Guilty.
I've been told by my therapist that I shouldn't be. I shouldn't feel guilty. I shouldn't be ashamed. But I am. He tells me that sometimes life is shitty. Sometimes it is shitty, and other times it can be great. He tells me that I did not ask for all of this to happen, that I could not have prevented it. But couldn't I have? Couldn't I have gotten help sooner? Couldn't I have reached out to the people who told me to reach out to them if I was feeling suicidal instead of reaching into the cabinet for bottles of pills? I can't help but feel guilty, can't help but be ashamed.
Blame has to fall somewhere. It certainly can not fall on anyone but me. No one else could have stopped it but me, yet I failed to do it. I failed to see it coming. In a demented game of chicken, I blinked. I closed my eyes to the fact I was spiraling out of control. It was normal. It was what life had become.
It's a funny thing this depression, I know it is an illness. A chemical imbalance in the brain. A lack of serotonin, norepinephrine, dopamine, endorphins. All tangible things. Depression is not much different than diabetes if you think about it. Your body stops producing a substance that is needed for your body to work properly. Insulin in the case of diabetes. So we both take medicine to help. We both try and keep a disease from getting worse, to keep from letting it take over, keep from letting the disease win. In the end that is what it boils down to. Depression can put up a mean fight, and in the end, it can win out. There is no debating that. Every 13 minutes and 42 seconds someone commits suicide and 90% of those people had a diagnosable and treatable mental illness. Some sought help in their war, others did not. This is reality. A cold, harsh, bitter reality that needs attention. Allies are hard to come by for us waging war. It is hard for us to trust other people with our secrets, our shortcomings. If you were to turn away, if you were to pull away, if you were to disappear it is another lost battle in a lifetime of losses. So we back away. If we never put ourselves out there, we won't be rejected. The possibility of acceptance is so small it is not worth the risk of rejection and it's feeling of failure.
So we lock ourselves away. Physically and mentally. Physically we confine ourselves. We seclude from others to not disappoint them, to not risk failure, and to not make things worse for others. Mentally we do the same. We get stuck inside our own mind because we don't want to venture out into the realm of possibility for fear of defeat. We keep our thoughts to ourselves because we know they are not normal. In turn, we aren't normal. We don't belong anywhere. We don't fit in. We take pills to make ourselves not feel anymore. The pills are designed to help us feel better, to squelch the sadness and despair. But they don't just block sadness. They can block other emotions and other feelings. They can block joy, happiness, the things we need. Instead of feeling better, we feel callous and detached. Unmotivated to get out of the house and out of bed. So they give you other medications to take on top of those to try and help.
Steering away from all that, I have noticed an increase in my pain levels. My lower back, my legs, ankles, feet. Most of the time now they hurt. Especially at night and early morning. I brought this up to my therapist and I will bring it up to my psychiatrist when I see him, but the therapist wants me to go see my family doc about it. To get another set of eyeballs on me to see if it is caused by the depression or by something else. I kind of hope it is just depression, not sure I could handle some other medical mystery right now.
I received a little feedback about my last post and the way men are perceived. I guess I should go into that a little more. As a man, society and history have told me I have to be the breadwinner, the solid-as-a-rock figure, the one who does not let things get to him. I should put on a smile and grin through the pain. Pain, after all, is just weakness leaving the body. And we can't have weakness. Stereotypically men are strong, stoic beasts with a lack of emotion. When a man goes against that stereotype, when he is vulnerable and fragile, he is just weak. A wuss. A pansy. A broken down shell of a man. A man can not be that way. Women have a lot of the same stereotypes put on them. The woman can be emotional, and is often portrayed that way, but they too are seen as inferior if they crack under the pressure. They are drama-queens or just seeking attention. They've got baggage or issues.
I've got baggage. I've got issues. I've got baggage stacked up on a sky cap's cart dating back to childhood. I'm pretty sure my first bag came along with my diaper bag. My issues fill up a magazine rack like a lifetime collection of National Geographic. I can't let my baggage keep me from getting to where I need to go. That much checked luggage would cost a fortune. I need to downsize. Get rid of some baggage and board the plane with a carry-on. I need to get a digital subscription of my issues and get rid of the racks of magazines that tell the stories of my downfalls and fall downs. I don't know how to do it, but I have to. If I don't the racks will overfill and topple over me or the baggage cart will tip over and crush me under it's weight. So I have to go through my things and pack light. Clean out the cobwebs in the closet of my mind. Now if I could just get motivated to find my duster and hard-sided carry-on bag.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Man Up, Nancy Boy
So my psychiatrist left me a voice mail yesterday wondering if my recurrence of symptoms was due to the increase in Wellbutrin he did over a month ago. I'm not thinking that is it, but he wants me to try a different form of it to see if that helps. I'm not thinking that is the issue, but I guess I will go with it for now.
I'm doing a little better than I was. I have gotten some sleep the past couple of nights, but I still am catching myself getting irritated easily. I really hate that. I am not an irritable and angry person. I used to be a go-with-the-flow, happy-go-lucky type of guy, but with this depression that has gone away.
Depression and anxiety hit people in different ways. I am sure there are some people out there that would be able to take what I am going through in stride. I also think, however, the vast majority of people if they had the same situation would develop major depression. I have to believe that this didn't happen because I am weak. That is one of the biggest struggles I think a guy with depression has. Society tells men that we are supposed to be strong-willed, unemotional, stoic, tough guys who don't let things get to them and handle any situation. Those of us who fail at that? We are weak, girly, gay, or a pussy. Society tells me I am weak.
The numbers show that women are much more likely to be depressed than men. 70% more likely to be exact. I can somewhat see how that is, but I also think it is skewed by the sheer number of men who wouldn't report it. That don't go to their doctor and say they need help, or find a psychiatrist or psychologist and seek help. Men shouldn't need help. Feeling down? Kill an animal for sport, watch football, punch a wall, fix a car. Man stuff.
Part of why I started this blog was to open people up to depression and anxiety. Men, you can be depressed. You do not have to hide your feelings away. For too long we have been told to bottle up our emotions. We are told to stiffen up our upper lip, clench that jaw tight, don't let them see you cry. And if we fail at that, if we break down and cry, or if we reach out for help we are shunned by society. You think I don't feel that? You think I don't know that?
