HOW ARE YOU?

As I arise from my 37th sleep in a psychiatric facility, I’m reflecting on a discussion group I attended a few days ago. Aside from the fact I left completely and utterly drained, it was an eye-opening experience and I learned something. Even us old dogs can learn new stuff it would appear.

So – How are you?

Did you mentally respond, I’m fine? Or, Good. How are you?!

Like Pavlov’s dog, most of us respond with a conditioned answer. How are you, is so common our responses are automated. That’s fine for chit chat with the checkout chick, but when you’re with your nearest and dearest, when you have big emotions you’d love to share (or would benefit from sharing), it’s not helpful to reply with a conditioned, I’m fine. But what other options are there? Are you okay? is becoming popular, but it’s still not enough.

They’re closed questions – a single word will suffice for a polite response. Yes. No.

I have learned a new way. And I want to share it with you.

How’s your broken snowglobe today?

How would you respond to that? What about,

• What colour was your day?
• What animal are you today?
• What flavour ice-cream are you today?
• What’s in your jigsaw puzzle today?
• What song are you today?

Does it seem ridiculous? It sounds weird – I know. But try it. I’ve been practising with a friend and it’s amazing how much information it elicits. My friend is an artist, so, What colour was your day? works well. She knows colour, it’s meaningful to her. Her day was navy blue, almost like denim, stiff and inflexible and not full of the carefree colour and joy she hoped for when her eyes first opened in the morning. She had many plans that didn’t happen and the things she worked on didn’t go the way she wanted it. It was a navy blue day. It was a lot more information than, Okay. Which is the most likely response to, How was your day?

I struggle with colour – I picked daisy yellow, but I don’t know why and I can’t describe my day like that. But I can tell you what’s in my broken snowglobe. Today my broken snowglobe is arising from a deep, fulfilling sleep. Today my broken snowglobe has hope and rainbows in it – there’s no snow. It has sunshine and leafy trees with a pair of loved-up pigeons. Today my broken snowglobe feels full of possibilities. It’s 7:48 am so who knows what will be in the globe by the time I lay me down to sleep. But for now, my snowglobe feels good.

I landed in this hospital after an overdose. And a familiar response post-event was, Why didn’t you tell me? All I can say is that I couldn’t. I had no words left. I held on as long as I possibly could. As the staff remind me here on a regular basis, I was – and still am – extremely ill. A rational response was far beyond my capacity to a conditioned response question, How are you? or Are you okay? I responded with, Not good and No for many weeks, but still – it’s a closed question and doesn’t elicit more information. Many people prayed for me, for extended periods of time, and for that, I am very grateful. Perhaps by the grace of God that is why I’m still here. With more heartbeats to beat, more breaths to breathe and more work to do.

I know I’ve said this before, on multiple occasions, but if someone you know is really struggling with depression – or you suspect that is the case – the important question is, Are you safe? There is, of course, no guarantee anyone will respond with an honest answer, but the opportunity is there. It’s still a closed question – Yes or No, but if you’re worried, it gives a clear indication that intervention may be required.

Failing that, What’s in your broken snowglobe today? Is more fun, generates conversation and forces the questionee to really think. What is in my broken snowglobe today?

I’m sure there are a million open questions we could come up with that ask, How are you? in a fresh way, that generates honest conversation based on facts and feelings from the day that has been. Where are you on the rollercoaster today? Which room in the house are you today? What cookie are you today?

Many of us struggling with mental health issues have learned coping strategies to familiar situations. The coping strategies may be maladaptive, but they’re still coping strategies we automatically revert to when life gets miserable for whatever reason. My coping strategies are to stop eating and stop talking. They’re learned behaviours. Clearly I need to unlearn them, but unlearning is much more difficult and takes a lot longer. In the meantime, breaking the pattern of asking old questions, breaks the pattern of learned behaviours. Nobody asked me about broken snowglobes when I was growing up – I don’t have a conditioned coping strategy. I can talk freely in a way that I cannot – at this point in time – do with a familiar question like, Do you want to talk?

