Sometimes it stops, sometimes it flows, baby that is how [life] goes.
It's been interesting. My body and my mind seem to be doing a series of internal adjustments and my whole life feels like one big, weird transition.
First, I got back on depression medication. I should never have gone off of it. I should probably never go off of it again. Unless I've been happily married and successful in my work for like five years. MAYBE. It was the one thing my therapist was wrong about (she thought I could go off the meds), but given the huge long list of things she was right about, I'm not holding it against her. I have this habit of presenting as happier than I really am after I've just finished clearing a huge pile of shit out of my life. I'm so excited not to be miserable anymore that I look joyfully happy. And I am, by contrast, but my baseline is not as high as it might appear. And when the euphoria wears off, I settle. And that's OK. My therapist thought I was all better because I was exuding happiness and confidence, but the truth is that I was just a lot better, and I was happy and confident to know that I can shovel the shit life throws at me. But that doesn't mean I'm all good. And I still need the meds.
Getting back on them was super fucking hard and awful. First I was groggy and dizzy if I stood up too fast. Then I got emotionally numb. I felt tired, not just physically but emotionally. I started thinking things like, "Why do I go through all the effort of surviving my boring, monotonous, lonely life? Is there any reason to think that things will get any better? If not, then why am I bothering? Why don't I just quit now?" This would spiral into detailed plans of the least painful (and logistically complicated) ways to kill myself. Normally the second I even think about suicide, my brain recoils and this fear response sets in that says I shouldn't be feeling that way and I'm afraid of death. But my feelings-including fear-were totally numb and so the fantasies went on way longer and deeper than they ever have before. A couple times I even ran the sharp edge of a knife lightly over the skin on my wrist and shivered because I liked the tingles on my skin so much. Luckily my brain was still working, so that was the moment when I put the knives away, removed myself from their general vicinity, and called someone. It's weird to talk about it now because I know how completely not normal that type of behavior is, but I remember it feeling completely normal at the time. I wasn't distraught. I wasn't like a sobbing person standing on a ledge. I was calm. It seemed logical. Stop the effort. Give up. Rest eternal. It seemed like a nice idea, comforting even. It wasn't an act of desperation. It wasn't how I'd always thought of suicide before. Sometimes I think I ought to be scared that I had this experience, but having read up on it I know this is a side effect that many people have had when acclimating to an antidepressant. I'm not a freak or anything. But even now I can't be sure that I wouldn't have hurt myself, that I would never hurt myself. When I realized that the odds of me hurting myself were somewhere over 30% I called someone. I decided not to take the chance. Would I have done it? I can't even say "probably not" for sure. I just don't know. And it seems like that should be terrifying, but for some reason I feel like I can just put it away. Say this was a side effect associated with my antidepressant, and I don't have to worry about it now, but I should remember so that a little red flag will go off in my brain if I ever feel this way again and I'll know it's a good idea to get help and not be alone. I hope that's the right attitude. I feel much better now. All the side effects seem to be gone, and life seems ok. Manageable. Pleasant, even.
I saw a comic recently about Superman talking to a suicidal woman, and he told her that if she thought she'd have even one more happy day, she shouldn't do it. That line was really poignant to me. Because I do value every bit of happiness I have. And maybe that is why my brain told me to get help even when suicide seemed like a great idea. It knew that I would be sad to lose my future happiness even if I couldn't feel it right then. I'm glad I read this because I will remember it if the feeling ever comes back to me again. The logic part of my brain will still know that I am likely to have one more happy day, and that's worth living for. Marina told me that when she was depressed she challenged herself to notice one beautiful thing every day. It's a similar sentiment, and a valuable one. Those little moments are worth keeping, and I want to keep the knowledge of that fact at the front of my brain where it can help me when things go to shit again, as perhaps one day they will.
I have more to say about me and my life, but I also have a meeting to go to and work to do, so perhaps I will write more about this later. But I haven't written for a while, and I didn't want to let this slide on by. It seemed important to talk about it.
