This was a week. I totally can’t fathom all that I’ve felt and not felt. This week has reminded me how fragile I am, but also how intelligent I am. I really am smart—I can speak intellectually and without bias, and I can pull facts out of the back of my head. My mind can unravel and untangle to where I can reach his information and I can have real thoughts and feelings that I know are worthwhile. I’ll be happier up late with Franzia and good friends talking about the world. This is not to say I’m not stupid. I’m very, very stupid, and everyone, including myself sometimes, seems to overestimate my competence. But I forget that I am privileged with this gift. I had parents who pushed me and I’ve been curious from birth. I forget that my mind actually is precious and holds thoughts that are worthwhile because concurrently my mind tells me that I don’t deserve life. I know I have to deal with the demons to recover, but I think it would help me just as much to help kindle these tiny fires, this small consciousness to get out, listen to other people, have intimate experiences, and—dare I say it—“live.”
It was really me who messed it up. I stay up too late and then just get tired of the things around me. I decide things are just stupid. Maybe I missed a pill or two earlier this week as well, so that encourages it. I think a lot of things are stupid. My therapist is pretty amazing and honestly I’ve been blessed to get good ones. But sometimes therapists I’ve been with ask me questions and my first thought is “stupid.” For example, “where are you going in the future?” What the fuck? I don’t know that. Nobody does. My answer: “dead.” This might not be a great example, but it kind of portrays the thought process. I start thinking everything anyone says is condescending and they are idiots. I get vulgar. Why am I spending my time on this shit? This is fucking stupid. Another example is that I often I think new experiences are stupid even though I end up liking them. First time I walked a dog? Wow, that was fucking stupid. I got Twitter just a few years after it launched and when it started picking up, I would tell the people around me I already had one (hipster!!!!1). They’d ask me if the concept is good and I’d say “it’s really stupid.” But I kept getting on it. Now I’m recovered from that and Twitter is probably my favorite social media platform, although I deleted my seven year old Twitter account a year ago because I couldn’t stop checking the pages of my ex and all of his friend group, and it was ruining my life, and I’d stopped meeting new people through it. I miss Twitter.
I got really off topic. Let’s try again: this week. It was really me who messed it up. I stay up too late and then just get tired of the things around me. I decide things are just stupid. Maybe I missed a pill or two earlier this week as well, so that encourages it. So, when I would wake up, and think about class, and even though I love all my classes, I thought “that class is stupid” so I stayed in bed. I think on Monday I even got up and got ready for class, and right before I was about to leave, I thought to my myself “this is stupid” and simply went back under my comforter and continued to sleep. That’s all I really wanted—to sleep. I talked about that on my previous post. I mean, technically, all I really wanted was to die, but I didn’t want to die, and I’d heard that instead of doing something irrational, I should sleep before making any decisions. But you can’t pause life. Staying in bed means staying in isolation. Staying in bed means not being able to prepare a meal for yourself. Staying in bed means dreams. I don’t know if this week of sleep was worth it, but God, I have a lot to make up. I have a midterm tomorrow and I don’t know most of anything, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to do this:
Which will probably end in this:
Which could probably be at least somewhat alleviated if I end my post now and got to work, but meh.
So, eventually, the stupid attitude morphed into not being able to physically get out of bed or wake up at all, and I missed all of my appointments, including group therapy later in the week. I don’t know if I ever wrote about group therapy, but I’ve only been to one session (the first) and I thought “that was stupid.” But 5 points for Gryffindor for being self aware and saying “Don’t do that. Just try it. Ka wants you to try it. The first session always sucks and is awkward. It’ll probably be fine.” Yeah, but I can’t shake the stupid thought. I really can’t—it got somewhat ingrained in me this week and I will have to recuperate my attitude. So, I’m pretty sure I want to drop group, but I think the main motivation for that is time. I realized I need time for sleep. I’m sick of adding more things that take up my time, because I just need to rest.
Well, at that point, I get a call from Ka (my counselor) asking if I’m alright. I told her I just slept through it all. I couldn’t fake sounding good even if President Obama walked in. She asked if I’d been thinking of hurting myself. I couldn’t lie. So, what to do next? My safety is in question. She asked me to come into the office but she wasn’t available. I could see someone else—emergency thing. I know they do this but I just told her I didn’t want to see anyone else. I’d just had a crying spell too and had thought about calling mom. So of course when she says maybe I should go home I think that’s probably the best option (because she did mention going to the hospital, and fuck that.*).