Do I want to talk? Yes. I want to tell you my soul is being torn to shreds and the emotional pain of taking one more breath is more than I can possibly cope with right now. I want to tell you that every moment of every day, I want it to end. That I function minute by minute with no sight or reprieve in front of me. I want to tell you I can’t do it any more. I want to tell you I need help but I don’t know what that help is or where to go or if help is even a possibility.

Do you want to talk?

I shake my head. No. I have no words.

REPERCUSSIONS

My blog was offline for a few days as I let my foggy, drug-soaked brain take everything in – both inside and outside my protected bubble of a world. I’m back again – processing thoughts the only way I know how.

Over the weekend, I contacted a number of friends asking how they felt when they found out about my overdose. While sometimes the truth hurts, I’m so very grateful for their honesty. That kind of honesty only comes from people who care enough to share. The repercussions are something I’m ready to process and understand. As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve never felt so abandoned and rejected as those first weeks – it seemed when I most needed support, nobody was there. Aside from people being angry, my admission to the clinic coincided with the eruption of a global pandemic sending people into a toilet paper-purchasing frenzy. In my hospital bubble, I’m protected from those realities. The first days, even weeks, after taking an overdose, it’s hard to focus on other people. When life’s so overwhelming hope has left the building, waking up and working through the repercussions is too much. I was too unwell. But with a few weeks rest and some medication changes, I’m ready to start thinking outside myself.

I created a word mandala with the responses I collated. It helps me with perspective. I have copies all over my room to remind me every action has a reaction.

I want to address some of the questions and send out a giant heartfelt apology for causing so much hurt and pain, as well as give thanks for all the love and support.

Even in isolation (as we all are) I’m once again feeling connected to people who have loved me through my ugliest moments. And to brand new friends who’ve become my only physical connection to the outside world. You know who you are 🙂 And a big shout out to my husband for being my eternal rock – my safest place to fall. No matter what – he’s always there. Thanks for the flowers. I ate all the chocolates 😀

I get the anger, hurt, fear, guilt, confusion. I really do. I know they’re normal responses to suicide – regardless of the outcome. I can’t respond to every single person right now, but there are a few things I want to address in the hope I do more good than harm with my explanation. And that my clarification is not seen as an excuse, or in any way representative of anybody else. Simply my headspace then and now.

• I feel like a bad person

Why? A number of people had variations on this theme. I did something to myself. I know saying, “don’t feel bad” will do nothing whatsoever to change how you feel. And all feelings are valid. But I don’t have bad friends. The fact people hadn’t picked up on my full intention is a reflection on me – not anyone else.

• Felt irrelevant

I guess I struggle to understand this myself. I have so much difficulty communicating emotional things verbally, and the more difficult or intense the emotion, the less chance I have of being able to communicate at all. The fact I didn’t share my level of hopelessness was not because my friends were irrelevant but simply because I had no words.

• Felt unvalued and a failure as a friend

This makes me really sad. Some of my most valued and treasured friends said things along these lines. Please know I love you and treasure our friendship and that saying to someone, “I’m going to kill myself on Monday” is not easily said. If I’d had the courage, you would have been the first person I reached out to. I had so little hope, there was nothing was left to say.

• Do you still want to die?

Gosh. This is a hard one. I’ve had suicidal ideation since I was nine years old but no concrete plans for the vast majority of those years. I took an overdose at age 19 and came close many times in the past five years, but this was my first time since 1985. A better question is, do I want to live? All I can say in all honesty right now is, I don’t know. That’s why I’m in a hospital – eight nights in ICU if that helps clarify the severity of my unwellness. My moods are as changeable as the wind and the mood stabilising medications take time to work. I’m waiting it out in a comfy room, with room service, a cleaner and an endless supply of toilet paper. I’m deeply conscious of how privileged I am compared to many people right now.