Ok so fair warning... The next bit is a peek inside of my head from a few months ago. I would be lying if I said that none of these thoughts still entered my head. They do. More often than I like. I am working on it though, and for now that is enough for me. So to everyone out there, I am ok. This is just a little insight into how my mind was at my darkest times. I am not suicidal right now, I am ok with things at the moment. So just remember that as you read on.
My mind was consumed by these thoughts. Every minute of every day. It can be downright exhausting. You know how cartoons portray the devil and angel trying to convince the character of what to do? Think to yourself, what it would be like to only have the devil sitting there. Telling you things. Bad things. Things like the following.
Outcast. Depressed. Failure. Failure to handle this on my own, failure to just keep living life like nothing is wrong, failure to be a man. Black-sheep. Pitied. Sick. Tired. Sick and tired, tired of struggling to get out of the house, tired of having my short fuse already lit when I open my eyes in the morning, tired of living this way. Tired of living. Death. Dying. Dying inside? Already dead inside. Worthless. Unworthy of love, unworthy of happiness, unworthy of sympathy, unworthy of help. Death. It would be easier if I were dead. Sinking. I'm dragging people down with me. Miserable. I'm making everyone else miserable too. They would be happier if I died. Why can't I just die? My kids would be better to have an image of what I was, than who I have become. What have I become? Nothing. A non-living thing. An emotionless, worthless, helpless, piece of garbage that is a drain on society, on myself, on my family. I welcome death. Can't it just happen? I don't want to kill myself... I just want to die. How pathetic am I? I can't even make the decision to ease everyone's suffering. Maybe tomorrow I can be a man about this and handle it. Maybe if I stop being a pussy and just did it, it would all be better.
My god, what am I doing? Is this what I have become? My inner voice is winning the battle of insanity. Who do you turn to when you have turned on yourself? Too many men have turned to the wrong people. Namely, Jim, Jack, or Jose. We try to drown the voice with alcohol or negate the voice with drugs instead of talking about what is wrong. How will people judge me if they find out I am having these thoughts or feeling this way?
How do you judge people? Do you have a preconceived idea of what a crazy person looks like? How about a depressed person? An alcoholic?
If you pictured anything other than someone like your neighbor, your friend, your coworker, your parent, your sibling, your child, your significant other, or even yourself, you need to adjust your outlook. I am your neighbor. I am your friend. I am your coworker. I am someone's parent. I am my brother's brother. I am my parent's child. I am my wife's husband. I am a little crazy. I am depressed. I am me, and that's perfectly fine. Not broken, not weak, not worthless. I am me.
I'm doing a little better than I was. I have gotten some sleep the past couple of nights, but I still am catching myself getting irritated easily. I really hate that. I am not an irritable and angry person. I used to be a go-with-the-flow, happy-go-lucky type of guy, but with this depression that has gone away.
Depression and anxiety hit people in different ways. I am sure there are some people out there that would be able to take what I am going through in stride. I also think, however, the vast majority of people if they had the same situation would develop major depression. I have to believe that this didn't happen because I am weak. That is one of the biggest struggles I think a guy with depression has. Society tells men that we are supposed to be strong-willed, unemotional, stoic, tough guys who don't let things get to them and handle any situation. Those of us who fail at that? We are weak, girly, gay, or a pussy. Society tells me I am weak.
The numbers show that women are much more likely to be depressed than men. 70% more likely to be exact. I can somewhat see how that is, but I also think it is skewed by the sheer number of men who wouldn't report it. That don't go to their doctor and say they need help, or find a psychiatrist or psychologist and seek help. Men shouldn't need help. Feeling down? Kill an animal for sport, watch football, punch a wall, fix a car. Man stuff.
Part of why I started this blog was to open people up to depression and anxiety. Men, you can be depressed. You do not have to hide your feelings away. For too long we have been told to bottle up our emotions. We are told to stiffen up our upper lip, clench that jaw tight, don't let them see you cry. And if we fail at that, if we break down and cry, or if we reach out for help we are shunned by society. You think I don't feel that? You think I don't know that?
Ok so fair warning... The next bit is a peek inside of my head from a few months ago. I would be lying if I said that none of these thoughts still entered my head. They do. More often than I like. I am working on it though, and for now that is enough for me. So to everyone out there, I am ok. This is just a little insight into how my mind was at my darkest times. I am not suicidal right now, I am ok with things at the moment. So just remember that as you read on.
My mind was consumed by these thoughts. Every minute of every day. It can be downright exhausting. You know how cartoons portray the devil and angel trying to convince the character of what to do? Think to yourself, what it would be like to only have the devil sitting there. Telling you things. Bad things. Things like the following.
Outcast. Depressed. Failure. Failure to handle this on my own, failure to just keep living life like nothing is wrong, failure to be a man. Black-sheep. Pitied. Sick. Tired. Sick and tired, tired of struggling to get out of the house, tired of having my short fuse already lit when I open my eyes in the morning, tired of living this way. Tired of living. Death. Dying. Dying inside? Already dead inside. Worthless. Unworthy of love, unworthy of happiness, unworthy of sympathy, unworthy of help. Death. It would be easier if I were dead. Sinking. I'm dragging people down with me. Miserable. I'm making everyone else miserable too. They would be happier if I died. Why can't I just die? My kids would be better to have an image of what I was, than who I have become. What have I become? Nothing. A non-living thing. An emotionless, worthless, helpless, piece of garbage that is a drain on society, on myself, on my family. I welcome death. Can't it just happen? I don't want to kill myself... I just want to die. How pathetic am I? I can't even make the decision to ease everyone's suffering. Maybe tomorrow I can be a man about this and handle it. Maybe if I stop being a pussy and just did it, it would all be better.
My god, what am I doing? Is this what I have become? My inner voice is winning the battle of insanity. Who do you turn to when you have turned on yourself? Too many men have turned to the wrong people. Namely, Jim, Jack, or Jose. We try to drown the voice with alcohol or negate the voice with drugs instead of talking about what is wrong. How will people judge me if they find out I am having these thoughts or feeling this way?
How do you judge people? Do you have a preconceived idea of what a crazy person looks like? How about a depressed person? An alcoholic?
If you pictured anything other than someone like your neighbor, your friend, your coworker, your parent, your sibling, your child, your significant other, or even yourself, you need to adjust your outlook. I am your neighbor. I am your friend. I am your coworker. I am someone's parent. I am my brother's brother. I am my parent's child. I am my wife's husband. I am a little crazy. I am depressed. I am me, and that's perfectly fine. Not broken, not weak, not worthless. I am me.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
The enemy within myself
Is it starting again? I don't feel as depressed as I was, but the pains are coming back. So is the insomnia. I couldn't get to sleep last night for anything. The pain in my legs and back are both back as well. They are accompanied by intermittent headaches, some lasting hours others lasting seconds of intense, sharp pain.
