or friends, without feeling the entire time like I was somewhere between passing out and throwing up. It has improved my quality of life during my withdrawal periods significantly. Yes, occasionally it has rendered me less articulate, or clear-headed, and more inclined to snack... but I think that's a small price to pay.
I'm now down to 5mg/day, as of last Tuesday. The next level after this is 5mg/every two days, and the one after that is a Paxil-free life. It's an exciting, terrifying, anticipation-filled thought.
And by haters, I mean, those who judge those who smoke/vapourize/ingest pot. An astounding number of assumptions regarding pot consumers are completely false. They are overblown, politically-charged, scientifically misinformed hear-say, and of the realm of discussion for individuals much more articulate than I.
I want to talk about the gratitude I have for marijuana, and have had since beginning my weaning process. And while I have, for a while, whole-heartedly endorsed and enjoyed the recreational uses for marijuana before my weaning began, I have not until now truly come to appreciate weed's medicinal value. I have (until this point) been rather closeted about my marijuana use, especially through my online presence. But I don't really feel the need to hide it and exclude it as a part of my identity anymore. That's another post though, I think.
...It is difficult to get up in the morning, and soon feel an overwhelming shifting combination of headache, nausea, stomach pain and vertigo. It is difficult to know that you will have to go most of the day like this. It is difficult to know that this will all repeat tomorrow, and the day after, and could last for up to two weeks. Shortly put, it really sucks to deal with withdrawal symptoms from an SSRI. It really wears on you, and makes it hard to get through the day not only because of the physical symptoms, but the intellectual understanding that these physical symptoms will keep going, and going, and going, for days.
Using weed medicinally for withdrawal symptoms has allowed me to get through days without the dread of feeling awful all the time. I've been able to sit and enjoy a conversation with my partner, or friends, without feeling the entire time like I was somewhere between passing out and throwing up. It has improved my quality of life during my withdrawal periods significantly. Yes, occasionally it has rendered me less articulate, or clear-headed, and more inclined to snack... but I think that's a small price to pay.
I'm now down to 5mg/day, as of last Tuesday. The next level after this is 5mg/every two days, and the one after that is a Paxil-free life. It's an exciting, terrifying, anticipation-filled thought.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Day 68: Stagnation?
It's not that my lack of posting indicates that I don't have any thoughts, or anything to say about the weaning process, currently. Mostly, it reflects my intense laziness/lack of motivation to do so. Of course, my lack of motivation and laziness have some pretty solid connections to depression et al in my life, so I'm not sure that this is particularly surprising.
After my last weaning post (some 20 days ago), I got a lot of love from friends, and positive feedback/messages that slowing down is not failure, and that I have been successful in reducing to half my original dosage. This also reminded me of my doctor's comments that she recommends a slow weaning so that her patients can maintain a sense of confidence with each reduction. And I realized that I was trying to speed through weaning despite my lack of confidence, and that this was a big sign to SLOOOOW DOWN. And so, I have. I've been at 10mg/day since March 25th, so approximately a month and a half. And having said that, I feel that little niggling annoying impatience, telling me that it is time to get a move on, already.
I had a good conversation with my counselor a couple of week ago about this, and I realize I've wrapped up a lot of meaning into this weaning process. There are reasons both for me to want to finish this as soon as possible, and reasons for me to linger here at 10mg for as long as I can. I am impatient with this process, because the sooner I am finished, the sooner I feel I've accomplished a Big Thing. This Big Thing, I realize, has to do with the last 5 and a half years of my life. No, in reality, this Big Thing has to do with my whole life. I have painstakingly struggled since childhood with this demon that is depression (or probably more accurately, dysthymia). Dealing with these kinds of thought patterns and emotions since third or fourth grade, I'd come to accept as a teenager that perhaps this was just my personality. The cripplingly low self esteem, the semi-frequent desire to do self-harm, the nightly crying spells, all of these were just part of who I was.
And then... I hit what I believe was one of the worst major depressive episodes of my life, just a few months before my 17th birthday. My long-distance, long-term, first-ever, this-guy-is-totally-The-One boyfriend in BC had just started his first year of university, and then had his mom die rather quickly of cancer after a lengthy remission. The person I'd been using as my emotional anchor fell completely apart on me, a country away. And through my own grief, and overwhelming guilt that I could not make things better for him, I began to spiral deeper and deeper into the episode that eventually got me to my family doctor for my first prescription for an SSRI (Celexa, which I later abandoned due to the fact that it made it impossible for me to remain conscious for a majority of the day), and several months later resulted in my (obviously) failed suicide attempt.