• You share in your blog but not with your friends

There were several variations on this theme. Yes. It’s true. My husband frequently bemoans the fact the only things he knows about me are what he reads in my blog. I can share things with the whole world I can’t share with those closest to me – because it’s easier. I know that sounds cowardly. Talking to the great anonymous who probably aren’t reading and probably don’t care, is much easier than having a heart-to-heart with someone who cares and wants to see me get better. I’m pretty good at talking about things after the fact – but not in the moment. I don’t have a clearer answer than that. Except to say, I communicate through the written, not spoken, word.

• Was the “passing comment” my fault?

No. Whoever you are. Whatever you think you might have accidentally said, it wasn’t you. I don’t care who you are or why you’re reading this, the straw that broke this camel’s back was nothing. Nobody’s fault. It was just simply a moment where I gave up. Nothing rude or insensitive. It simply was what it was. No – it’s not your fault. I come back to an earlier point – I’m responsible for my actions.

• Why would you want to hurt people?

I don’t. I will share my journaling from the days before and after the overdose in another post, but while I was cognizant of the pain and grief (anger, shock, helplessness, hurt and confusion) that would be left behind, it became more than I could bear at the time. Perhaps my later journaling will make that clearer. While I was aware of the pain others would go through, the persistent sense of hopelessness, helplessness and worthlessness was no longer enough to counteract the cost. And I hadn’t planned to be here to deal with the aftermath. Yet here we are.

I have damaged relationships, lost people I dearly love and developed close contact with people I barely knew.

As my psychiatric nurse confirmed, nothing will ever be the same again. I have to live with the consequences of my actions – whether I like it or not. I can’t undo what is done.

What I can do is what I’ve been told to do for the past five years – put myself first. Rest. Heal. Set boundaries. I can hear the Hallelujah Sister! from afar. I’m a slow learner. Here I am resting. I do as much psychotherapy as I can get my hands on – usually three sessions per day, plus one-on-one sessions with specialists. I’m trying. I’ve been told to get up and just fucking fight for my life. I don’t know how. I’m hoping by being closeted in this hospital and being honest – both through my writing and my interactions with specialists – I’m doing the right thing. I hope that’s the case.

I don’t know if my words make it clearer or more confusing. All I can guess is that for those who’ve never experienced suicidal ideation – despite all sorts of traumas – that it’s not part of who you are. It is part of me. I’ve lived with it my entire life and know no different. Receiving the bipolar II diagnosis is a relief – it offers hope and gives me an explanation as to why I might be so different to most. My understanding of bipolar is that many people may have a genetic vulnerability to it, but it takes trauma for it to become fully activated. At least that’s my lay person’s definition. In my head, that’s how I managed to get by pretty well for the first 45 years of my life without doing anything too drastic. I had issues – but I wasn’t overdosing. When the traumas started that’s when things started rapidly declining.

I’ll leave you with these words – not mine.

Once you choose hope,

Anything is possible.

Christopher Reeve

TWO WEEKS

A lot can happen in two weeks. You can lose everything, as so many people around the world are now discovering. You can become isolated, locked away, afraid and no longer in control of your life.

I am not unique.

For reasons as individual as each person that populates our little planet orbiting a giant ball of fire, a lot can happen in two weeks. Hey, a lot can happen in a day! For me it’s not isolation, fear and lack of control in relation to covid-19, it’s my mental health. Mental health that’s taken a cocktail of speed, cocaine and magic mushrooms. I’ve never indulged in illicit substances but I imagine everything speeds up, goes out of control and becomes utterly surreal. Just like living in a psych ward.

Please don’t go away and test this theory.

This is my 15th night in a psychiatric hospital – a long way from home and my nearest and dearest. All because of my spectacular fall from grace on Monday 02 March. I’ve never been this mentally ill before or felt so rejected, misunderstood and judged. Ironically the global pandemic makes me feel less isolated as I’m not alone in my isolation – half the world is now alone and afraid too. Misery enjoys company. But I’m slowly coming to the very belated realisation, I am utterly alone in this recovery process.