Concentration has been slipping for a couple of weeks now. I'm finding it harder and harder to concentrate durning lectures. Even interesting topics can not hold my attention. Not to mention I find myself having to drag myself out of the house every day. I know it isn't healthy for me to stay in bed all day, but that is just how I feel. At first I thought it was laziness, but it is much more than that. It is a lack of motivation to do anything.
I also have found myself getting irritable and short fused when there is no need for it. This seemingly goes hand in hand with the overwhelming need to blow every little thing out of proportion. That my friends is my anxiety. It lies dormant then BOOM. Everything is a huge deal. One little criticism is seen as a shunning of your existence. Every critique is a huge question of your intellect or character. Even positive things get blown up. Someone telling you something good about you is instantly transformed. They are just saying that, they don't mean it, they are lying to make you feel better. This circle is exhausting. You just want out. Any way you can.
You then turn to thoughts of hurting yourself. I'm not back at that point yet, but I know it is around the corner. For me it begins with all of the above and you just get tired of feeling so terribly. The thoughts come in. Not even of suicide. You just see yourself dying. Over and over again. Various ways, various times. Before long you begin thinking of how you would do it. Then, a leap is made. Thoughts go from just thoughts to a thought of how you would do it, then become a plan, a viable way to kill yourself. Some plans are elaborate, some plans simple. All plans are dangerous. They all show a shift from thoughts to intent.
Back to where I am now. Not sleeping is troubling. I don't get very good deep sleep anyway, but if you take away even more sleep it is a very bad thing. Tiredness breeds even less concentration, even less motivation, and even more irritability. I am keeping my eye on it, and am letting my doctors know if it continues. I don't want to end up at the bottom again, but it is hard on someone whose depression causes them to be very hard on themselves to stay positive, to believe in myself, to think I can win.
Maybe I should look at my battle with mental illness as not just a battle, but as a war. If it is just a battle, then what is it when the depression or anxiety breaks through? Is it losing the battle? If it is a war and you win more battles than you lose and win the key battles, you can lose a few and still be ok. You can have a misstep, you can fall down, you can be a temporary failure, but losing just one battle at one time doesn't mean you are losing the war.
Depression, anxiety, and I have had some battles. I have won some recently, but lost many more early on. This is war. Not a skirmish, not a tussle, not a battle, I can lose, and still overcome. I can get knocked down, I just have to get up and dust myself off. I can not control the challenges life puts in front of me, I can only do my best to deal with them as they come and do it the best I can. Hopefully, in the end, I can plant my flag and fend off the enemy. The problem is, the enemy is inside me. It knows my shortcomings, it knows my fears, it knows every way to defeat me, because deep down it is me.
It becomes hard to discern between the real you and the depressed you. You lose your identity, your image. The person you see in the mirror isn't you. It represents what you have become, you grow to hate yourself more. You begin to hate yourself, mostly because your inner thoughts tell you to. They constantly remind you that you are worthless. Now, these are not voices, that is a whole different ball of wax. This is your inner voice. The thing you have trusted throughout the years. It has turned on you. You feel like two completely different people. The person you were, and the good-for-nothing, sorry excuse of a person you have become. They don't even seem to be related, let alone the same person. Your past and your memories become something like a movie you once saw. It didn't really happen to you, because you are no longer that person. Maybe one day I will look back and this chapter of my life will be the old movie, and my past will be my past not someone elses.
This disease is different than most. You can not see it. There are no visible signs that something is wrong other than people close to you can tell you are constantly in a bad mood. Not just a bad mood, but no longer have enjoyment. You can't run a simple blood test or an x-ray to see what is wrong. There is no vaccine to prevent it, or 100% way to cure it. There are medications that help, but most carry heavy burdens along with them. People have seen the commercials, they know the names. Zoloft, Paxil, Cymbalta, Wellbutrin, Prozac, Ativan, Xanax, Valium, Lithium, Depakote, Abilify, Seroquel the list is never ending. Most of these come with unwanted side effects. Side effects that do not necessarily help the situation at all. Weight gain, sexual dysfunction including libido loss, anxiety, headaches, tremors, dizziness, drowsiness or insomnia, delusions, hallucinations, and in rare cases syndromes that can be fatal. Sometimes you need more medication to combat the side effects of the medication.
For many years laughter and use of comedy have been my tools for battling the disease. It was not enough. The disease still struck, even after lying dorment for many years, it sunk it's fangs into me, coiled around me, and nearly squeezed all signs of life out of me. Through the trials you have already read about I got on medication, some helped, some made things worse. That can be the frustrating part. You take a medication and it is supposed to help. The first antidepressant I took caused me to have a pounding heart, so hard you can feel your pulse throughout your body, so hard you can see it with your eyes closed. Or can you? Then began the colors, bright flashy rainbow tunnel on an acid trip colors. Sweating and dizzy. My god, is this what it is going to be like on these meds? Fortunately for me, it was just that certain medication and I was switched to another. One that would help me sleep too. It has worked fairly well until now. It used to be after I took it, about 30 minutes later I would be very tired. Now, 30 minutes later I am wide awake. An hour later I am just getting drowsy. Two hours later I am tired. Last night, it took almost 5 hours to finally fall asleep. I moved from the bedroom to the couch at about midnight as I had been tossing and turning for almost two hours at that point. A few hours later the light came on and a short, high-pitched scream woke me up. Apparently, my wife was unaware of my sleeping difficulties and was not expecting a grown man on the couch.
I also have found myself getting irritable and short fused when there is no need for it. This seemingly goes hand in hand with the overwhelming need to blow every little thing out of proportion. That my friends is my anxiety. It lies dormant then BOOM. Everything is a huge deal. One little criticism is seen as a shunning of your existence. Every critique is a huge question of your intellect or character. Even positive things get blown up. Someone telling you something good about you is instantly transformed. They are just saying that, they don't mean it, they are lying to make you feel better. This circle is exhausting. You just want out. Any way you can.
You then turn to thoughts of hurting yourself. I'm not back at that point yet, but I know it is around the corner. For me it begins with all of the above and you just get tired of feeling so terribly. The thoughts come in. Not even of suicide. You just see yourself dying. Over and over again. Various ways, various times. Before long you begin thinking of how you would do it. Then, a leap is made. Thoughts go from just thoughts to a thought of how you would do it, then become a plan, a viable way to kill yourself. Some plans are elaborate, some plans simple. All plans are dangerous. They all show a shift from thoughts to intent.
