And guess what? After I healed from ankle fusion one and two, I got to have spinal fusion to my neck.
And all of this fucking sucks¹.
I rarely blog anymore or make videos. I haven’t been able to dye my hair for a long time due to the pain in my shoulders (and now because I’m not through the healing process of neck fusion). I hardly see friends anymore and our Rock Band stuff is packed away. And obviously I’m not running or mountain biking.
I just sit here and exist.
Nathan’s sure I have PTSD from all of my health complications and while he can’t “diagnose” me, he’s probably right. I need to start seeing my therapist again.
This isn’t the first time I’ve “slumped“. Oh, it seems like it happens again and again….so I know I’ll un-slump myself…somehow…and hopefully soon.
¹No need for a pity party or tons of advice. I’m just trying to keep it real and I know that writing is something that helps the un-slumping.
*Disclaimer: I really don’t know ANY THING about Marilyn Monroe and I am not in ANY WAY saying that I am a ‘Marilyn Monroe’.
Last night we watched “My Week With Marilyn”:
It was a tough film for me to watch, especially with my fight on Thursday with The Deep Dark Hole. I had no idea that Marilyn suffered from mental illness. It was hard for me to see her *fine* one moment and then curled up in a ball in the hallway, crying, the next moment. Seeing her lay in bed, unable to get out was intense. I could see her ‘trying’ – you know, trying to smile, be normal, happy, and *okay*. There were scenes in the movie that I felt could be a mirror of my own mental health struggles – without the whole fame thing…
What really drove the movie home was the end. ***spoiler alert***
Sir Laurence Olivier is reminiscing about Marilyn with Colin Clark:
Sir Olivier says to Clark, “She’s quite wonderful. No training, no craft, no guile, just pure instinct. Astonishing.”
Clark responds, “You should tell her that.”
Sir Olivier says one of the most profound movie lines I have ever heard, “Oh, I will. But she won’t believe me. That’s probably what makes her great. It’s certainly what makes her so profoundly unhappy.”
Sir Olivier goes on to say another brilliant line, “I tried my best to change her, but she remains brilliant despite me.”
You see, this past week in counseling we touched on the subject of taking – REALLY TAKING – a compliment. Some of us have trouble hearing compliments. The Voice in our head likes to block those out. It likes to get out our cell phone and look over abusive texts from a loved one. The Voice likes to point out all our failures:
How many plants we’ve killed.
How we suck at gardening.
That we’re fat.
That we don’t get much accomplished during the day.
*****I’m continuing to write and post about my battle with depression, not for sympathy or attention¹, but in hopes that if WE all talk about it, WE will all get strength from knowing that we are not alone. When I write about this it reminds me of Anna Nalick’s song “Breath”….mostly these lines:
“2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you’ll use them, however you want to”
A few weeks ago I developed a rash. A few weeks ago I started on Prozac. As the weeks went by, my rash turned into full blown hives that started to crawl up my neck and onto my face. We *think* I’m allergic to the Prozac.
I really didn’t think it was that big of a deal. Okay, so I’m probably allergic to Prozac. There are a LOT of other options out there, right? Plus, how do I even know if the Prozac was really working. I mean, I’ve felt okay the last few weeks, but it’s not like I felt all magical and rainbow-lish-ous, with glitter running through my veins or anything. I stopped the Prozac and picked up a new prescription.
I’ve been off the Prozac for a little over a week now and I started the new meds a few days ago. Um…yeah…the Prozac was working….I feel like shit. I’m irritable. I’m cranky. I want to just.go.away. I want everyone to just.go.away.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m trying. I’m counting my blessings. I’ve been biting my tongue (mostly). I’m doing the ‘right’ things. I’m exercising and eating healthy. I’m sober. I was able to have The Artist’s boyfriend over for dinner on Friday night and we hosted a Birthday sleep-over for The Brainiac on Saturday night. I remind myself throughout the day how wonderful my family is, that I love my husband, my kids, my sister, and all of my family.
Then The Voice says shit like, “Yeah, your life is fine and you have nothing to complain about. So why are you depressed? You’re such a spoiled baby. You have everything and still it’s not enough. There are people out there that are really suffering. They don’t have jobs! They’ve lost loved ones! They are really sick! They are alone. You? You have nothing to complain about. YOU have a fantastic husband and great children². YOU have an amazing sister and extended family. YOU have a nice house that is clean and kept warm. YOU have organic food and cars that are drive-able. YOU have friends and Facebook Fans. YOU have a blog with regular readers. YOU have it all. Now what exactly is YOUR problem again?!?!?”
And I think about those thoughts circling in my head and I start to believe them. What the hell is my problem?
I spend the nights laying on the couch with tears pouring down my face, as Nathan strokes my hair and tells me that he loves me.
I hope the new meds kick in soon…
¹The Voice is telling me that I’m writing for sympathy and attention. I am telling you (and The Voice) that I write ‘for me’ but, my hope is that my words will help someone else.
²Let’s ignore my feelings about the estranged child…
I’ve been dancing around it and dipping my toe in it. Letting it take a piece of my day here and there. I’ve been careful to keep my hair done (thanks Curlformers), and I’ve been wearing a bit of make-up. I even put on regular jeans, instead of yoga pants/pajama jeans, when I left the house. I’ve bought several pairs of cute new earrings (thank you retail therapy?). I picked up some art supplies and played a bit with metal. I’ve checked things off my to-do list. I was ‘good’. I was hanging on…..until today.
Today…I plugged my nose. I got on my tippy toes and I dived in head first.
I snapped at The Artist for jamming the key into the mailbox (for the 50-billionth time) and when we finally got to our Homeschool playgroup I busted into tears. I left the kids with my friends¹, told The Artist I was sorry, and I went back to my car. I drove to the end of the parking lot and I cried.
I cried, and cried, and cried.
I sent a few texts to let people know that I was ‘okay’ NOT ‘okay’, but there was nothing to do. They sent texts back being supportive, loving, and kind.
And here I am at the bottom of The Deep Dark Hole. I feel alone, scared, worthless, fat, ugly, sad, horrified, untrustworthy, terrified, and then I feel….nothing.
I made a doctor appointment for next week (thanks Nathan and My Sissy for encouraging me to do that). The doctor is going to try to get me in tomorrow. I hope they can help me. I’m tired of The Deep Dark Hole.
¹A special *thank you* to my friends and family for being an amazing support group: taking care of my kids, letting me know that I’m not alone, telling me to ignore ‘The Voice’, telling me that you love me, and just being ‘there’. Thank you.