Here’s a brief rundown on my stay so far:

• Overdose Monday 02 March
• Admitted Tuesday 10 March
• 8 nights in ICU
• 8th night (and counting) in the General Ward
• Diagnosed as bipolar 2
• Referred to Psychiatrist, Psychologist and dietitian
• Stopped antidepressant/antianxiety medication
• Started mood stabilising drugs
• Attending three group psychology sessions per day
• Given a meal plan

So you’d think with all that care and support I’d be rocking it by now. I’m not. Changing medications isn’t fun. Emotions already pumped with steroids are now in freefall – antidepressant disappearing, mood stabilising drugs yet to reach a therapeutic dose. My emotional roller coaster has exceeded the recommended safety limitations.

I spent eight nights in ICU because it took that long for staff to feel confident I was safe. Safe being code for not suicidal or intent on self-harm. I’ve been warned to keep my thoughts safe or I’ll be sent back. I’m asked daily where my thoughts are – do I have thoughts of self-harm or suicide? This is tricky to answer as having thoughts is not the same as intent or planning. I don’t remember not having thoughts of suicide. Self-harm has been a part of my life for over five years. It’s my normal.

For now, I’m not suicidal or intent on self-harm and accept I’m here for an extended stay – most likely until early May.

The above image – of a simple sandwich and small tub of yoghurt, utterly terrified me.

As levels and levels of control become stripped away, eating disorder voices yell even louder making me want to take control of something in my life. So I started eating less and less – justifying every food I missed – until I ended up with three days of no food.

At that point the nurses became strict. The psychiatric registrar arranged a dietitian to visit, and after lots of empathetic reassurance that my sense of guilt and hopelessness is understandable but untrue, I received a food plan. The plan includes three main meals and three snacks per day. Remarkably similar to my EDP plan two years ago – except now I eat normal size, not small. Apparently I got away with small sizes last time because of the lap band.

Filling out food menus for the next 24 hours dropped me into a near panic attack.

They gave me clonazepam. As I feel so confronted by the huge kitchen area and array of foods on offer, the nurse brought me lunch. Just before I remembered the homemade spinach and feta boreks delivered by a beautiful loving Serbian lady from church.

Vastly more delicious and nutritious than cheese sandwiches.

So I heated them up, grabbed an orange and went to my room. I reluctantly swallowed the hateful substances and had a big meltdown.

Eating food feels like failure and tastes like sawdust – despite the love, care and nutrition put into the boreks.

Control is being stripped away and there’s nothing left to disguise the feelings of hurt, anxiety, rejection, abandonment, shame and guilt that flood through me all day long. I struggled through ACT and acceptance group then curled up in bed for three hours with my bunny and a miniature Bluetooth speaker nestled against my ear playing “Tightrope” on repeat. I cried for half an hour then slept solidly for two hours.

I fell. It feels like nobody wants to catch me. Mick nursed me back to a standing position and got me into a psychiatric facility. He sends love every day and picks up all the things I can’t do. It may be incongruous but I’m simultaneously loved and alone. Desperately alone and isolated with nobody to talk to about the chaos inside my body and my head. Many friends are still angry and distant. I understand – but it’s still hard to deal with.

The absent-minded professor who provided the second opinion on my diagnosis explained it perfectly. With bipolar we have an engine that runs 24/7. It never turns off. Burnt out and exhausted? Still going. Need rest and recuperation? Still going. My sleep study showed my brain is in hyperarousal 24/7. It never switches off. And that’s exactly what it feels like. My burned out motor tires my soul, eventually ceasing to work no matter how hard I push. It’s inconvenient for others. But it’s not a choice for me.

I’ve been practising my newly acquired skills to reach out to God and after days of begging for the things I want – reconnection with loved ones, my brain back, the ability to sleep – turns out he’s sending me the things I need. Rest, rest and more rest. I keep hearing the word in my head every time I’m guilty about not completing this task or that. Rest I hear. I tried resting today. And I feel better for it.. And woke up not crying.

