Category Archives: Shame

The New Tattoo Is a Sign

I’ve got a lot on my mind – coming out, new committee work, suicidal thoughts and feelings, a new love interest maybe, a new tattoo and that it means I’m in control of my treatment and my body and who I tell what to, filling out end-of-life paperwork. All in all I’m overwhelmed with me, and a bit hypomanic from the mucinex, and together these things are causing me distress. And anxiety. Lots of anxiety. Just doing the paperwork reminded me that doing such things are a symptom of thinking death is near. And of course I’m having such intense and frequent thoughts of suicide, but in a more abstract way, not a concrete plan, thank goodness.

I just need a place I can be fully me, and be cared for, and share my piled-on thoughts with. Right now that place is church. I’m grateful for the people there that accept and care for me, as well as for the opportunity to do something (social justice team) that speaks to my heart’s burden to make the world a better place. It’s a process of becoming, isn’t it? Becoming a stable person with bipolar, becoming someone who loves in different ways, becoming a leader again. I’m generally someone who pays attention to process, and lets it unfold. But when it comes to me, I’m impatient!

That said, I’m hopeful about entering the process of EMDR to end the suicidal thoughts, and I know it could take a while. I’m hopeful about the person I’ll be and the opportunities I can take when I’m no longer regularly hospitalized and don’t have the terrible thoughts. So I suppose I am paying attention to process because I’m looking to the future and I Will allow it to unfold. And there Will Be a Future. I’m going to keep fighting.

Shootings, Suicide, and Spirituality

I am sick to death of shootings that kill or injure ANY number of people, not just the ones that “score” enough deaths to be considered “mass” shootings. My heart hurts. My soul is heavy. My body itches to DO something to ease the enormous pain my country is in.

This is not a new feeling. I can remember the ache as far back as childhood when gang violence in the cities was more likely to make the news than a lone wolf, cis- and young white male with a high-capacity gun was.

Yes, I said it. The problem is not just guns, though background checks and limiting them will make a huge difference. The problem is not just access to mental health treatment, though some of the shooters may not have been in treatment for their mental illness. No. I believe the current problem lies in cis- white, patriarchal supremacy that is replete through American culture.

Unfriend me if you wish. I just needed to say it. Because ever since we had a week full of violence in California, Texas, Ohio, and Illinois, just to name the ones I happened to hear about, I’ve been quiet and hurting, nauseous and aching for the pain, loss, and fear. I’ve also felt more suicidal, more often than usual, with the accompanying feelings of emptiness and lack of purpose.

Then a notorious, alleged criminal is said to have died by suicide (many think not, icymi). Just having suicide in the news is a trigger for suicidality for me. And now he won’t face the justice likely to have come down on him for atrocious acts. Many hearts scream for justice, and I hear them. And death seems a real possibility again.

I talked with my therapist about the suicidal thoughts and was reminded of coping skills that I can use before the feeling gets intense. Going to church is one of those coping skills, something I do to be social, to be encouraged toward ethical action, and to be inspired by the good that IS in the world. Then today, at the beginning of a service to recognize the grief and pain and urge to act because of the shootings, the suicidal feeling came back again. In my last community, I would very often drive to church with hope, only to leave suicidal. That hasn’t happened much in my current community, but here it is, happening again.

I’m using coping skills – such as blogging about my feelings – to ride out the suicidal feelings. But my heart still aches, and my stomach is nauseous.

Suicidality

I am not suicidal and I have all the hotlines on speed dial.

But there are guns in the house I live in. They are locked up, and I don’t even know where the safes are. I only have access to a few days’ worth of my meds, and the rest are hidden away until Saturdays when I refill my pill boxes. But other people’s meds are out in the house where I could have access to them. Knives and sharps are not locked up.

All these facts go through my head as I try to convince myself I am in control, and suicide is just a thought.

But it’s not just a thought. It’s also the feeling of wanting death and nothingness and unconsciousness, not just so the pain will stop but also because it seems like the time has come for my life to end. Suicidal feelings are Munch’s “The Scream” – silent, yet horrific, as they tear through the deepest part of you. You are a bottomless pit of dark, dark, dark feelings that spiral down, a corkscrew that drives deeper and deeper into the center of you.