From the beginning of this depressive episode, through my relationship-drama-filled and often-pained first year of university... from my subsequent isolating move to BC to be with that boyfriend, and to my eventual break-up and continued living with this now-ex, watching his life fall apart and his several suicide attempts from under the same roof... from my eventual emotional breakdown to my additional depressive episode of near-constant suicide ideation... I don't know if I ever foresaw my slow, but sure and steady improvement in emotional regulation, finding effective coping mechanisms, or my starting to figure out who I am and how that is okay.
So, all of these extremely painful memories and experiences of the last several years? Maybe, maybe it means I'm "better" (whatever that means), and maybe it means I've moved passed all of it, if only (if only) I accomplish this Big Thing. My insides tell me that maybe I can feel secure that once I'm done with SSRIs, I've proved to myself that the past, and that part of my life, is done, gone, and buried. I think that this Big Thing is at least, in some part, a way I'm trying to prove to myself that the bad stuff is behind me, and that the future is shiny and will not feature any more of the crippling depressive episodes of my past.
My mind sees weaning off of Paxil as a great gain, meaning there is also potential for great loss. I fear that my failure at weaning off of my meds means something more than having to refill a prescription every three months, and more than a frustration at chemical dependency. Despite my best efforts to stave off black and white thinking, I can't help but think that a failure in weaning may mean I am doomed to the depressive episodes and former life that I have worked so hard to stave off. These fears make it easy to want to delay and delay and delay my next reduction.
With these realizations of the value I've loaded into weaning, I am trying to re-frame and reinterpret in a way that does not set myself up for emotional failure. I know that in reality, whether I effectively wean off of medication permanently or not, that I will hit lower points than I am comfortable with. In a way, I was correct as a teenager; my dysthymia is a part of who I am. It does not define me, but it is something I will have to work with, likely, for the rest of my life. And I am glad that I am now in a place where I'm (mostly) looking forward to this whole "rest of my life" thing.
After my last weaning post (some 20 days ago), I got a lot of love from friends, and positive feedback/messages that slowing down is not failure, and that I have been successful in reducing to half my original dosage. This also reminded me of my doctor's comments that she recommends a slow weaning so that her patients can maintain a sense of confidence with each reduction. And I realized that I was trying to speed through weaning despite my lack of confidence, and that this was a big sign to SLOOOOW DOWN. And so, I have. I've been at 10mg/day since March 25th, so approximately a month and a half. And having said that, I feel that little niggling annoying impatience, telling me that it is time to get a move on, already.
I had a good conversation with my counselor a couple of week ago about this, and I realize I've wrapped up a lot of meaning into this weaning process. There are reasons both for me to want to finish this as soon as possible, and reasons for me to linger here at 10mg for as long as I can. I am impatient with this process, because the sooner I am finished, the sooner I feel I've accomplished a Big Thing. This Big Thing, I realize, has to do with the last 5 and a half years of my life. No, in reality, this Big Thing has to do with my whole life. I have painstakingly struggled since childhood with this demon that is depression (or probably more accurately, dysthymia). Dealing with these kinds of thought patterns and emotions since third or fourth grade, I'd come to accept as a teenager that perhaps this was just my personality. The cripplingly low self esteem, the semi-frequent desire to do self-harm, the nightly crying spells, all of these were just part of who I was.
And then... I hit what I believe was one of the worst major depressive episodes of my life, just a few months before my 17th birthday. My long-distance, long-term, first-ever, this-guy-is-totally-The-One boyfriend in BC had just started his first year of university, and then had his mom die rather quickly of cancer after a lengthy remission. The person I'd been using as my emotional anchor fell completely apart on me, a country away. And through my own grief, and overwhelming guilt that I could not make things better for him, I began to spiral deeper and deeper into the episode that eventually got me to my family doctor for my first prescription for an SSRI (Celexa, which I later abandoned due to the fact that it made it impossible for me to remain conscious for a majority of the day), and several months later resulted in my (obviously) failed suicide attempt.
From the beginning of this depressive episode, through my relationship-drama-filled and often-pained first year of university... from my subsequent isolating move to BC to be with that boyfriend, and to my eventual break-up and continued living with this now-ex, watching his life fall apart and his several suicide attempts from under the same roof... from my eventual emotional breakdown to my additional depressive episode of near-constant suicide ideation... I don't know if I ever foresaw my slow, but sure and steady improvement in emotional regulation, finding effective coping mechanisms, or my starting to figure out who I am and how that is okay.