I can’t know what tomorrow will bring. I’m blessed in so many ways and my gratitudes and affirmations decorate the headboard above my bed. I’m safe and cared for and in many ways, distant from the pandemic that is terrorizing everyday lives.

I’m practicing coming to terms with the things I’ve lost, and discovering the things I’ve gained. Most particularly, continued love and support from people who barely know me.

This too shall pass

All things do. One day I will no longer spend my mornings gazing out the window at a huge tree, hoping to see a bird or a bunny. I will become more productive and find purpose. But my job for now is to heal myself. Not patch myself up as I’ve done in the past, but fully heal in mind body and spirit. It won’t be a quick fix and it won’t be an easy fix but as someone once said,

The path through hell is to keep walking.

BIPOLAR II IS…

… my diagnosis. Not my choice. Bipolar II is characterised by Dr Jim Phelps as “mood swings but not manic”.

I know a lot of people hate labels and there’s much stigma around the diagnosis of bipolar – you must be a crazy person – but I feel at ease with this diagnosis. Plus I hate stigma and would like to actively reduce it. It seems right and fits my experience – over the course of a lifetime. There’s a family history of bipolar II and upon reflection, I wonder if my sister was bipolar rather than borderline personality disorder and if a diagnosis could have saved her life. But rumination is pointless.

We cannot change the past.

My very trusty (now former…) psychiatrist, recommended Dr Phelps’ site. It’s an extremely comprehensive website if you ever want to know the full ins and outs of bipolar II. He points out that although there’s a genetic component, research shows more than 226 genes involved in, but not exclusive to, bipolar. If it was purely a genetic disease, my lay person’s interpretation is a lot more of us would have it. Thankfully that is not the case.

Environmental factors are apparently a huge contributor to someone who is already genetically vulnerable.

I’ll give you a quick rundown (courtesy of Jim) of the difference between bipolar I and II. And why bipolar I receives earlier and easier diagnoses than bipolar II. The main characteristics of both bipolar I and II are mood swings, manic behaviour and major depression. First I’ll steal a quote and image from Dr Phelps.

Until very recently, depression and “manic-depressive illness” were understood as completely independent: a patient either had one or the other. Now the two are seen by most mood specialists as two extremes on a continuum, with variations found at all points in between, even though only some points have names.

https://psycheducation.org/diagnosis/

Unipolar on the left being straightforward, major depression – usually chemical rather than situational – while bipolar I on the right is the classic manic-depressive we’ve all heard of. Most people with some kind of mood disorder in this category (and there’s apparently conjecture borderline personality disorder is, in fact, part of the mood spectrum) are likely to fit into the green-yellow shades.

Of course, those of you fortunate enough not to experience depression as a disorder (as opposed to a situational experience), won’t recognise yourself here at all. But there are enough of us around who do find ourselves somewhere on this pretty rainbow of depression, so I thought I’d share. It also helps me unpack my own diagnosis and current experience.

As I couldn’t find an infographic explaining the difference between major depression, bipolar I and bipolar II, I created my own.

Obviously a diagnosis of any serious illness – physical or psychological – needs to be done by an appropriate medical professional. But if like me, you’re curious with Google searches then the above may help for a bit of preliminary research.

People ask me why on earth my diagnosis has taken 30 years.

Outstanding denial and emotional masking on my behalf, alongside the acceptance of depression and periods of hypomania as normal. Friends say they noticed periods of hypomania but never mentioned it. And of course, if you turn up to a psychologist or GP feeling depressed, they see no evidence of hypomania. Bipolar I, however, is characterised by full mania episodes, potential psychosis (losing touch with reality) that most often lead to hospitalisation and earlier diagnosis.

Suicide statistics for bipolar I and II are alarmingly similar.

 Our pooled results indicate that individuals with BPII are at marked risk for attempting suicide and that this risk resembles the alarmingly high suicide risk associated with BPI.

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4536929/

Another downfall to the late diagnosis for bipolar II is pharmacological treatments for depression can eventually make bipolar worse. It can escalate to the point of being noticeable and diagnosable, but not before suicidality reaches a breaking point. Untreated, bipolar I and II are dangerous illnesses.

