And so I did. And I felt better. It scared the crap out of me. I wanted to keep doing it, and then my logical brain re-emerged and reminded me that is isn't me, it's the meds. Call for help. I did. I waited. I got scared. I called someone else. That person did not help; I started to spiral further down.
Help has to be able to come to you, if necessary. Help has to care. Help can reject you. Help may not be able to or want to listen. I needed to know I mattered. If I can't get the help, I am supposed to call for lights and sirens. Nobody in that position wants lights and sirens. It wasn't that bad. Not comparatively. The tricky thing in that situation is figuring out which brain is making a comparative judgement.
While sitting on the bend in the stairs, I realized something. I didn't want to continue to cause myself harm, but I couldn't stop thinking about doing it. There is a significant difference. As long as it remained a thought, I was winning. Moments at a time. I could manage moments at a time.
And then help arrived, bringing the matches for my candle.
I know the desire to cause myself pain stems from my brain wanting to order endorphins for supper, hoping for an opioid release desert.
I have been here before, too, a long time ago in a place that seems far, far away. I was stronger then.
Kicks ass takes names strong. Even then I still felt the pull to self-destruct. I didn't though. I also didn't deal with the underlying issues. I was on my way, and then life happened. I mean that literally.
Depression is isolating. It's frightening; it makes you believe that you suck. It makes you suck, often actually draining the people around you to the point of exhaustion. I steal their matches, and they don't have any for themselves. I want to share my own, but I can't find them. I can see the harm I am causing, and that makes it all worse. This has spiralled so far out of control so quickly that I can still clearly see what is behind the clouds, what I have lost, what I have ruined for myself. The sunshine does not inspire me to improve; it reminds me of what I have unwillingly pushed away. I need to channel my inner Buddhist. I need to bathe in the Ganges. I need to forgive myself. Weak doesn't have to be my address.
My doctor says I have to stop expecting my brain to override the estrogen, cortisol and various other hormones that are discordant, clashing with my thinking brain. He says that I have to accept that I am like everyone else in this basic way, my brain listens to chemical input above all else. Medical issues have been and still are, at play. My body and brain can't ignore that it's been under physical attack for a while. My cortisol levels are ridiculously high; short-staffed air traffic controller with an ulcer and a bad marriage and a chronically ill child high. It feeds itself. I am unable to stick a spike in the generating wheel.
I can use my will, my knowledge and my strength to dissipate the force of the attack messages the neurotransmitters are firing out, but they make it to the stream. They get caught downstream on old branches and the next thing you know, there is a dam. I need to block the transmission.
I am pushing people away, and I have lost myself. I am adrift.
Depression stole my map. I was not reading my compass correctly; perhaps I was too close to a Pole. Maybe I did not adjust for magnetic declination. I need to navigate on my own. Until I find my map again, it is helpful when the stars occasionally emerge to help me find my way.
To those of you who are reading this and know me, a word of caution. This is not an invitation to make a fuss. This is not a general plea for help. I will not appreciate being fawned over or fussed about. I may seem quite pathetic, yes, but I am not, actually. I will not know how to brush you off, and I will not want to hurt your feelings, and I will not know how not to do that. I don't need it. I am not going to make the papers. It's not going to go there. Don't bring your pity to my door. You will not help me with it.
I'll find my own damned tail. I may want some suggestions on how to attach it; I'm not made of sawdust. A pin isn't going to work.
No comments:
Post a Comment