I hide Bits and pieces of myself: the dirty, angry, torn up parts I think people will judge. I'm a liar that way. I'll admit it. That's all changing.
I've struggled with depression my whole life: It sucks you under, makes your world gray, and robs you of the joy you might have otherwise. I have Primary progressive MS, as well as trigeminal neuralgia. Ms. tears you apart in small, evil ways that can be invisible to the people around you, and trig is excruciating at best. I've spent hours screaming under a table on the phone with my friend Jeff,begging it to stop.
This last month, the pain and depression, as well as drug side effects got the best of me, and I became suicidal. Really, honestly,wanting to die: planning.I saw death everywhere, and never told anyone,because I was ashamed. So i with the help of a dear friend, looked for help, and found the only help was going to the ER, and committing myself. This is what I wrote the 5 days I was in Legacy Emanuel hospital. Morbid? maybe.. Fuck, I dunno. Here you go, world.
Day 2. (day one was a blur: i didn't write.
This is my second day.The side effects of the mads are driving me fucking insane:My energy is gone, but I feel Jittery.
I'm in "Group".It's just people making small , stupid crafts. I try to take some fucking joy out of it, but it's difficult.I'm just trying to fight through this horrible dry mouth,dry, sandpaper eyes, distracted, blind thing.
I hate it, but Im wondering why Kyle hasn't called:Is he angry? busy? just done with me? why do i care? what a stupid question.. I know why I care.
2:00pm The sun is shining, to spite its self.Ha! the one weekend I go all "Carrie", it's beautiful.You'll see my pen change at this point. (wait, this is the internet, no you won't)because they actually let me have a real pen . I just can't take it out of the craft room.
What do you do with a pen, honestly?I guess, should you choose, you could stab someone..They give us these squishy short , hard to write with pens. they're almost pointless.
I need to talk to a friend.These drugs have mad me sleepy,but I fight it.I have to learn how to WORK on this shit.
Fuck. The phones are off. I walk into the dining room and stand in the sun. I start to cry.
I talk to the woman across the table from me. She's 62, she says.she drank, took some pills.we'll call her Mary. She looks like my grand mother.she's just as sane as i am,or just as insane.
5pm. Kyle calls. He thought this was his fault, somehow. Not hardly. This depression was here long before you, dear.It just blossomed this week. It exploded because I didn't want that abortion, money issues, and the pain. all the goddamned time, just pain.Pain that i swear, is eating me whole.How could i tell you I wanted to kill myself, when you Knew I was in a huge depression, and you told me to get over it. I didn't trust you. I was too ashamed to talk.
It's 6pm. I'm reading a really old(2010) Nat Geo. There's an article on poligamy. Sweet.
"Ronda" sits at a table and laughs at nothing.She drives me nuts(ha!.. nuts..)I've found the only patch of sun cast through the window in this gray white institutional kitchen dining room area, so I sit in it, one sleeve rolled up, fighting off sleep.
The nurse just gave me the new pain med they switched me to. I forget the name.(It' Lyrica)I feel so tired I can't stand it.I fell asleep at the Table.
Just had a pointless group session.*Ronda lost her shit and accused people of abusing her. She's not only insane, she's also stupid. after about 45 minutes of her ranting, I tell her to shut up.Not my best move. She's angry. I'm a little afraid of her.I talked to the staff because I'm afraid she'll flip her shit.She's a little violent. She stares at me with that blank, terrifying way that my mother used to.
I'm thinking. How do I describe depression to someone who's never had it? how do I start? How do I not sound like I'm whining?
...... That's not all of what I wrote that day, but It's late,and I'll get back to this tomorrow.
Thanks for listening.