Upon admission to this psychiatric hospital two weeks ago, I was extremely unwell. Today they reiterated exactly how sick I am. It’s not a quick fix and it’s a serious condition. So two weeks may turn into many more as experts try to stabilise my currently extremely volatile and vulnerable moods.

WHEN HOPE FEELS DEAD

The air is thick right now. A sense of hopelessness clogs my nostrils. Too many people are desperately sad. Hurting themselves. Dying.

People I know.

Not my nearest and dearest – for the most part. But the internal and external expression of people’s unbearable pain leaves a tsunami of distress and grief for loved ones, radiating like ripples in a pond and impacting people they never knew they knew.

I’ve talked about suicide before – kind of breaking the rules for polite conversation really. But polite conversation won’t help someone through depression, self-harm or the irreversible decision to permanently end a temporary situation. As was so famously said,

You can’t change what you don’t acknowledge

Dr Phil

and that is as true for society, families and workplaces as it is for individuals. It seems easier to spread false cheer – think of a happy place, things will get better soon, stand up and fight another day, you can do it! And the hardest thing – look at everything you have to be grateful for. Most of us are painfully aware of our fortunes and keeping a gratitude journal is a really fantastic tool, but the reminders add guilt to an already overwhelming sense of hopelessness. When depression rips holes in our souls, thinking happy thoughts is not the right bandaid. It’s a nice place to start, but the sense of failure to be grateful soon increases the sorrow.

Navigating someone else’s depression is a quagmire of landmines ready to blow up in your face at any given moment. The most well-intentioned words and actions can have a catastrophic impact. The only person who truly knows what they need to hear and receive is the person going through the distress – be that grief, depression, anxiety, post-traumatic recovery. Whatever it is you’re not currently experiencing but want to help someone else in some capacity. So ask them what they need.

There are key phrases that are always worth asking.

How are you feeling? Now tell me, how are you really feeling? Would you like to talk? Would you like to sit here and just not talk? Can I pray for you? When did you last leave the house? When did you last take a break? Is there something you’d like to do together – go to the movies, for a walk, have a coffee? Even just curl up in pj’s watching Netflix? What are your plans for the next few days? You seem a little down, is it okay if I check in on you tomorrow?

And this is a really key question to ask…

Are you safe?

Don’t hesitate to ask several times, or to clarify what you mean. If someone asks what do you mean, be explicit – are you planning on harming or killing yourself?

Navigating a lifetime of depression is like being an avid bushwalker and mountain climber. For years on end the scenery is stunning, the flora and fauna breathtaking and the hard yards well rewarded. For short periods of time steep, rocky, unnavigable mountains appear that seem interminable and impossible to navigate. Clambering over slippery scree always happens in the dark and every inch of your body screams, No! I can’t do this again! But day in and day out you force a weary body a few steps more. There are people at the summit cheering, saying, Come on – not far now! You know there are people below struggling on the same mountain, or back in the safety of the pretty woods. But on that dark mountain, you’re alone, lost in that sense of hopelessness – completely reliant on voices from afar – and the squabble between the angels on your shoulders.

Once you’ve reached the summit it’s unbelievable.

It’s the rush of endorphins after an incredible orgasm. You finally pushed through the barriers and blood ecstatically rushes through veins. But as the years wear on, facing those mountains gets tougher and tougher and some days orgasms and mountain climbing feels too fucking hard. Just lay down and don’t bother, says the little voice of hopelessness hanging out on my right shoulder. His twin angel saying, What the fuck are you doing? Get up! You’ve done it before, you’ll do it again. It’s another glitch. Life is a series of glitches with glitter in between. And the Angels war. And I’m tired.

On Monday I lost a battle. For the first time since 1985, I took an overdose.

I ummed and ahhed about putting it here in the public arena – but perhaps understanding suicidality from the inside out will help someone. For three days I was highly regretful I hadn’t taken everything at once. Fearful of vomiting, I took small handfuls over a number of hours – cleaning the house in-between. The house was sparkling.

