Food. Weight. Depression. I've Had Enough!

Tonight, I'm writing  because that's all that I know to do right now. I tried to create a Word document but my subscription to Office 365 has expired. How ironic, huh Alanis Morisette?

I went to lunch last Thursday with a group of friends. One friend looked across the table at another friend and said "You're getting so skinny!" One friend ordered a salad with fat free ranch dressing and a diet coke and remarked that she had to get back to her diet because she's gained back some of the weight she's lost. I, too, ordered a salad and then just sat there picking at it, telling myself that I was "full", even though I hadn't even eaten a fourth of it, worrying that I might look "greedy" if I finished it. Another friend grabbed a third piece of garlic bread from the basket and joked that if she kept eating like that she was going to get fat. My brother posted on Face book that he had left a box of truffles at my parent's house for me on Sunday. I stopped by my dad's house today and he asked if I had eaten lunch. I replied "No, I'm not hungry." He replied that there was a strawberry-rhubarb pie on the stove, if I was interested. My 19 year old nephew is concerned that his mom and his sister are overweight and is urging them to do something about it because they're not healthy. My 10 year old nephew gets teased at school for being too fat. My brother's fiancee is on a diet. So is his ex-wife. One friend limits herself to one small meal a day in an attempt to manage her weight. A friend posted a picture of her 6 month old daughter on Face book today and referred to her as "my little pork chop" and then stated that she already weighs 17 pounds and needs to "slow down". I make this list, not to attack anyone or call anyone out, but just to show that even if we are not consciously aware of it, we (as a society, not just within my group of friends) talk about and refer to our weight A LOT! Enough said.

Suck it up, buttercup! Play the hand you were dealt! Well, here's a news flash for you - folding is an option in Poker if you don't think you have a winning hand, and now, I'm choosing to fold.

I have been seeing psychiatrists and therapists for 22 years now. I have been taking my meds. I go to 12 step groups, mental health support groups, and try to do "the next right thing". A friend says to write a gratitude list. But you see, you are assuming that I'm not doing that. After all, you do it and it works. Well, I have been doing that very thing so maybe I'm just doing it wrong. Another tells me to pray, even if all I can say is "Help". I'm doing that too. Another says to reach out to someone else. I called a friend just to ask how they were doing and to say "Hello". I did not feel better this time. Did I do that wrong too? I am reminded of the St. Francis prayer, that it's better to love than to be loved. I guess I'm not up for that calling. I no longer feel comfortable representing NAMI through presentations to others about how it's possible to live well with a mental illness because I'm doing anything but that very thing.

I want to make the choice to stop treatment and I'm told I can't choose that. You see, I'm not in my "right mind" when I think that because of the mental illness so others should make those decisions for me. I get referred to the hospital, to get straightened out. Well, I'm tired of doing it that way. Dr. F. told me 10 years ago or more that my problem was that I wasn't "feminine" enough. His advice was to grow out my hair, start wearing makeup again, and, my favorite part, consider getting some dental work done to create a small gap between the middle of my front teeth because that is what men find attractive. He said "I'm hoping that you are attracted to men" in a way that I knew admitting that I'm not was not acceptable. I saw him for 6 months, because that is who my insurance would pay for me to see. He was a licensed psychiatrist. He went to medical school. After he up and left, and I'm not complaining about that, I went to see Dr. D. He put me on 9 medications. Yes, 9. That's not a typo. I showed up at my therapists office while manic and exhausted. She asked if it was okay to call the doctor. I said yes. Dr. D. told her that I was "too high risk" for him and to let me know that I would need to find another doctor. He didn't even have the balls to tell me himself. He was a licensed psychiatrist. He went to medical school. I went to another mental health provider after that and had a different doctor every time I went in because there was no regular doctor anymore. And I don't want to leave out the brilliant ER physician who looked at me and said "There's nothing wrong with you. You're just manic. " He then presented me with a prescription for Klonopin. He told me that it would be okay to take "a few extra" the first couple of nights, you know, until my sleep got back on track. And he stressed to me the importance of making sure that I lay down on my side or my stomach, not my back, after taking that because due to my size, specifically, my neck circumference, I would be at a high risk for suffocating in my sleep and dying . Dr. L., also an ER doc, told me that I was "wasting his time and taking him away from patients who really needed his help." He at least later apologized, but he couldn't un-ring that bell. And there was the time I had to have my stomach pumped following an overdose. The nurse shoving the tube down my throat kept yelling at me the whole time for "making her job harder on her" because I had no one to blame but myself. It was my own damn fault. I don't imagine that she saw that as a symptom of my depression but rather as a stupid, selfish decision. She did not see my pain because that doesn't show up on a brain scan or heart monitor. I've been to 13 different therapists in 20 years. While I was at one providers' office, there was a sudden mass Exodus of therapists. I point blank asked my therapist if he was going to be leaving too. He looked me in the eye and said "No, I'm here to stay." Two weeks later he announced in a group therapy session that he had accepted a position elsewhere and would be leaving in 2 weeks. So, I know I asked you, L., if you were leaving. Please don't take it personally if I'm reluctant to believe you. You see, I'm drawing on my past experience, which is really all I have to work with right now.