Back to where I am now. Not sleeping is troubling. I don't get very good deep sleep anyway, but if you take away even more sleep it is a very bad thing. Tiredness breeds even less concentration, even less motivation, and even more irritability. I am keeping my eye on it, and am letting my doctors know if it continues. I don't want to end up at the bottom again, but it is hard on someone whose depression causes them to be very hard on themselves to stay positive, to believe in myself, to think I can win.
Maybe I should look at my battle with mental illness as not just a battle, but as a war. If it is just a battle, then what is it when the depression or anxiety breaks through? Is it losing the battle? If it is a war and you win more battles than you lose and win the key battles, you can lose a few and still be ok. You can have a misstep, you can fall down, you can be a temporary failure, but losing just one battle at one time doesn't mean you are losing the war.
Depression, anxiety, and I have had some battles. I have won some recently, but lost many more early on. This is war. Not a skirmish, not a tussle, not a battle, I can lose, and still overcome. I can get knocked down, I just have to get up and dust myself off. I can not control the challenges life puts in front of me, I can only do my best to deal with them as they come and do it the best I can. Hopefully, in the end, I can plant my flag and fend off the enemy. The problem is, the enemy is inside me. It knows my shortcomings, it knows my fears, it knows every way to defeat me, because deep down it is me.
It becomes hard to discern between the real you and the depressed you. You lose your identity, your image. The person you see in the mirror isn't you. It represents what you have become, you grow to hate yourself more. You begin to hate yourself, mostly because your inner thoughts tell you to. They constantly remind you that you are worthless. Now, these are not voices, that is a whole different ball of wax. This is your inner voice. The thing you have trusted throughout the years. It has turned on you. You feel like two completely different people. The person you were, and the good-for-nothing, sorry excuse of a person you have become. They don't even seem to be related, let alone the same person. Your past and your memories become something like a movie you once saw. It didn't really happen to you, because you are no longer that person. Maybe one day I will look back and this chapter of my life will be the old movie, and my past will be my past not someone elses.
This disease is different than most. You can not see it. There are no visible signs that something is wrong other than people close to you can tell you are constantly in a bad mood. Not just a bad mood, but no longer have enjoyment. You can't run a simple blood test or an x-ray to see what is wrong. There is no vaccine to prevent it, or 100% way to cure it. There are medications that help, but most carry heavy burdens along with them. People have seen the commercials, they know the names. Zoloft, Paxil, Cymbalta, Wellbutrin, Prozac, Ativan, Xanax, Valium, Lithium, Depakote, Abilify, Seroquel the list is never ending. Most of these come with unwanted side effects. Side effects that do not necessarily help the situation at all. Weight gain, sexual dysfunction including libido loss, anxiety, headaches, tremors, dizziness, drowsiness or insomnia, delusions, hallucinations, and in rare cases syndromes that can be fatal. Sometimes you need more medication to combat the side effects of the medication.
For many years laughter and use of comedy have been my tools for battling the disease. It was not enough. The disease still struck, even after lying dorment for many years, it sunk it's fangs into me, coiled around me, and nearly squeezed all signs of life out of me. Through the trials you have already read about I got on medication, some helped, some made things worse. That can be the frustrating part. You take a medication and it is supposed to help. The first antidepressant I took caused me to have a pounding heart, so hard you can feel your pulse throughout your body, so hard you can see it with your eyes closed. Or can you? Then began the colors, bright flashy rainbow tunnel on an acid trip colors. Sweating and dizzy. My god, is this what it is going to be like on these meds? Fortunately for me, it was just that certain medication and I was switched to another. One that would help me sleep too. It has worked fairly well until now. It used to be after I took it, about 30 minutes later I would be very tired. Now, 30 minutes later I am wide awake. An hour later I am just getting drowsy. Two hours later I am tired. Last night, it took almost 5 hours to finally fall asleep. I moved from the bedroom to the couch at about midnight as I had been tossing and turning for almost two hours at that point. A few hours later the light came on and a short, high-pitched scream woke me up. Apparently, my wife was unaware of my sleeping difficulties and was not expecting a grown man on the couch.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Scratching the surface
So there are parts of the lead up to seeking help and my breakdown that I kind of glossed over. Part of it was intended, part was I never really saw it as something big when it really was. In the moment I was lost in my self. I was trapped in a state of only thinking three things. The first was I am worthless. The second, everybody who knows me would be better off if I wasn't around. Lastly, I should kill myself.
It is an interesting thought process when it comes. I should kill myself. What bad could come from it? I mean, everyone would be happier without me dragging them down. It is a scary time. When killing yourself goes from a fleeting thought to a viable option. Not just a viable option, but a high possibility. How can you break that news to someone? A lot of people don't and they end up a statistic somewhere. For those of us who verbalize it to someone, it is like sharing your deepest, darkest secret. You hope they won't think you are joking, that they won't think you are trying to be funny, that you are pulling their leg. Nothing has been truer in your mind than the possibility you will end your life without help.
I verbalized to another person that I was thinking of killing myself. It certainly was hard to do, but if I wanted to get better I had to do it. I can not even begin to imagine what goes through someone's mind when someone they care about, someone they love, tells them they are suicidal. I didn't pick the best time to tell them either. I had to get to class, and things lined up just right to where I told them that I was very depressed and had been contemplating killing myself. I know it was not quite that elegant, but I am sure I got my point across. The next hour and a half or so was spent crying and barely talking. Then, I had to leave.
What would you think if this were you? For me, I was too self-absorbed to see what I was doing. I was too stuck in my own mind to understand the pain and worry I was causing. I didn't think that someone could or should worry if I was coming home. If they would just get a call instead of me pulling into the driveway that night. Was I really going to class? Was I doing what I said I was? I couldn't be trusted. I was beyond the tipping point, so to the people around me my word was no longer good enough. Saying I wouldn't do anything rash, promising I would come home, that I would be there, was no longer a given. There was too much at stake not to worry about my every move. My every emotion. My every breath.
