I really don’t know where to start, how to post about how I am feeling and what I am going through right now. Which in itself is odd, because if you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, you will know that I let ‘it’ out here. This is the space where I have felt able to open up about the shit that I am going through for nearly a year now. It’s been great therapy.
Except that I am in intense pain right now, greater than I have been in for sometime, right back in the deep end of the murky depression pool, feeling like I am at breaking point again… and I haven’t been able to blog about it.
Why? Lack of time, lack of energy, lack of belief that any of what I have to say matters or will make a difference, lack of belief that any of you really want to read the shit I am writing, an unwillingness to start whinging, an unwillingness to upset my mother because she reads this blog. It’s all those things, but what it really boils down to is that I can’t deal with anything even writing in my blog.
Work has been hell over the past week. Not because I have been too busy or working too late, but because I can’t concentrate, can’t think, can’t do anything… and can’t talk to anybody about that. I’ve been dragging my arse out of bed and on to the train and gettnig myself bodily to work through sheer will-power. And then I get there… but I am not there at all, except for the body sitting on the chair typing away. I feel like I have been using every ounce of energy, every resource I have just to get to work. I have nothing left over to actually do any work, and certainly nothing left over for me (or for John, for that matter).
Yesterday at work, it felt as bad as it has ever felt. My mask, the one that has been fooling me as well as the people around me, the one I have written about many times before, has not just slipped; it has been ripped away. I can’t cope. I really can’t. I can’t stand feeling this bad all the time.
I couldn’t go to work this morning. I couldn’t make myself face the day. Damn it, is that so bad? Is it such a failure? Is it such a fuck up? If I were physically sick, no one would question that I stayed at home today, but because I am depressed, I should just make myself go. Damn it, it’s a Mental Health Day, and I fucking need to be able to focus on … well ,to be able to focus on living, and getting myself help.
I don’t know what not going to work means at the moment. I am hoping that a day or two at home will give me the space to regain my equilibrium, but I don’t have the luxury of being able to have a longer period of time off. I think I am probably stretching it with these few days anyway. It worries me.
Yesterday, I also tried to make an appointment with my GP and my psychiatrist. My GP is on holiday, but I did get in contact with the psychiatrist’s office. I have an appointment at 8.10am tomorrow. It will be really hard to make it.
I feel like I have been reaching out, but noone has heard me. But maybe, in reality, I haven’t reached out. Certainly I thought John knew how bad it was for me, but apparently I haven’t communicated what I’ve been going through to him. When I rang him from work yesterday, needing help, he seemed to think that my distress came from out of the blue. It hasn’t. It’s been building and building. The fact is that I have never been entirely ‘well’; even when I am doing OK, I am still depressed. Yet I did think this ‘rough patch’ was ‘temporary and managable’; I did expect to ‘bounce back’ like I have in recent months. I guess I also did not want to alarm people by talking about how bad things were for me, when we all thought I was finally over the worst; I did not want to concern people; I did not want to bother them with my shit. I guess that should have been ringing alarm bells for me in itself.
Talking to my therapist on Monday, I mentioned to him as part of a discussion on another topic some of the suicidal thoughts I have. He said “Has the suicide ideation returned, then?” and when I said that it had never left, that it was always there, I think he was a little shocked. Yes, it is always there, but I think it is getting worse.
Again, as I am writing this, I don’t want to alarm people. I have a fear of ‘crying wolf’, of asking for help when I don’t really need it. That is, I don’t have a noose around my neck or a razor blade at my wrist. It’s not that bad. Not yet. But I am in pain. A whole heap and a hell of a lot of pain. And I can’t cope. Does that make any sense? I can’t cope. I want the pain to end and don’t know how to end it. And I have suicidal thoughts, but no immediate plans to kill myself.
That’s laying it all on the table as honestly and as completely as I can.