Suicidality includes the impulses to use various items against myself that roll through me like ocean waves, or that jolt me like electricity. The impulses usually include visions of me hurting and killing myself in multiple ways.

I’m ashamed of having these feelings, impulses and thoughts. When I’m not consumed by them. In the moment, they take over and are the only things I experience. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, touches, thoughts do not exist, only suicidal thoughts, feelings, and impulses. As these become less intense – and they do! – I begin to feel shame and guilt, as though I want these suicidal experiences.

And then, if I am able to feel something else, I start to feel fear, and anxiety ramps up. So, from being overwhelmed by suicide’s thoughts and feelings, I first feel shame, guilt, fear and anxiety. How awful! And from this head- and feeling-space I then question myself: Who am I, that I seem to be consumed by thoughts of death and of killing myself? Who am I, that I come under suicide’s power and don’t even take in other stimuli? And why do I think/feel constantly that my life will end early, most likely at my own hand too?

Suicidality as I experience it is this horrible, horrible, awful experience that pulses through my every day. Some days the experience is less overwhelming and only lasts a few seconds and then passes. Most days the waves of feelings last for several minutes each hour. How can I keep living this way? Why is there no treatment for suicidality?

Not Just Grieving or Angry

I still have near constant suicidal thoughts as discussed in my last post. I’ve researched some possibilities to carry it out, and come to the same conclusion that my primary method is the best for me, AND I cannot do it because several methods are hidden from me by my family.

So there. I’m safe. Just miserable and wanting to end the misery. And the best way to end the misery seems to be to follow the thoughts’ plan.

My thoughts seem to say “I’m not fleeting. I’m persistent. Do it. Here’s a scenario.” Sometimes this repeats ad nauseum. Sometimes I can look with the self and notice that they are thoughts, and see that they are not coming from the Self. But even when I can create distance in this way, I do not know from whence the thoughts cometh. Arguably, from bipolar. The diseased part of the brain. Yet that is part of me. I can’t yet see bipolar as Other-Than-Me, when it comes from MY brain. How can I even distinguish diseased-brain from me-brain? My cognitive abilities are so hampered, even when my mood is in the middle, neither depressed nor manic. So much of ME is taken up by diseased-brain with all the cognitive jumble and lack of function I live with. It’s amazing I can even drive.

My thoughts also seem to say, “I hate this limping life. This is not the life we signed up for. I expected some good things, such as lasting relationships, an interesting career, and a developing/ed intellectual self. What is this hobbling along day-by-day, hour-by-shuffling-hour business?”

I’m grieving – Still! – the life I had and thought would continue. But it’s more than grief. I’m angry at being robbed of this life, but it’s more than anger. I’ve sat with these emotions and phases Multiple Times. Sometimes, like a few posts ago when I was signing up for college classes, I seem to have accepted, or at least embraced this limping, hobbling life bipolar has left for me, and made some good fortune happen.

When all is said and done, and I’m alone with my bipolar and suicidal thoughts, I Have Not Accepted that this is my life. I think that’s one reason why I want to end it. What else do you see in this mess? Help me.

Around the Cycle Goes

This week has been up and down and around as my mood, or more my thoughts, cycle through various mental phases.

I started the week with the ever popular Xmas delusion I get every year. Fortunately it lasted only several hours on Xmas Eve when I was in and out of touch with reality. My mood was still in the middle but dipping at times on Xmas Eve and Xmas Day.

Then December 26th, I was back! Mood perky and happy and optimistic. Mere fleeting thoughts of suicide (baseline for me to just have a few).

And then on the 27th, OCD thoughts kicked in and all I could tell myself was plans to kill me. All the time. And again I couldn’t talk about it or tell anyone until my NAMI support group meeting that night. Then I could articulate calling the ECT office to see if getting ECT earlier than scheduled might help. And I could note that I really needed to tell my mom about the OCD suicidal thoughts. And I was encouraged to contact my therapist, who did tell me to contact the ECT office and let them decide if I needed one.