Fortunately or unfortunately – depending on your point of view – eventually I was too confused to remember what to do, so didn’t finish the lethal dose. When I fell on the floor – after wetting the bed (not the highlight of my week) – my husband realised I wasn’t just sleeping off an exhausting week but I was, as he so eloquently puts it, Off my tits. A quick bit of research indicated my half-consumed cocktail was unlikely to be lethal so I was monitored, showered, dressed and put back to bed, having long conversations I can’t recall participating in. I don’t remember Tuesday. Wednesday’s a haze. I’ve got a pretty good grasp on Thursday and Friday.

Of course, the question on everyone’s lips is, Why?!

I don’t know. I made a plan Thursday and carried it out Monday. What happened Thursday? A final straw. In an utterly fatigued state, a throwaway comment tipped me from that sense of utter hopelessness to inner peace and I accepted this was the end. My sleep has been – to put it mildly – appalling. A lot of nights I don’t bother to get into bed. I doze on the couch or get into the spare bed and message people around the world until I’m tired enough to sleep. Which doesn’t happen. Climbing into bed causes my heart to race and pound for so long I get out of bed to relieve the distress. I’ve developed sleep phobia. If I do manage a solid sleep for some reason, I wake up screaming. So I’d say the biggest contributor is complete and utter exhaustion. Coupled with five days of missed antidepressant/antianxiety meds.

I spent five days mentally farewelling people and places. Last church service, last binge at the bakery, last orgasm, last supper. I had lists of lasts. I kept looking for signs – from God or anyone – whether or not to carry through. My email is populated with bible quotes and one-minute motivational videos, all of which convinced me to follow through. Because if you’re looking for a sign you’ll see it. The title of the last video I saw on Monday, before delicately downing my first row of lethality? The Time is Now

Then I woke up and felt like an idiot.

So many people bewildered and upset. Some won’t talk to me – they don’t know what to say. Thanks for letting me know. I’m sorry it came to this. People who love me dearly and are literally lost for words. People talk around me – conversing with my husband, doctor or psychologist. Now I’m that girl who can’t be trusted. The medicine cabinet’s locked – I can’t access a bandaid without permission (I’d do the same if the situation was reversed). And that fucking little angel/devil child on my shoulder is looking for ways to thwart the system – how to build up another stash of drugs. How to sneak out when nobody is looking, reinforcing the sense of hopelessness.

But that trusty little angel on my left shoulder – the one who’s been building courage and strength and resilience for the past five years. The one who’s learned to raise her head and say, Hang on a minute – she’s holding out for the lost hope. After visiting the GP and psychologist and contacting intake coordinators, I now have an inpatient placement at a psychiatric facility interstate as Hobart has nowhere near enough psychiatric beds. I am indeed very fortunate to have access to an interstate facility.

Would I be better off dead?

I’d certainly get better quality sleep, my husband would no longer be acting as my carer and would have the freedom to spend his wages as he pleases. But aside from that, despite my poor self-worth, I know a lot of people would be deeply shocked and grief-stricken. That there’d be a long line of people wondering what they could have done or said to make things better. There’d be people looking back and seeing signs they hadn’t realised were there – and blaming themselves. Please – please, please, please – know we’re all responsible for our own actions.

If my overdose had been successful, there would be nobody to blame.

Only me. Making a permanent decision in a temporary situation. Creating a lifetime of misery for people I love so much. And creating a ripple effect for people I may not even know, coming to the decision that suicide is an acceptable option – for just like coronavirus, a sense of hopelessness, or the ultimate decision to suicide, can become be highly contagious.

MY EMOTIONAL BOUNDARIES

It would appear, I have difficulty setting boundaries.

Not in the traditional sense. As many people would attest, I have no difficulty saying no to requests. Sure – I sometimes take on more than is considered wise (or sane), but that’s not because I can’t say no. It’s because I’m afraid of having nothing to do (that’s a whole other blog post). But I feel quite content (albeit somewhat guilty) if I say no to your request.