So, all of these extremely painful memories and experiences of the last several years? Maybe, maybe it means I'm "better" (whatever that means), and maybe it means I've moved passed all of it, if only (if only) I accomplish this Big Thing. My insides tell me that maybe I can feel secure that once I'm done with SSRIs, I've proved to myself that the past, and that part of my life, is done, gone, and buried. I think that this Big Thing is at least, in some part, a way I'm trying to prove to myself that the bad stuff is behind me, and that the future is shiny and will not feature any more of the crippling depressive episodes of my past.
My mind sees weaning off of Paxil as a great gain, meaning there is also potential for great loss. I fear that my failure at weaning off of my meds means something more than having to refill a prescription every three months, and more than a frustration at chemical dependency. Despite my best efforts to stave off black and white thinking, I can't help but think that a failure in weaning may mean I am doomed to the depressive episodes and former life that I have worked so hard to stave off. These fears make it easy to want to delay and delay and delay my next reduction.
With these realizations of the value I've loaded into weaning, I am trying to re-frame and reinterpret in a way that does not set myself up for emotional failure. I know that in reality, whether I effectively wean off of medication permanently or not, that I will hit lower points than I am comfortable with. In a way, I was correct as a teenager; my dysthymia is a part of who I am. It does not define me, but it is something I will have to work with, likely, for the rest of my life. And I am glad that I am now in a place where I'm (mostly) looking forward to this whole "rest of my life" thing.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Day 48
I have not posted in a long while about my weaning. And truth be told, I am not even sure if this is a post about weaning, either. I'm not sure what this is a post about. I know I'm in a place where I don't actually know or "get" how I feel right now, and I think the only way to figure that out is to start writing about it.
The last few days, I've felt really messed up, emotionally. It's not the kind of messed up I'm used to, or that I expect about a week and a half before my period starts. No, I already had those 2 or so days where I was very emotional and touchy about two weeks ago. The last few days I feel like something just isn't operating right... I feel like I was creating drama in my primary relationship that didn't actually exist, and like when I'm in groups of my friends, I don't understand what I'm doing there. With my friends, it's confusing, because I keep getting the sense that I'll feel better when I'm in the presence of these people who I am comforted by. The last few days, however, I am in these groups of people, and all I can get the sense of, is that I don't belong. I feel out of place, and I don't understand how I fit in. It's an awkwardness and intense discomfort that makes absolutely no sense to me.
What's worse is when I started to think about the fact that I feel really messed up from my social interactions of the last few days, it really started to upset me. I started to get those familiar mental images, these flashes of doing self-harm; stabbing and slashing and ripping out of internal organs. The usual way I deal with my self-harm imagery is by acknowledging it, acknowledging that there is some meaning and purpose for desiring to harm myself, and then trying to figure out what it means. In this case, I didn't do that because it felt like my insides were screaming, "No. I don't fucking want to figure this out. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on."
Maybe this means I need more time. I'm not sure. I'm scared it means that... I guess I'm scared that it means that I can't do this. I'm scared I can't do this weaning thing. I'm scared that there is something essentially so fucked up about me that I can't handle going off these meds. I'm scared that these feelings I've been dealing with are representative of the problems I will always have without pharmaceutical intervention. I'm scared that I will, in fact, fail.
The last few days, I've felt really messed up, emotionally. It's not the kind of messed up I'm used to, or that I expect about a week and a half before my period starts. No, I already had those 2 or so days where I was very emotional and touchy about two weeks ago. The last few days I feel like something just isn't operating right... I feel like I was creating drama in my primary relationship that didn't actually exist, and like when I'm in groups of my friends, I don't understand what I'm doing there. With my friends, it's confusing, because I keep getting the sense that I'll feel better when I'm in the presence of these people who I am comforted by. The last few days, however, I am in these groups of people, and all I can get the sense of, is that I don't belong. I feel out of place, and I don't understand how I fit in. It's an awkwardness and intense discomfort that makes absolutely no sense to me.
What's worse is when I started to think about the fact that I feel really messed up from my social interactions of the last few days, it really started to upset me. I started to get those familiar mental images, these flashes of doing self-harm; stabbing and slashing and ripping out of internal organs. The usual way I deal with my self-harm imagery is by acknowledging it, acknowledging that there is some meaning and purpose for desiring to harm myself, and then trying to figure out what it means. In this case, I didn't do that because it felt like my insides were screaming, "No. I don't fucking want to figure this out. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on."
Maybe this means I need more time. I'm not sure. I'm scared it means that... I guess I'm scared that it means that I can't do this. I'm scared I can't do this weaning thing. I'm scared that there is something essentially so fucked up about me that I can't handle going off these meds. I'm scared that these feelings I've been dealing with are representative of the problems I will always have without pharmaceutical intervention. I'm scared that I will, in fact, fail.
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