I was obvioulsy very hurt when I wrote this, but I cannot remember what or whom sparked my hurt; it could have been a response to my situation in general and involved no one particular person. So please, do not internalize this post.
I am sorry to have to share this, but holding it in any longer is going to certainly be my demise. (Figure of speech.)
I am not doing well. Beyond the fact that my memory is hazy, my sense of time is off, and I am having great difficulty in getting things done, rumination is eating me up inside. (And if you don’t know what I am referring to by rumination, shame on you. If you cared anything about what I deal with, you would know.) I am constantly telling the little voice in my head that even though I am getting little notice for the treatments I am going through or the drugs I am taking, people do love me. I am continually telling that little voice that in order to prove their love for me, people do not have to help me overcome the issues that have been blamed for lost friendships, put me in multiple hospitals, or robbed me of my ability to hold employment; I respond that the fact I sit alone, with little, meaningful human interaction over 12 hours a day (I guess I’ll count sleeping in a bed with my husband as interaction) doesn’t mean I am alone and uncared for. I tell the voice that I just happen to like making people dinner when they are sick, offering car rides that stress me out, giving up therapy to make sure people get to their appointments, offering to clean houses to relieve their stress, make dinner upon the birth of children, and clean out cars that I didn’t make disgusting… I can’t define other peoples’ caring by how I choose to care.
Sometimes, people just need help when they need help. It isn’t about taking the opportunity to point out their short-comings and how they can best set about fixing themselves. Sometimes, people simply need help…and that is ok.
I have never tried to kill myself, and I don’t ever plan to. But the moments in a week the thought of relief in association with the day I pass are hard to keep track of. I know that my place with God will release me of my loneliness, anxiety, depression, and hyper thoughts. How is it a bad thing to think about that? Oh…but I can’t tell anyone about it because I will be locked away in a loony-bin for the sake of THEIR comfort. Screw mine.
Depression, anxiety, and hyper thinking are my allergic reactions to my illness. I can no more control my symptoms than can an asthmatic control their gasped breaths, or a diabetic can control the hot flashes that signal their need for insulin. I can take steps in an attempt to minimize the difficulty…but ultimately…the control is not mine. Is that understood? Or am I just a weak person who is too sensitive and needs to learn to toughen up and accept reality for what it is? Am I just self-centered and not taking my concerns to God, as has been the accusation in recent days?
My illness is measurable. Tests can be done to show overactive brain activity, activity that I cannot control. It is measurable the way the size and growth of a breast tumor is determinable, the lack of insulin in the blood testable, and the acuity of sight of an eye is calculable. My illness doesn’t differ just because it falls under the category of mental.
I am perfectly aware of what I am writing, and am of clear thought and ability to recognize that, while overwhelmed, I am ok. Do not freak out and call anyone…call me…text me…or bang on my door. I will not be spending my time trying to soothe your worries to make you feel better. I am finally deciding…realizing…that today is not about you…it is about me. And I am going to have to be willing to do what I need to in order to heal, and I can’t keep things in or put off addressing issues just because your feelings may be hurt and your day a little dimmer. My name isn’t Mother Teresa.
And maybe I am being a little self-centered…but maybe it is about time.