First, I got back on depression medication. I should never have gone off of it. I should probably never go off of it again. Unless I've been happily married and successful in my work for like five years. MAYBE. It was the one thing my therapist was wrong about (she thought I could go off the meds), but given the huge long list of things she was right about, I'm not holding it against her. I have this habit of presenting as happier than I really am after I've just finished clearing a huge pile of shit out of my life. I'm so excited not to be miserable anymore that I look joyfully happy. And I am, by contrast, but my baseline is not as high as it might appear. And when the euphoria wears off, I settle. And that's OK. My therapist thought I was all better because I was exuding happiness and confidence, but the truth is that I was just a lot better, and I was happy and confident to know that I can shovel the shit life throws at me. But that doesn't mean I'm all good. And I still need the meds.
Getting back on them was super fucking hard and awful. First I was groggy and dizzy if I stood up too fast. Then I got emotionally numb. I felt tired, not just physically but emotionally. I started thinking things like, "Why do I go through all the effort of surviving my boring, monotonous, lonely life? Is there any reason to think that things will get any better? If not, then why am I bothering? Why don't I just quit now?" This would spiral into detailed plans of the least painful (and logistically complicated) ways to kill myself. Normally the second I even think about suicide, my brain recoils and this fear response sets in that says I shouldn't be feeling that way and I'm afraid of death. But my feelings-including fear-were totally numb and so the fantasies went on way longer and deeper than they ever have before. A couple times I even ran the sharp edge of a knife lightly over the skin on my wrist and shivered because I liked the tingles on my skin so much. Luckily my brain was still working, so that was the moment when I put the knives away, removed myself from their general vicinity, and called someone. It's weird to talk about it now because I know how completely not normal that type of behavior is, but I remember it feeling completely normal at the time. I wasn't distraught. I wasn't like a sobbing person standing on a ledge. I was calm. It seemed logical. Stop the effort. Give up. Rest eternal. It seemed like a nice idea, comforting even. It wasn't an act of desperation. It wasn't how I'd always thought of suicide before. Sometimes I think I ought to be scared that I had this experience, but having read up on it I know this is a side effect that many people have had when acclimating to an antidepressant. I'm not a freak or anything. But even now I can't be sure that I wouldn't have hurt myself, that I would never hurt myself. When I realized that the odds of me hurting myself were somewhere over 30% I called someone. I decided not to take the chance. Would I have done it? I can't even say "probably not" for sure. I just don't know. And it seems like that should be terrifying, but for some reason I feel like I can just put it away. Say this was a side effect associated with my antidepressant, and I don't have to worry about it now, but I should remember so that a little red flag will go off in my brain if I ever feel this way again and I'll know it's a good idea to get help and not be alone. I hope that's the right attitude. I feel much better now. All the side effects seem to be gone, and life seems ok. Manageable. Pleasant, even.
I saw a comic recently about Superman talking to a suicidal woman, and he told her that if she thought she'd have even one more happy day, she shouldn't do it. That line was really poignant to me. Because I do value every bit of happiness I have. And maybe that is why my brain told me to get help even when suicide seemed like a great idea. It knew that I would be sad to lose my future happiness even if I couldn't feel it right then. I'm glad I read this because I will remember it if the feeling ever comes back to me again. The logic part of my brain will still know that I am likely to have one more happy day, and that's worth living for. Marina told me that when she was depressed she challenged herself to notice one beautiful thing every day. It's a similar sentiment, and a valuable one. Those little moments are worth keeping, and I want to keep the knowledge of that fact at the front of my brain where it can help me when things go to shit again, as perhaps one day they will.
I have more to say about me and my life, but I also have a meeting to go to and work to do, so perhaps I will write more about this later. But I haven't written for a while, and I didn't want to let this slide on by. It seemed important to talk about it.