I am beginning to think that the mental health care system is broken beyond repair. I tried making up a list of all of the medications I have tried and I came up with at least 37. Probably in a hundred different combinations over the years. I guess I just haven't found the "right" combination yet. But how long am I supposed to knock on that door? Recovery tells me that if I'm knocking on a door and it doesn't open, it's not my door. There are always new meds. There always will be. When is enough enough? No one seems to have an answer for why I can't sleep. Try Remeron, 30 mg? No. Trazadone, 600 mg? No. Ativan, 10 mg, IM? No. Thorazine, 400 mg? No. Seroquel 900 mg? No. During one of my many too many hospital stays to mention, the Dr. started me on an antidepressant because I was depressed. Three days later, he discontinued it because I had become manic and he commented that he was glad he hadn't already discharged me. I was there for 14 days, then I went home. Less than a month later, I was in a different facility. You see, the depression came back, in full force. Their Dr. put me back on an antidepressant, one to treat the OCD as well. After a week, I went home. Again. I saw my regular psychiatrist, in her office for my outpatient follow-up. She took one look at my manic ass and stopped the medication I had just started for the depression and OCD. She told me I couldn't take those when I'm manic. I've been off of that for 7 weeks now. The depression is back. Bipolar disorder is tricky you see. With the antidepressants, I am manic. Without them, I'm depressed. And the OCD and PTSD are forced to take a "back seat" to the monster, bipolar disorder. Maybe something will come to you in your dreams. I know that as I sit here typing, you are in bed, sleeping. And I am not.  You're probably breathing, without having to think about it. But you see, I have to tell myself to breathe, because I forget to do that too.

My whole adult life has been about trying to get better. I'm tired of trying. And I'm tired of you telling me not to give up. Everyone has their "answer". I want to believe that all of the health care professionals I've seen over the years have had what they think is my best interest at heart. But I'm not allowed to have mine. I'm not just dealing with mental illness. The "diet" my medical doctor has me on has side effects. Muscle cramping. Constipation.  Drink pickle juice. That just comes with the territory. My headaches are most likely caused by my lack of sleep. No shit Sherlock! Nausea and vomiting? Stick to clear liquids until it passes. I stopped taking Lasix again but my body still has to pee every 30 minutes. So, my urologist wrote a prescription to take care of that. Isn't working. My legs hurt so bad that I couldn't even stand to have my kitties sitting on my lap tonight. What do I have left? Oh, yeah, the Cubs. A friend told me a true Cubs fan doesn't give up. Look where they were on November 2, 2016. Well, it took them 108 years to get there. I don't have 108 years. And I'll be damned if I'm going to keep apologizing for my choices and my feelings and my frustrations right now.

I went for a long drive this afternoon and thought about "letting go". See, I've been trying to let go. I've been trying to let go of anger and resentment. I've been trying to let go of hurt and pain. I've been trying to let go of my addictions. I stay sober. I stay abstinent. Let go and let God, right? I remembered a nursing home resident named Bill  that I had the privilege of taking care of when I was a CNA in college. No one wanted to take care of him. Physically, he wasn't that difficult to care for, but he kept pulling his oxygen off and screaming "Help me!" non stop. He had Alzheimer's. He tried your patience for sure. I went in one afternoon for my shift and the nurse informed us that Bill was dying. She said he wasn't expected to survive the shift. She asked for volunteers to take care of him that night. We all looked at each other and then I said I'd take him. I got the other residents taken care of and passed on my lunch break to sit with Bill. He was struggling so hard to breathe. I reached out and took his hand and in a quiet voice, told him that it was okay to let go. I told him that he was loved. That he mattered. And that if he was ready, it was okay to go. He took one more breath and then he died. After I collected myself, I went to get the nurse. She told me that it was my job to get him ready for the coroner. So, I bathed him, dressed him in a clean gown, and combed his hair out of his eyes for the last time. It was so peaceful. But when you're depressed, no one takes your hand and tells you it's okay to let go. No. They tell you to fight. They tell you it will get better. They tell you to be strong, that you are inspiring them to keep going. That's a pretty heavy burden to carry. See, the way that I look at it, I've been looking at "letting go" all wrong. Maybe when I hear God whispering that it's okay to let go, that He's "got this", He's telling me that it's okay to come home.