I would be lying if I said I understood how someone put in that situation would feel. I can not even imagine the torment it causes. I just hope the people I confided in understand it took a lot for me to do that. It took a lot for me to say "I have been very, very depressed for awhile and I have been thinking of killing myself." I am sure those were not my exact words. But they have the same meaning all the same. As someone who felt like their heart did not even exist, I can only imagine that it felt like their heart was being ripped out of their chest. That all they knew was disintegrating around them. Stability was gone.
I never knew how much damage those words could have done. I was trying to reach out, trying to do the right thing. But in the end, even though it was the right thing for me to do to get help, it was undoubtedly hard to deal with. In the moment it was hard to see the fact that I was releasing this pain of mine to someone else. Now they had a burden. It wasn't intended to be, but now, from that moment forward, if I were to give in to the thoughts and take my own life, anyone I told I was feeling the way I was would feel as though they let everyone down. That if I killed myself, they were responsible. They knew I was having these thoughts, these issues, but I still did it. That is a hard thing to live with. It is almost like I guilted them into the situation. That if I kept my mouth shut, we could all just continue on our merry way. Would it have been better if I never said a word? Would I still be here? Is it worth sacrificing something just to keep myself alive? Am I worth that? Am I worth the pain and suffering those around me have gone through? Am I worth the pain and suffering I have gone through? Am I worth the pain and suffering we all will go through on this journey?
Yes. Yes I am.
I have to tell myself that a lot. I have to convince myself that I am worth all this trouble. I'm not sure I completely believe it. My therapist tells me I don't need to believe it at this point. If I keep telling myself that I am, eventually I will believe it. So I guess for now I will just have to fake it until I make it.
People like me are told not to dwell on things in the past. They tell us not say or think about should haves or could haves. I should have done this, or I could have done that and things would be better. The fact of the matter is that if I knew to do those things then, we wouldn't be here. We wouldn't be talking about this. But the fact remains, I am here. I did not do the right things. I took the rough road to get here. I shot myself in the foot, hell, I shot myself in both feet and possibly a hand. I almost took the worst road of all. I was in a nose dive headed for the earth. But a few others and myself grabbed the controls and pulled up. Now, it is just the battle to stay aloft. To keep from crashing.
I saw a quote the other day that has kind of stuck with me. It deals with suicide and I do not know the origin other than two different pictures I have seen of two different men holding a cardboard sign that reads "Suicide does not end the chances of life getting worse, suicide eliminates the possibility of it ever getting better." This is an important outlook to keep in mind. Choosing suicide is choosing the certainty that your life will never get better, and choosing the certainty that you will leave a lasting scar on the people around you. Some scars are ok. They remind us of the past, they remind us that we overcame something. A scar means you have healed. I have visible and invisible scars just like everyone else. Physical and emotional scarring that will one day tell the tale of my triumph over depression. That is what I want my legacy to be. One of hope, of triumph, of success instead of leaving a black mark on everyone who cares about me's soul.
It is an interesting thought process when it comes. I should kill myself. What bad could come from it? I mean, everyone would be happier without me dragging them down. It is a scary time. When killing yourself goes from a fleeting thought to a viable option. Not just a viable option, but a high possibility. How can you break that news to someone? A lot of people don't and they end up a statistic somewhere. For those of us who verbalize it to someone, it is like sharing your deepest, darkest secret. You hope they won't think you are joking, that they won't think you are trying to be funny, that you are pulling their leg. Nothing has been truer in your mind than the possibility you will end your life without help.
I verbalized to another person that I was thinking of killing myself. It certainly was hard to do, but if I wanted to get better I had to do it. I can not even begin to imagine what goes through someone's mind when someone they care about, someone they love, tells them they are suicidal. I didn't pick the best time to tell them either. I had to get to class, and things lined up just right to where I told them that I was very depressed and had been contemplating killing myself. I know it was not quite that elegant, but I am sure I got my point across. The next hour and a half or so was spent crying and barely talking. Then, I had to leave.
What would you think if this were you? For me, I was too self-absorbed to see what I was doing. I was too stuck in my own mind to understand the pain and worry I was causing. I didn't think that someone could or should worry if I was coming home. If they would just get a call instead of me pulling into the driveway that night. Was I really going to class? Was I doing what I said I was? I couldn't be trusted. I was beyond the tipping point, so to the people around me my word was no longer good enough. Saying I wouldn't do anything rash, promising I would come home, that I would be there, was no longer a given. There was too much at stake not to worry about my every move. My every emotion. My every breath.
I would be lying if I said I understood how someone put in that situation would feel. I can not even imagine the torment it causes. I just hope the people I confided in understand it took a lot for me to do that. It took a lot for me to say "I have been very, very depressed for awhile and I have been thinking of killing myself." I am sure those were not my exact words. But they have the same meaning all the same. As someone who felt like their heart did not even exist, I can only imagine that it felt like their heart was being ripped out of their chest. That all they knew was disintegrating around them. Stability was gone.
I never knew how much damage those words could have done. I was trying to reach out, trying to do the right thing. But in the end, even though it was the right thing for me to do to get help, it was undoubtedly hard to deal with. In the moment it was hard to see the fact that I was releasing this pain of mine to someone else. Now they had a burden. It wasn't intended to be, but now, from that moment forward, if I were to give in to the thoughts and take my own life, anyone I told I was feeling the way I was would feel as though they let everyone down. That if I killed myself, they were responsible. They knew I was having these thoughts, these issues, but I still did it. That is a hard thing to live with. It is almost like I guilted them into the situation. That if I kept my mouth shut, we could all just continue on our merry way. Would it have been better if I never said a word? Would I still be here? Is it worth sacrificing something just to keep myself alive? Am I worth that? Am I worth the pain and suffering those around me have gone through? Am I worth the pain and suffering I have gone through? Am I worth the pain and suffering we all will go through on this journey?
Yes. Yes I am.
I have to tell myself that a lot. I have to convince myself that I am worth all this trouble. I'm not sure I completely believe it. My therapist tells me I don't need to believe it at this point. If I keep telling myself that I am, eventually I will believe it. So I guess for now I will just have to fake it until I make it.
People like me are told not to dwell on things in the past. They tell us not say or think about should haves or could haves. I should have done this, or I could have done that and things would be better. The fact of the matter is that if I knew to do those things then, we wouldn't be here. We wouldn't be talking about this. But the fact remains, I am here. I did not do the right things. I took the rough road to get here. I shot myself in the foot, hell, I shot myself in both feet and possibly a hand. I almost took the worst road of all. I was in a nose dive headed for the earth. But a few others and myself grabbed the controls and pulled up. Now, it is just the battle to stay aloft. To keep from crashing.
