I went to crazy town - Part 1
Let me explain. 6 weeks have passed since I wrote on this blog, actually maybe even longer.
I relapsed. My mental health took a beating. As my coach would say, I was completely hijacked, and this time by a monster. Bigger, scarier and more determined than ever before. She’s been lying in wait, for 3 years she’s been gathering strength, getting warmer, and then getting thermal.
I have been ignoring that voice for years. That voice that tells me I’m a failure, that I’m a worthless human being and that the only thing I’ll ever amount to is living on the streets. She genuinely believes this - this thermal poisonous thing that has wrapped itself around my organs and in all of the pathways of my brain. In fact, I asked her what she wanted of me this time and she answered “I want you dead”.
I got hijacked while I was back in Scotland. I had spent months and months preparing myself emotionally for seeing my family and being someone who doesn’t drink, while navigating a wedding, Christmas and New Year. And, they were so, so supportive that it blew my mind. Everywhere I went my family had non-alcoholic beer, soft drinks and plenty of coffee stacked and ready to go. I was so loved. I was so spoiled, I was so embraced that it completely took me by surprise. My heart still explodes when I think about it. It’s pain, but good pain. To know that I’m so very valued and cared for makes my whole body hurt. My chest exploding with joy and happiness, and my limbs hanging heavy when I realise how much I love them all. My stomach in knots and nauseating me when I think about how much I miss them. Then it morphs and twists and takes me back 9 years to when I lost my Dad. How much I miss him, how much I’ve never been able to change since he disappeared from my life. This inability to change has let this dark voice fester, gain strength. The tools I’ve learned have pushed her down but she’s always there ”You’ll never amount to anything, you haven’t achieved a single thing. Who cares about the love people show you when you don’t own a house, you’re not married, you don’t have kids. FAIL, FAIL, FAILURE.” Over and over, like a broken record. She got so strong around New Year’s Eve and I know exactly why. I was about to come back to NZ. I was about to have to say goodbye. This meant I was fragile, and she found a space. She got in. And she got loud.
She was practically screaming at me as I hugged my crying sister at the airport. Then she had completely worn me down by the time I got through security. And so I hit the bar. I had no strength left to fight. None of my tools were working, and I couldn’t stop listening to her and believing her. So I drank to make it stop.
Anyone who’s ever done this knows what I mean. Hit the ‘fuck it’ button. Done. No more pain. Numb, full of poison and dopamine. Breathe, it’s over. For now.
When I came to, it was all over for me. She was in the drivers seat, she had completely taken the wheel and everything fell apart. I forgot to take my meds, I started to withdraw from my SSRI’s (which feels like coming off heroin I’m sure of it). I had nausea, diarrhea, my muscles would not stop twitching, my skin was red and flushed, I was waking up in pools of sweat and my hypochondria came back with a vengeance. I was convinced I was going to die. I thought this was it, it was the end. My mind gave up and now my body was going with it. Convinced I was either off to rehab or to an institution, I got up on the Saturday a week after I got back to NZ, put my lipstick on, did my hair and went to see the emergency doctor with my head held high. If I was finally going down, I was going down with my goddamn lippy on. Fuck.
He took one look at me, measured my blood pressure and my heart rate. Spent a good amount of time chatting to me and said “you’re fine, but you need to start taking your meds again”. Satisfied that I wasn’t going to die, I went home and popped my 20mg of Escitralopram. Straight back up to my full dose after a 3 day break. I spent the next 3 days in a haze. Unable to answer questions, unable to make decisions, unable to cope. I finally spoke to my current doctor who knows me really well. We halved my dose for 6 days and I’ve been working on it ever since. I’ve been getting up, making my bed, putting my make up on, doing my hair, going to work, doing what I can, I’ve been swimming, going to yoga and teaching my dance class, all the while with the voice in my head telling me I should go to bed and never get up again.
I won’t let her win. I’m in a lot of pain emotionally but I’m also stubborn as hell and I won’t let her get her way. I have so many people behind me. I know this. The outpouring of support I’ve had from everyone I know is buoying me along. I’m holding myself accountable and I’m trying as best I can to formulate a plan for change. This is part 1. This is where I am. This is who I am. Some people are over it. Some people can’t help me enough. But, I know I’m the only one who can rescue me.
Let it be known that I write on this blog, because it helps me. But, I wish I didn’t. I wish I wasn’t this way. I wish I felt ‘normal’ all of the time. I wish I never had to lean on anyone for help. I wish I wasn’t so weak. I wish everything was different. I wish I didn’t cry every time I see a friend I haven’t seen in a while.
I pour everything out and I get so much love back. But paranoia always kicks in and makes me think people think I’m faking it. I’m not, but there she goes again, making up fairy tales uglier than The Brothers Grimm.
I’ll most likely have to deal with this for the rest of my life. Am I prepared? No. Can I take it each moment as it comes? I think so.
Let’s hope so.
At ease xx