I thought I could get up and get through the week, I had to. And I wanted to go to my job. I like my job. So on the phone I began with “come get me” and then explained the situation, and then told them I really wasn’t sure, and we went back and forth and I wouldn’t get out of bed. Finally I hung up and I did it, I went to the bathroom. They called me back first but I didn’t pick up, so then I called them back, and my dad told me my mom was coming she needed to come, she was worried. He would get her a hotel.
A few hours later comes my mother. We go to the hotel and sleep cuddled up that night. It was good and bad and scary. I didn’t sleep, really. The next day I went to work. I came back and had energy from that. I met back up with mom. I had a class. I didn’t go. She asked if I wanted her to stay through the weekend or if I wanted to come home. We continued to go back and forth—I didn’t know what to do. Eventually I decided I wanted to be alone, so I told her to go, but it hurt. I went to my night class and found out later that my mom drove home with my apartment keys—I left it in the car. I told her to mail it and it would come on Monday. My roommate is cool and can let me in. But my dad wanted to come and bring them, and I didn’t want him to. At that point the episode had ended, and I was just in the aftereffects stage. The next day I skipped my first class, went to my second and gave a crappy presentation, and then went to work, which was fun. In the morning though, my parents had called and my dad had said he’s coming. He was off and bored anyway.
I think he had the expectation that my mom was going to bring me home but she didn’t and I knew if he came, he would take me. I had midterms to study for and an art project that I have to be in the studio to work on. Nonetheless, I didn’t feel too upset. I let him come and I thought positively. I showed him the facility I work at. He asked me what he should do. He had the weekend off. I kept saying I don’t know—I really didn’t. Did I want to go home? Here’s one thought I had: Going home would put the mileage distance between Bo and I much lower. 25 minutes away*. He’s 25 minutes away, breathing the same air. Having sex with his girlfriend. It was irrational. There would be no chance I would see him. I was safe in my house, I was not going to contact him nor would I leave the house. For some reason my stomach still rattled. And what if I went home and didn’t want to return? I also thought about how much gas we were wasting.
But I was right about my dad taking me home no matter what. He made the decision for me pretending to himself that I’d wholeheartedly agreed* and we drove home. We talked a lot in the car about my classes. My dad talks a lot when he wants to. We didn’t talk about how I was feeling. I felt normal-ish even though I knew I wasn’t. I got home. I hugged my mom. More importantly, I hugged my sisters. God, it was nice to see my sisters. Really, it wouldn’t have been worth it if we weren’t all home to be together. But I don’t regret the choice because it was them who helped me heal. It was them who talked to me and made me laugh and made me feel like I belong. I love them so much, shit, I’m gonna cry.
I’m back now. I did want to stay. I wanted so much to stay—in fact, we’re actually on break this Thursday! Can you believe that? Only a few days here and then I go back. (Was it even worth it to come back…?) My dad once again talked too much in the car but he’s very smart. I hope my parents aren’t fighting on the drive home.
Now, about that midterm? Yeah, I should get on that + I have work tonight. It’s a late night shift I haven’t told my parents I picked up…whoops.
Before I close, on my ex: I love him. I love the idea of him I have created that likely doesn’t exist. It’s just been too much talking about it, trying to work through it, reading books on it—I want to work on some other things in my recovery. I can’t ignore it and not try to work through it, because it’s one of the biggest factors of my depression. It is very difficult and painful to do but that is what it will take to recover. But, right now, I’m sick of people being amazed that I still have feelings for this person—yes, it is totally unreasonable, and no cognitive process or logic seems to be working. No matter how right I know they are, I can’t shake having hope for reuniting one day rather than accepting it’s not meant to be. I shouldn’t say nothing anyone will say will help me get over him, because there’s still time to meet someone who could say something. But I’m exhausted. I hate this, but only time is going to get me through this. I hate that phrase. So much. But that explains it. What I mean is, I have to push through, I have to dissolve it in my brain, or let it dissolve. I don’t know what I’m saying.
*Exactly a year ago three days later (this weekend), I was in the ER. I wasn’t thinking about that at the time, but what an absolute mess it would have been if I repeated the same thing. My sleep last night, which was filled with tosses and turns, had been spent there in that haze one year ago. I didn’t remember it until writing this.
*In the midwest, we use minutes.
*My dad has this problem. I’m unsure about things. I take time to make decisions. He makes them during some conversation and deludes himself to think I want this 100%. His decisions are usually right but…if something goes on later, I have to listen to “What are you talking about? YOU wanted this. I thought you had REALLY wanted this? Why are you doing this?” It sucks, but it’s my dad, and I have to work on that indecisiveness anyway.
All pictures were found on Pinterest. Which I don’t actually use. Except the le meme–I saw that comic once a long while ago and wasted so much time while writing this to find it again. I just ended up making one.