I saw a quote the other day that has kind of stuck with me. It deals with suicide and I do not know the origin other than two different pictures I have seen of two different men holding a cardboard sign that reads "Suicide does not end the chances of life getting worse, suicide eliminates the possibility of it ever getting better." This is an important outlook to keep in mind. Choosing suicide is choosing the certainty that your life will never get better, and choosing the certainty that you will leave a lasting scar on the people around you. Some scars are ok. They remind us of the past, they remind us that we overcame something. A scar means you have healed. I have visible and invisible scars just like everyone else. Physical and emotional scarring that will one day tell the tale of my triumph over depression. That is what I want my legacy to be. One of hope, of triumph, of success instead of leaving a black mark on everyone who cares about me's soul.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
The lead up to and attending my first depression group
It has been a long time coming. I should have done it long ago. Certainly when I first went for help and definitely when I got out of the hospital after my breakdown. I need to find an outlet other than a therapist, a psychiatrist, and this blog.
One of the things I actually enjoyed when I was hospitalized was attending group therapies. Us, some of them were hokey, but a majority of them allowed for expression and education on what I was feeling and thinking. I only walked out of two group therapies early. One because they played Hotel California by The Eagles then Eleanor Rigby by the Beatles. Great songs, but poor choices for the looney bin. The other, people started yelling and fighting with each other so since I was close to the door, I left.
Some of the best groups explored the science or reasons behind depression, anxiety, addiction, and other mental illnesses. Sometimes all you need is a room full of people in the same boat as you to see things in yourself. For every good group there was a less than good group. Some surprised you by being good when you expected it to suck. Art therapy, expressive therapy, music therapy... Those were hit or miss. I am not an artist by any stretch, but the point was well taken. You can complete a project and you can make something that represents you or describes you, and that, surprisingly enough, was quite therapeutic. Music therapy, well, was less than therapeutic. A woman with a keyboard singing songs to you. Fail.
So it is with high hopes that I make my way to the meeting tonight to see what it is all about. I am hopeful that it will be good for me and be something I want to be involved with. It is worth a shot right? It begins at 6:30 and is slated to go until 8:30. That seems like a really long time to me. Two hours. I figured out where it is at and that it is led by a "mental health specialist." That leaves a lot up to speculation. I mean, a specialist... So they have experience with mental health? I have experience with mental health, I lack it. Does that count?
.................................................................................
Ok so I went to the meeting. It was a good experience. Very small group but that is fine with me. It is always good to be around people with similar experiences and stories. I am sure I will be back. I can't say too much about it, not just because of the anonymity for the other members, but because I have posted my story here, and I tell my thoughts and share my problems here already so it makes it redundant to talk about what is talked about there anyway.
There was one thing that struck a chord with me from the meeting tonight. One of the people brought up thinking about never allowing themselves to get that bad again. To get to the point of breakdown again. And then it happened.
This resonates with me because I am terrified of that. I know things now that should be able to help me if I ever start down that path again, but will it work? Will I have another breakdown? I hope not. I pray and beg that I will not. You all will play a part in keeping me from it. Unknowingly, you will all help me keep on the right path. Letting you in has already helped, and if I keep sharing then maybe it will keep me from going to that dark place.
I have to remember some times that I am human. I can make mistakes. I can say the wrong thing. I can do the wrong thing. I can be wrong. I am flawed. And all of that is ok. That's normal. For me, for so long I couldn't accept that, and still have a hard time with it. I have made myself into this thing that focuses on everything that has gone wrong. Everything that was bad. Nothing was good. It took me hitting a wall at 100 miles per hour and losing my way, my path, my mind, and nearly my life to see that there were good things around me. I wasn't a failure. I was loved and worthy of that. But, sometimes, on bad days, I catch myself. Catch myself thinking those same tired thoughts. Those same useless, self-depricating, damaging thoughts. The good news? I can see them now. I can catch myself in the middle of them. Before they ran rampant through my mind, no control, no subsiding. I hope the rest of my life isn't a struggle with this constantly. I hope I get things figured out. I'm trying. Sometimes I just don't know if it makes a difference. If it does any good.
See, there I go again.
One of the things I actually enjoyed when I was hospitalized was attending group therapies. Us, some of them were hokey, but a majority of them allowed for expression and education on what I was feeling and thinking. I only walked out of two group therapies early. One because they played Hotel California by The Eagles then Eleanor Rigby by the Beatles. Great songs, but poor choices for the looney bin. The other, people started yelling and fighting with each other so since I was close to the door, I left.
Some of the best groups explored the science or reasons behind depression, anxiety, addiction, and other mental illnesses. Sometimes all you need is a room full of people in the same boat as you to see things in yourself. For every good group there was a less than good group. Some surprised you by being good when you expected it to suck. Art therapy, expressive therapy, music therapy... Those were hit or miss. I am not an artist by any stretch, but the point was well taken. You can complete a project and you can make something that represents you or describes you, and that, surprisingly enough, was quite therapeutic. Music therapy, well, was less than therapeutic. A woman with a keyboard singing songs to you. Fail.
So it is with high hopes that I make my way to the meeting tonight to see what it is all about. I am hopeful that it will be good for me and be something I want to be involved with. It is worth a shot right? It begins at 6:30 and is slated to go until 8:30. That seems like a really long time to me. Two hours. I figured out where it is at and that it is led by a "mental health specialist." That leaves a lot up to speculation. I mean, a specialist... So they have experience with mental health? I have experience with mental health, I lack it. Does that count?
.................................................................................
Ok so I went to the meeting. It was a good experience. Very small group but that is fine with me. It is always good to be around people with similar experiences and stories. I am sure I will be back. I can't say too much about it, not just because of the anonymity for the other members, but because I have posted my story here, and I tell my thoughts and share my problems here already so it makes it redundant to talk about what is talked about there anyway.
There was one thing that struck a chord with me from the meeting tonight. One of the people brought up thinking about never allowing themselves to get that bad again. To get to the point of breakdown again. And then it happened.
This resonates with me because I am terrified of that. I know things now that should be able to help me if I ever start down that path again, but will it work? Will I have another breakdown? I hope not. I pray and beg that I will not. You all will play a part in keeping me from it. Unknowingly, you will all help me keep on the right path. Letting you in has already helped, and if I keep sharing then maybe it will keep me from going to that dark place.
