Just shut me up in a room with my sorrow. Give me a chocolate muffin to cry into. Nothing else to do with this, just survive it.

You can live a thousand days free and never quite understand depression until it’s back on you, riding you. Philosophies dry up. Hope dies. You know what it is, you can feel it come on like a sneeze, and you’ve been there before so often, so long. But nothing prepares you for it, each time it’s fresh and raw like the first, each time the adages designed to get you through it don’t come nearly close enough to making a difference in a world of grey.

Can’t you get it together? Can’t you pull yourself up?

No, and no.

All the tough talk of high times is nothing here. No sunshine, no hope, no easy ladder out. Just a sheer wall with no handholds. Now, climb. And do it with a fucking smile on your face.

These things that are so easy for everyone else – patience to deal with the day to day, including my own mistakes, escapes me. I am just back from my computer language class, in which three people almost died and the entire computer system very nearly got slammed into the wall. Took every bit of me to not do it, to not march out of there screaming obscenities. I stayed. I kept trying. If the new assistant with her sickening perfume walked past me one more time she was going to get her head smashed in. I cursed – quietly – at the computer a lot. My head went down on my arms as I just told myself to BREATHE and RELAX, you’ll get through it. No tears ’til I got the fuck out of there.

Even that meager victory feels hollow; I don’t think I did well. My sighs and mutterings were noticed. Oh, but they don’t know how fucking close they all came to death today! Maybe if they knew that they’d think better of me.

I do not want to keep taking a fucking ativan every goddamn time I feel like I can’t fucking deal. I don’t need ANOTHER fucking habit that I’ve got to fucking give up.

Now IS a time I’d like to hurt myself. Go and give myself some physical fucking pain to deal with. Make myself fucking bleed. Fucking bullshit fucking life. I never fucking asked for ANY of this.

Commitment. To ME. I’m reaching out. Emailing. Writing. Tell me it’s my bipolar. Tell me it isn’t me. Please. Tell me I’m not just fucking doing this for the attention or any of the other bad shit going on in my head. Tell me I fucking need help to get over this, that I’m doing the right thing and on the right path. Tell me I’m okay.


18 thoughts on “help

    1. I try to remember that. Think about how bad it might have gone down. And props to me – I still may have scared some of the people in the classroom, but they walked out of there. They don’t need to seek out special trauma counseling because of what I screamed at them. They’re not in hospital with broken bones and heads. That’s an improvement.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Oh Beeps!!! 😢😢😢😢 I wish I could take away the pain – all of it. You have support here. This depression – it’s not you. It’s not who you are. It’s a nasty little bastard trying to steal your joy. Fuck him! It you need the Ativan for now, use it. Rather the Ativan than a murder charge, is what I always say 😉 You don’t have enough Ativan at your disposal right now for it to be a problem. Use it.

    After my son died, I was given some benzo’s even though I told my doctor I had been dependent on them. He said, “You need them right now. Take them.” So I did. For three weeks, and then I stopped. No problem. Well, kinda… But that’s a story for another day. There was no withdrawal is what I meant. There was another problem that presented itself in that I had to deal with my loss all over again.

    Anyway. If you need them, take them. That is all xoxoxoxox

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thanks, Lola. Thanks for the permission to use the Ativan. I’ve just got a few more days before my counseling starts. Just get there, right?

      Haven’t had a reaction like that in years. Blah pretty much talked me down. All I can think is that the perfume triggered me. Can’t even remember the scent, just feeling overwhelmed by it – like it was everywhere, in the air, my mouth, my nose. I was never happier than to get out of class and draw my first clean breath of cold air.

      Managed to talk to my bro after Blah calmed me down. He said he could smell the perfume but it wasn’t as prevalent as I felt it was. He also said the noise level in the room remained fairly constant. It didn’t get louder and louder like I felt it did. So, major trigger from that scent. My mother must have worn it.

      Man, my counselors have some work to do. Hope I never smell that perfume again.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I was surprised to learn the volume in the room didn’t get louder. Totally my perception. Hypervigilance. A new word to add to my vocab. Yeah, could have been that. My skin was crawling in expectation of being touched. Ew. Makes me squirrely just thinking about it.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. I’m no doctor or therapist. I do have bipolar. Only my opinion this – it sounds like you’re in crisis. Seems you might be cycling too rapidly – going from this almighty depression to all that swimming but feeling no rush of endorphins ie nothing. If you need to take something to get through an activity/event, there is no shame in that. That is how us lot with bipolar live. At least I speak for myself. If you need Ativan to regulate yourself during computer class, than that’s just the way it is. At work, on the days I may just commit human sacrifice in the name of aggression, agitation, rage…..I pop a Rivotril/Alzam or two or three. Also on the days I want to cry a lot. I am addicted to my sleeping meds. I don’t care – I need to sleep. If the doc ever took me off them, I’d fight him ’til I drew blood. And I think he knows that ‘cos he keeps prescribing them. I would encourage you to see someone. *hugs*

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Less than 2 days to go before my counseling begins. Hopefully I will not be referred to yet ANOTHER place. I understand the doctors’ desire to hook me up with the proper people, but being bounced around a couple of times has done nothing to make me feel better about myself.

      I hope I get meds. I know I am in need of an anti-depressant. Possibly something for anxiety, as well. I’m uncomfortable taking the Ativan because they’re not mine; my bro gave me a few. But you’re right, and Lola’s right, and Kim’s right. I said it as I set sail on this adventure: whatever it took to get me through it. Thanks for helping me keep things in perspective. ❤


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