You see, my mood was great! Stable, and in the middle. Not depressed. Not hypomanic. I just had obsessive, albeit dangerous, thoughts. I didn’t know if I would get to a point of having intent though.

When I called the ECT office today, the 28th, I thought the thoughts were less obsessive and therefore farther away from any intent. But later in the day they were just as obsessive and I worry about intent showing up. Or if obsession will finally give way to compulsion in OCD. It never has for me, but will there come a day that the pathology progresses?

My mood is still stable, happy, good, in the middle. It’s just my thoughts. I don’t want to kill myself, I just can’t stop holding it out as a possibility. Obsession. I suppose if I was worried enough, it would warrant a hospitalization. But, again, my mood is great! It’s just the obsessive thoughts.

Sigh.

I hate mental illness.

In a Dark Place Again

I’m of two minds again. One┬ápart of my mind wants to go on the trip to Chicago next week. I’ve got plans to do some fun things and to catch up with friends. In theory there are other trips I want to go on, and I still wonder about going back to school for a ph.d. some day (next year? ha! like my brain could do that). I’m also thinking about moving back to Chicago again where I’d be happier, as I discussed in my previous post.

But.

I’m in a dark place again thinking about suicide and imagining how I’d do it. My plan is clear, as it always is. So that’s not new. In fact none of this is new. I have sorted all my blog posts into topics for the book I’m writing about living with bipolar. So very often I have written about suicidal thoughts and how they keep after me, nipping at my heels on a constant basis. I have written of wondering if I should go to the hospital and how badly I am suffering in the pit of suicidal depression.

I’m in the pit again. I work the coping skills All.The.Time. I contact people. Now I even have my therapist in the pit with me, saying he will stay until it’s not a pit anymore or until he or I finds a way out that hasn’t been tried before. And he said he would tell me when it’s time to go the hospital. Both of these tactics are different from other providers who always left it up to me and kept telling me to work the skills as though things would be different this time. They never were. I would end up in the hospital as a cry for help instead of following through.

I hate the hospitals here. Nothing to do. Substandard care. Bad food. I miss my hospital in Chicago-area. Being as bad as I am, I would be more likely to go to the hospital in Chicago. Here in TX, I’m desperate to stay out. So much that I might push myself to do it, although I’d just end up in the hospital if I lived.

So morbid.

I’m ashamed of being this bad again. I know in my heart that it’s not something I’ve done. It’s something I live with. The thoughts pound against my skull. When I’m thinking about the trip, I know the suicidal thoughts are lies. But the next minute I’m sinking into despair.

Resistance

I completely resisted therapy today. I almost walked out even. Who know that probing my thought would lead to such resistance! The song in my head – well, the half line from a song – grew more insistent. I wanted to get up and walk out. I had answers in my head that I couldn’t talk myself into saying aloud. I tried to sidle up to my thought and I still couldn’t do it. Good grief! It was just a thought!

I don’t even know exactly what the thought was now. I think it was that I felt resigned that I would go into depression from this slightly depressed place, and that I would be a slave to moods forever. (I want to be manic or at least psychotic, or both. I’m annoyed by this depression. I don’t see stability coming any time soon, if ever.) My therapist had me give a mood, age and gender to the thought. So I decided the thought that I was resigned to being depressed and would be slave to my moods forever was frustrated and pissed off and scared, and that she looked like a 23-year-old me. I couldn’t figure out what she wanted me to say to her. I did figure out – but couldn’t say aloud – that she wanted me to hug her. What’s that about? The song in my head – excuse me, half line of a song – grew more insistent.

My therapist invited me to let whatever thought – including walking out – be accepted and heard so that we weren’t denying her feelings. He asked if the song was a sort of defense mechanism, albeit unconscious. I said maybe, made sense. I still didn’t want to talk.

I wish I could go back and not be resistant. But it was what it was. I’m trying to figure out what so much resistance was about. Part of it was that I didn’t want him to write in his notes about walking out or that I was resistant. What should I care what he writes? Besides, I was trying to mind read, and that doesn’t lead anywhere.

So now I’m supposed to put a hash mark down every time I don’t feel depressed. Just to see that I’m not depressed ALL the time, I guess. I can see through the assignments…