I have to remember some times that I am human. I can make mistakes. I can say the wrong thing. I can do the wrong thing. I can be wrong. I am flawed. And all of that is ok. That's normal. For me, for so long I couldn't accept that, and still have a hard time with it. I have made myself into this thing that focuses on everything that has gone wrong. Everything that was bad. Nothing was good. It took me hitting a wall at 100 miles per hour and losing my way, my path, my mind, and nearly my life to see that there were good things around me. I wasn't a failure. I was loved and worthy of that. But, sometimes, on bad days, I catch myself. Catch myself thinking those same tired thoughts. Those same useless, self-depricating, damaging thoughts. The good news? I can see them now. I can catch myself in the middle of them. Before they ran rampant through my mind, no control, no subsiding. I hope the rest of my life isn't a struggle with this constantly. I hope I get things figured out. I'm trying. Sometimes I just don't know if it makes a difference. If it does any good.
See, there I go again.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Coming Back From a Little Hiatus
As some of you have pointed out, and others probably didn't even notice, it has been about two weeks since I wrote anything. This wasn't really planned, it wasn't for any other purpose than I didn't know where I wanted to go with it. I had a lot of things in my mind, different posts I could write, different avenues and arguments. I am still debating with myself on some things as it relates to this blog, but just know I have not gone anywhere. I know there are some of you out there with similar stories. They may not be your own, but family members or friends that have struggled with depression or mental illness. I have kicked around the idea of having a "guest blogger" do a post or two. If you or someone you know might be interested in doing one let me know. You can message me on Facebook or e-mail me at scottarivera@yahoo.com. It doesn't have to just be depression. There are a ton of topics that would work: PTSD, Bipolar, Schizophrenia, Addiction, OCD, Phobias, or even living with someone with a mental illness.
As most of you know I am in nursing school, and this semester I have been doing my mental health rotation in clinicals. It has been kind of an interesting time. It is hard to not share too much of my own experiences. I see these people, going through some of the same struggles I have and am still going through, and sometimes it is just as simple as them needing to know they aren't alone. They aren't broken or damaged. I'm not broken or damaged. We are just sick.
That is hard for people to hear. I'm sick. I have an illness. I did not choose to have all of this happen to me. I did not knowingly choose a lot of things over the past few years that were toxic for myself and others. I could not see through the dense fog of depression to make good choices. I made mistakes. Big mistakes. I hurt people. Not physically, emotionally. I drove people away. I did the bare minimum to get by, sometimes not even that much. I was a burden on the people around me, but not in the way it was in my mind. In my mind I was a burden because I was alive and in their lives. In reality, I was a burden because I was unstable. I couldn't be trusted. I had to be looked after, not unlike a child. You wouldn't call your kids a burden, but they can be... taxing? So maybe I was taxing and not a burden, because the people looking out for me loved me. They didn't want to see me the way I was, they didn't want for me to go.
But no matter how much someone else wants you to get help, no matter how much they try to lead you in that direction, you yourself have to want it. No one was going to make me do anything. I knew what was best. It would be best for everyone if I killed myself. It would be over and they could get on with their lives and not have to worry about me taxing them, burdening them any more.
I should have pushed myself to get help. More help than I did. I needed ways to deal with my emotions. Ways to deal with my feelings. I kept things under lock and key for a long time. Pushed down, unexposed. That is the only way I knew how to deal with it. I had to be strong, had to be stoic. In the end, I found out I was neither. Being strong and being stoic doesn't mean you have to bottle up your emotions and your failures. It is dealing with them. Pushing them away was more cowardly than it was anything else. A real man isn't afraid to deal with emotions, to deal with short comings, to deal with...life.
I can not even attempt to undo the failures I have had. Some small, some large, they are failures. Failure to get help when I should have, failure to reach out, failure to be a good father, failure to be a good husband, failure to be a good brother, a good son, a good friend, a good member of society, failure to not let my emotions get the better of me, failure to learn coping skills, failure to deal with life, and a failure to see that life was worth living. All I can do is apologize for my past transgressions. Apologize for not living up to my end of the bargain. Apologize for not being what I should have been and hope for forgiveness. Some bridges have been burnt to the ground, some are hanging by a thread, some are intact but potholed. I've never been good at manual labor, but I am trying to build bridges back up. I can only do half of the bridge, maybe a little more, but if the other side does not want the bridge to be there it will inevitably be a bridge to nowhere. I have to find a way to deal with that. I did the damage, even if it was because I was sick the damage was done.
If you are struggling with depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, reach out to me. I will keep everything confidential and will try to point you in the best direction. These words may fall on deaf ears, because I know it did when people said it to me. But try to listen to them. You aren't broken or damaged. You are sick and need help. Let me help you. Let someone help you. You can not do it yourself. Let me repeat that. You can not do it yourself. No matter how good you think you are at handling it. You can not do it yourself. I thought I was handling it ok. I thought I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. I reached out, went to a psychiatrist, got on medication. That was what I was supposed to do right? It wasn't enough. I still broke down. I didn't know what to do in that moment. I didn't want to bother anyone with what was going on. Even those who knew, they offered help. Anytime, anywhere, if I needed help to tell them. I didn't. I overdosed trying to solve the problem temporarily. I had, as my therapist called it in my last session, a nervous breakdown. I lost it. By it I mean perspective. A sane person knows that taking copious amounts of trazodone and benzodiazepines is not a good way to deal with things. In the moment, I was not a sane person. Truth-be-told I probably hadn't been sane for some time.
For me losing my mind was not a sudden thing. It was a gradual process over time. It is that way for many people. Things start out slowly. You are sad, you don't like yourself, you start to pull away from social interactions. Slowly things snowball and before you know it years have passed and you hate yourself, you are beyond sad, you seclude from everything, you want to die. This is the point when things start to move faster and faster. Most people fear death, at this point you just wish it would happen. You aren't ready to take your own life, but you would welcome something that would do it for you. While driving you secretly hope to be broadsided by a semi. You wish you would get very sick and pass away. Why can't someone just try and rob me or carjack me so I can fight them and make them shoot me. A lot of times this is the stage where people begin to take big risks. Deadly risks. Driving erratically, extreme sports, dangerous drinking, and heavy drug use to name a few. My case would also fit in this group. Self-medicating with prescription medications. A majority of the time the people do not even know they are doing things that are dangerous and reckless. Subconsciously they are just doing them. It comes back to that whole I want to die, but I am not going to kill myself thinking.
