what am i

Unlike most of the Madosphere, I don’t have an actual diagnosis. Well, that’s not true. I know one exists, but I haven’t been told what it is. My psychologist doesn’t feel it’s important that I know, because his focus is on making me “better”. When I was hospitalized, the psychiatrist told me that he feels I have a moderate case of OCD, which doesn’t surprise me at all.

But aside from that… I don’t know what it is that I’m fighting. And I don’t know how I feel about this. I don’t like being labelled in general, because then I feel like I have to live up to some sort of expectation. Not just in terms of mental health, but anything. I have a lot of hobbies, but I cringe when people refer to me as a knitter or a photographer or a writer.

I’m afraid of knowing what my diagnosis is because I don’t want to end up hiding behind whatever disorder it is that I have.
I’m afraid of the stigma that comes with having a mental health disorder.
I’m afraid of being being diagnosed with something “scary”.
I’m afraid of finding out that I don’t have any disorders and I’m just this messed up for no good reason.

But most of all…

I’m afraid of knowing and not knowing.

fighting it

My husband mentioned to me over the weekend that I seem to be more stable than I have been in a long time. Definitely much better since my hospitalization, and close to where I was before I decided to take myself off meds last year. I can tell a difference in myself, too.

So I should be glad that I’m doing better, right? I should be glad that I don’t have to spend every waking moment fighting the urge to cut or overdose. I should be glad that the depression and anxiety isn’t as oppressive as it was.

But I’m not.

I’m scared that if I get better, I won’t have a good enough reason to want to die anymore. When I say it like that, it sounds so incredibly stupid. Being depressed sucks, and being suicidal sucks harder, but it’s what I know. And I know from past experience that I when I fall again, and I know I will, that it will hurt so much more. So I might as well skip the part where I feel almost happy so that the pain won’t be as harsh when I meet it again.

two zero one one

It would appear that I’m still alive for 2011. A month ago, I really wasn’t sure if I would be. Or if I wanted to be. I’m still not entirely convinced on the latter part. I hope that this year is better than last, although I don’t know that it can get much worse.

So from me to you, I wish you a happy and safe year, whatever that may look like for you.

trust issues

I’ve always been guarded when it comes to letting people get to know me. My mother taught me to always find out what I can about the people around me, but to never let them know my opinions. I think she was referring mostly to religion and politics, but I adapted the policy to encompass my whole life.

Ever since my hospitalization, I’ve become even more distrusting of people. Especially people who know the truth of who I am. For the time being, no real life acquaintances know of this blog. I feel like I’m not supposed to ever want to cut or be depressed or get so anxious that I have a panic attack. That being in the hospital was supposed to cure me. I’m terrified that if someone finds out that I’m having a difficult day, they’re going to get all over-protective and try to drag me back to the hospital. Or they’ll assume that I didn’t take my meds that day.

Logically, I know that this is mostly due to paranoia. But that paranoia is getting in the way of my relationships, which is just feeding into the depression and anxiety, and so on and so forth.

If only I trusted someone to help me break that cycle…

okay

I am tired of people asking me if I’m okay. Or asking me how I’m doing. For one thing, I don’t know how to answer without thinking about it. I’m usually too caught up in the mentality of “get through the day” to bother with checking in on how I’m doing.

I know people ask because they’re concerned, but if they’re not going to accept my answer of “I’m okay”, then I wish they wouldn’t ask in the first place. I don’t appreciate being made to feel like it’s not possible for me to ever be okay. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a walking disaster all hours of the day. I won’t deny that I have my moments of desperation and intense depression, but the people who I reach out to should know by now that I will reach out if I think I’m in imminent danger.

Sometimes I need to be left alone to deal with the sadness and anxiety. Not because I like feeling that way, but because I know it’s honest emotion. It’s not fake happiness or contentment that I have to muster up the energy to portray. No matter how much it torments me, all those negative emotions at least serve a purpose – to remind me that I am still capable of experiencing emotions. And maybe… just maybe… hope might be in there somewhere.

safety

I spent some time in the “Behavioral Health Unit” at the hospital. Forget the PC niceties and just call it what it is – the psych ward. I felt like I was unceremoniously left there without a clue as to who I was supposed to talk to or what I was supposed to be doing or where I was supposed to be going.

The only thing I knew was that I had to fill out a safety plan form. Ah, the safety plan. Those magical steps that will somehow bring you down from the proverbial ledge in times of crisis. Cutting, apparently, is not an appropriate action to put on one’s safety plan.

When you’re one of those people who is classified as “passively suicidal” or “self-injurer” or “depressed” or anything that could possibly lead to you hurting yourself or others, safety becomes the big buzz word. Are you safe? Do you feel safe? How can we make you safer?

So answer me this: How am I supposed to feel safe from my own mind? I destroy myself from the inside out, resorting to cutting as a last ditch effort to alleviate the suffocating pain. I have racing thoughts of how many different ways I could kill myself. I hear voices telling me to just go and take all those pills.

And yet when somebody asks me if I’m safe…

I say yes.