Setting emotional boundaries are an entirely different kettle of fish.

I thrive on spending time with people (one-on-one) – learning about their world, letting them vent, trying not to problem-solve (I have more work to do in this area) while steering towards solutions if a solution is an option. This is why I was a teacher for 36 years. Being entrusted with someone’s inner world is an honour and I gain far more than I ever give. Losing the intimate connections I have with so many people would be devastating.

The trouble is… my emotions become inextricably linked to yours.

That’s not your problem. It’s a puzzle I need to muddle through and over the past week or so, I’ve been doing much muddling. And a lot of crying.

Highly sensitive people are often empathic and empaths often feel other people’s emotions radiating out like a solar flare. No amount of 50+ sunscreen can shield the soft flesh from the onslaught of heat – so we absorb it. Which is fine, because not all emotions are dreary. Joy, hope and excitement wash through me in the same way as grief, fear and despair. Trouble is – I don’t let it go. I spend more time grieving and despairing for someone else’s woes than they do. I’m more invested in other people’s problems than they are. This seems like an inappropriate boundary – not to mention, an excuse to stop dealing with my issues.

Naturally, I spend endless hours discussing this with my psychologists – and would-be psychologist friends – trying to learn how to let people in, without letting their world burn me out.

Just let it go, isn’t helpful. If I could, I would.

Just don’t breathe, I want to reply.

My depression has sky-rocketed in 2020. Thankfully, however, there are 10.5 more months for the year to improve. I’m stripping away old coping mechanisms by attempting to put self-harm and eating disorder behaviours behind me. When coping mechanisms are swept away, what’s left? Hopefully some of the skills I’ve been trying to rote learn in DBT.

A beautiful friend shared a very helpful analogy this week and I thought I’d share it with you – in case, like me, you struggle with setting emotional boundaries.

There’s a car on the road and it’s pulled up outside your house.

You have a gate and a driveway and a really lovely garden. There’s a garden path that leads to the front door and on the other side of that door is your home. Nestled safely in your home, is your bedroom.

All sorts of people pull up on the side of the road at your house. Some of them are only allowed up to the gate, but most of them seem to come through the gate and venture down the driveway.

There are some people that hang around and you invite them to a tea party in the garden, while others are even allowed to come up to your front door for a neighbourly chat.

A very small number of people make it through the front door and into your house. Those people are your nearest and dearest – the people you intimately trust.

But your bedroom? Absolutely nobody goes in the bedroom. It’s a safe space for you – and only you.

Everyone is in my bedroom.

Emotionally I have no safe space because there’s nowhere I don’t take people’s problems, and my bedroom has become extremely crowded. I’m the first to admit I invited everyone in and even when they think they’ve left, I keep them around. I have nobody to blame but myself.

As I’ve found myself drowning the past few weeks, another beautiful friend (who liked the analogy), asked if I know of creative visualization. No, is the answer. So she took me through a visualization where all these people – whom I love dearly – were crowding my room. My room sported no windows or doors and was like a mosh pit of loving friends. A very clean, pristine white, mosh pit, but a place with no boundaries nonetheless. So I sought help to build a door and construct a safe space outside, letting everyone out into the garden for a great big tea party.

It had to be a safe space – otherwise, I can’t stop worrying.

Between praying with yet another close friend and trying to hand burdens that are too big for me over to God; mentally visualising a door and lovingly letting everyone out, while attempting to keep everyone I love safe and cared for but out of my bedroom; I think I’ve made progress. My mood is pitiful but I’m no longer spending every waking moment living other people’s pain.

Aside from frequently being highly empathic, we highly sensitive persons are often introverts. Not necessarily quiet, shy, retiring types, but people who need time alone – physically and mentally – to recharge. Finding both physical and mental alone time is extremely difficult for me, so perhaps my 2020 vision should embrace setting emotional boundaries. So I can enjoy big happy tea parties in my garden, intimate soirees in my house and peaceful surrender in my bedroom.