As things get worse, that is when people turn that corner. They make that move from wanting to die, to attempting to or taking their own life. This can happen quickly or over a period of time. Unfortunately, those reaching this point are often so far into their depression there is no escape in their mind. They don't even think with help they would get better. It would just be a waste of time and resources. They feel they are a lost cause. A pointless venture.
My case was somewhere in between. I acted knowing that what I was doing could have a bad outcome, but I had to get rid of the thoughts in my head. They were so loud and so constant that day I couldn't focus on anything except I was either going to get rid of them, or I was going to die. I have very little doubt in that. It took hitting that low. That point where I had to go through that experience to understand I needed help. I needed to be around. I needed to get my life back.
I know I could be doing more to help myself. So it is with that thought that I have decided to follow through on one of the things I said I would do. I have looked into it and there is a depression support group that meets in Olathe on Monday nights. I am going to give it a try. At least it will give me a topic for my next post, right?
As most of you know I am in nursing school, and this semester I have been doing my mental health rotation in clinicals. It has been kind of an interesting time. It is hard to not share too much of my own experiences. I see these people, going through some of the same struggles I have and am still going through, and sometimes it is just as simple as them needing to know they aren't alone. They aren't broken or damaged. I'm not broken or damaged. We are just sick.
That is hard for people to hear. I'm sick. I have an illness. I did not choose to have all of this happen to me. I did not knowingly choose a lot of things over the past few years that were toxic for myself and others. I could not see through the dense fog of depression to make good choices. I made mistakes. Big mistakes. I hurt people. Not physically, emotionally. I drove people away. I did the bare minimum to get by, sometimes not even that much. I was a burden on the people around me, but not in the way it was in my mind. In my mind I was a burden because I was alive and in their lives. In reality, I was a burden because I was unstable. I couldn't be trusted. I had to be looked after, not unlike a child. You wouldn't call your kids a burden, but they can be... taxing? So maybe I was taxing and not a burden, because the people looking out for me loved me. They didn't want to see me the way I was, they didn't want for me to go.
But no matter how much someone else wants you to get help, no matter how much they try to lead you in that direction, you yourself have to want it. No one was going to make me do anything. I knew what was best. It would be best for everyone if I killed myself. It would be over and they could get on with their lives and not have to worry about me taxing them, burdening them any more.
I should have pushed myself to get help. More help than I did. I needed ways to deal with my emotions. Ways to deal with my feelings. I kept things under lock and key for a long time. Pushed down, unexposed. That is the only way I knew how to deal with it. I had to be strong, had to be stoic. In the end, I found out I was neither. Being strong and being stoic doesn't mean you have to bottle up your emotions and your failures. It is dealing with them. Pushing them away was more cowardly than it was anything else. A real man isn't afraid to deal with emotions, to deal with short comings, to deal with...life.
I can not even attempt to undo the failures I have had. Some small, some large, they are failures. Failure to get help when I should have, failure to reach out, failure to be a good father, failure to be a good husband, failure to be a good brother, a good son, a good friend, a good member of society, failure to not let my emotions get the better of me, failure to learn coping skills, failure to deal with life, and a failure to see that life was worth living. All I can do is apologize for my past transgressions. Apologize for not living up to my end of the bargain. Apologize for not being what I should have been and hope for forgiveness. Some bridges have been burnt to the ground, some are hanging by a thread, some are intact but potholed. I've never been good at manual labor, but I am trying to build bridges back up. I can only do half of the bridge, maybe a little more, but if the other side does not want the bridge to be there it will inevitably be a bridge to nowhere. I have to find a way to deal with that. I did the damage, even if it was because I was sick the damage was done.
If you are struggling with depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, reach out to me. I will keep everything confidential and will try to point you in the best direction. These words may fall on deaf ears, because I know it did when people said it to me. But try to listen to them. You aren't broken or damaged. You are sick and need help. Let me help you. Let someone help you. You can not do it yourself. Let me repeat that. You can not do it yourself. No matter how good you think you are at handling it. You can not do it yourself. I thought I was handling it ok. I thought I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. I reached out, went to a psychiatrist, got on medication. That was what I was supposed to do right? It wasn't enough. I still broke down. I didn't know what to do in that moment. I didn't want to bother anyone with what was going on. Even those who knew, they offered help. Anytime, anywhere, if I needed help to tell them. I didn't. I overdosed trying to solve the problem temporarily. I had, as my therapist called it in my last session, a nervous breakdown. I lost it. By it I mean perspective. A sane person knows that taking copious amounts of trazodone and benzodiazepines is not a good way to deal with things. In the moment, I was not a sane person. Truth-be-told I probably hadn't been sane for some time.
For me losing my mind was not a sudden thing. It was a gradual process over time. It is that way for many people. Things start out slowly. You are sad, you don't like yourself, you start to pull away from social interactions. Slowly things snowball and before you know it years have passed and you hate yourself, you are beyond sad, you seclude from everything, you want to die. This is the point when things start to move faster and faster. Most people fear death, at this point you just wish it would happen. You aren't ready to take your own life, but you would welcome something that would do it for you. While driving you secretly hope to be broadsided by a semi. You wish you would get very sick and pass away. Why can't someone just try and rob me or carjack me so I can fight them and make them shoot me. A lot of times this is the stage where people begin to take big risks. Deadly risks. Driving erratically, extreme sports, dangerous drinking, and heavy drug use to name a few. My case would also fit in this group. Self-medicating with prescription medications. A majority of the time the people do not even know they are doing things that are dangerous and reckless. Subconsciously they are just doing them. It comes back to that whole I want to die, but I am not going to kill myself thinking.
As things get worse, that is when people turn that corner. They make that move from wanting to die, to attempting to or taking their own life. This can happen quickly or over a period of time. Unfortunately, those reaching this point are often so far into their depression there is no escape in their mind. They don't even think with help they would get better. It would just be a waste of time and resources. They feel they are a lost cause. A pointless venture.
My case was somewhere in between. I acted knowing that what I was doing could have a bad outcome, but I had to get rid of the thoughts in my head. They were so loud and so constant that day I couldn't focus on anything except I was either going to get rid of them, or I was going to die. I have very little doubt in that. It took hitting that low. That point where I had to go through that experience to understand I needed help. I needed to be around. I needed to get my life back.
I know I could be doing more to help myself. So it is with that thought that I have decided to follow through on one of the things I said I would do. I have looked into it and there is a depression support group that meets in Olathe on Monday nights. I am going to give it a try. At least it will give me a topic for my next post, right?
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