I'm working pretty hard at normalizing mental health care publicly while I go through my local system. And today I went to my Nurse Practitioner, who I have a pretty good relationship with, because my interim therapist suggested I try medication. Again.
I haven't been medicated for depression and anxiety in about a decade. I've been on Zoloft, Wellbutrin, Effexor, and Ativan. None have treated me particularly well. So today we went a different route and some time this weekend I will be taking my first dose of Cymbalta. I have the three things it is good for; depression, anxiety and pain. Chronic pain.
I hate this. I hate this with a fiery passion that has insufficient words. I have been proud of my medication free existence. But now, I'm spiraling. I'm trying to "do the work" and get the help I need. But the part of me that is wedded to my issues is screaming at me that I shouldn't have to do this to make the people around me comfortable. That part is not good, and has to be shouted down regularly. But still, the whisper in my heart says I'd be fine if the people around me didn't fucking suck.
So part of this whole thing; getting therapy and going on meds, is the most loaded question of all.... "Do you ever have suicidal thoughts?" When my NP asked me this today I actually dropped into head down, elbows on knees position and sighed. She actually laughed and said, "I bet you wished I didn't ask that."
You have no idea.
This is such an issue for me, because the answer is "yes."
I've been dreaming of Death for as long as I can remember. I think about how, and where, and when. I used to do the math and try to figure out when the least damaging time in my daughter's development it would be to kill myself. In college I used to walk home on train tracks and question what I would do if the train came. In high school I horded random medications. In elementary school I would wrap wire around batteries and burn myself and think about putting them in light sockets. Before that, I'd just wish I would die in my sleep.
Death has been dancing in the corner of my eye for as long as I can remember, literally. And yet I never invite her to waltz. Only twice have I done anything that would bring her close. I cut myself in college so significantly that I found myself bleeding in class the next day and didn't know if it would stop. And before my daughter was conceived, not knowing where my husband was or when he would get home, I mixed Ativan and beer and wrote a note and passed out. When I woke up, I threw out the note and went to bed. Neither were real invitations. And honestly, I don't want to die. The problem is, I rarely want to live, for me. The NP asked me today if I'd ever been diagnosed with "Co-Dependency." Not officially, but I sure as fuck have abandonment issues.
I'm treating the latest failure of a relationship as a sort of wake-up call, but I still want someone to love me, so desperately it feels like an entity screaming in my ear. I worry I'll never been enough for anyone and no one will ever love me. And I need to work on that. In the mean time, I'll watch Death dancing and tell her to wait her turn with me. Hopefully not for a very long time.
If you are dancing with Death, or need help, please don't hesitate to get help. The suicide hotline is available 24 hours a day, 1-800-273-8255. There are people out there who care. I am one.
I'm Kirsten. Some things you could label me with; tattooed, geek, mama, animal lover, weirdo, nerd, writer, movie and TV addict, lazy, ambitious, insomniac, feminist, LGBTQ+.