Another 24 Hours.

I'm still here. Josh noted that when I am ill, my eyelids are smoother. This seems very strange, but I noticed it in the mirror. Are they swollen? Do I not open them normally? I don't know. 

I told Bruce that none of the seeds I'd planted over the previous twenty-four hours had seemed to do anything, but I'm still planting. Bruce said it will grow into something that can help me climb out of the way I'm feeling. I told him that most of what I did was really basic maintenance, what I have to do to be okay on a daily basis. I said I was looking for more I could do. So, I tried to do more. Intensive care.

• I asked Josh to make me Ramen instead of skipping dinner. It's not great nutrition, and I may have swallowed the noodles without chewing them, but I ate something.
• I hummed "Waltz for Eva and Che."
• I thought about the lyrics: "How can you be so short-sighted/to think no further than this week or next week/to have no impossible dream?" or something like that. It reminded me of the time I saw my thesis advisor at the college where I worked (he had come for a reading). I told him I was teaching full-time and I was pregnant, so all of my dreams had come true. He gave me a serious gaze and said, "Never."
• I sent my blog post to those three people again.
• I listened when Josh said that writing is who I am, and that to destroy my writing would deprive the world, and that this blog should be a book...even though I didn't believe it. 
• I asked Josh to rub my shoulders and talk to me.
• I grinned at my son and spoke sweetly to him, calling him by his little love names.
• I showed Josh the sticker books I ordered with Amazon Christmas money from my grandparents. Mermaids and pink and purple self-care.
• I drank Glacier Freeze Gatorade Zero.
• I cut my toenails even though I really didn't want to, and I hate the word toenails. But I also didn't want to see my uncut toenails.
• I took a shower and washed my hair with philosophy Pumpkin Icing gel. I could kind of smell it.
• I spent a few extra minutes in the shower, the water against my lower back, where I carry most of my tension.
• I opened a new deodorant instead of scraping my armpits with a nearly empty stick. I also hate the word armpit. 
• I fixed the blankets. This may not sound like much, but the blankets are heavy, one had fallen all the way to the floor, and I had to run around the bed a few times. But I can't stand messy blankets.
• I didn't make myself dry off (seriously? Too hard) after my shower; I just got in bed damp. Pajamas later.
• I started another blog post.
• I typed S into the tags space and saw so many topics I've written about on this blog.
• I looked again at the Studio Strand merch and filled a dream cart with bookstore shirts, magnets, stickers, keychains, and notebooks. Of course, I didn't check out.
• I reminded myself of the Studio Strand tote bag wedged between Josh's desk and the rainbow nonfiction bookcase. It holds my Christmas presents.
• I thought about the presents I will give Josh.
• I thought about our trip to New York City a couple of years ago. Josh described the memory, today in a long E-mail, as a magical cloak.
• I looked at the Cinderella print I love: Cinderella just transformed, still sparkling with magic against a dark blue night, on blue-and-white-striped matting in a white wooden frame above my dresser. I remembered that I found a tiny love note taped to the glass last week.
• I tried not to clench my teeth.
• I looked into my closet at all my pink tops and my three pairs of shorts with stars on them.
• I looked at my Madame Alexander Cisette doll Violette, who looks as if she just stepped out of the flagship Sephora on her way to a Broadway show. She probably has a swanky apartment. Her gray jacket is trimmed with faux fur and purple ribbon. Of course, she has a silver silk blouse and a gray brocade skirt underneath.
• I smiled (just a little) at the leaning tower of books, journals, and magazines by my bed, which Josh stacked in his attempt to vacuum my She Leaves a Little Sparkle Wherever She Goes rug. I'm messy, and a week ago, I had dreams.
• I did not feel like dumping all my pretty things in the foyer to gather dust.
• I remembered how Josh once said "The Perfect One" by Lit reminded him of me.
• I tried again not to clench my teeth. It's a real problem.
• I thought about Christmas. I'm still kind of looking forward to it, even if I'm still too physically sick to travel.
• I graded student journal entries, which didn't exactly put me in a good mood but was a good distraction.
• I took a bath--with Eucalyptus Spearmint bubbles this time.
• I messaged with Megan, who is also dealing with terrible illness and terrible timing. And she's hilarious and good at getting mad (or not, depending on my mood) on my behalf.
• I showed Josh a meme that made him say, "That's fantastic," which is one of my favorite things to hear. I ignored the fact that he was 90% asleep at the time.
• I took my night meds, NyQuil (I snore less), and Trazodone.
• I cleaned and wore my nightguard for the clenching.
• Though I could have done so much more, I turned off the light at 10:30.
• While I tried to fall asleep, I had a sad thought that wouldn't help me. I whispered, "I'm not going to think about that."
• I got up at 6 and sat with Josh. We rewatched my current favorite Key and Peele sketch. https://youtu.be/hhfHu6IHBiI?si=BIY_3Bw7bhzZZrA2
• I took ibuprofen, Sudafed, and my morning meds.
• I smiled, watching my cat, Starry, pawing Josh's leg for pets.
• I drank the iced peppermint mocha Josh brought home.
• I ate the last donut.
• I opened the shutters, positioned myself so the sun was in my face, and took a sunshine nap with Josh.
• I got a call back from my PA's admin and left an actual message for my PA.
• I watched the Key and Peele sketch again.
• I scribbled while Josh worked out.
• I showered before noon (this is a goal on my daily chart--remote worker stuff).
• I ate the turkey, gouda, and pesto sandwich Josh made me.
• I lay across Josh's lap while he tickled my back with both hands.
• I did marriage counseling with Josh.
• I spoke more than usual in marriage counseling. 
• I ate a Christmas tree cake and drank Dr. Pepper.
• I got back in bed with Josh and snuggled (Thursday has been our day together this semester).
• I set up an appointment with my PA for 10 a.m. tomorrow. 
• While Josh went to pick up Oliver, I lit three candles downstairs: Spiced Cinnamon Vanilla in the living room, Merry Cookie in the study, and Vanilla Bean Noel in the foyer, all so that the house would smell good when the boys got home.
• I scribbled in my Italian, black and gold, celestial journal while sitting on the pink velvet loveseat with Josh.
• I opened a new ink (#14--I'm actually on the right day!) from my Diamine Inkvent calendar: Rainbow's End, a chameleon ink that is purple with pink glitter.
• With Josh's help, I found 18 photos in which I'm truly happy (not just smiling for the camera--in some, I'm not smiling at all). They span the last 18 years. In many of them, I'm holding Oliver. In almost all of them, I'm smiling at Josh. He took every photo but one.
• Though my self-regard has not (yet) recovered, I haven't had any self-destructive impulses.

Today was better than yesterday. 

Other Ideations, Other Attempts

I'm not having suicidal thoughts. I'm just thinking about the nature of suicidal ideation. For me, it has come, at least on one occasion, completely unbidden. Just images that I couldn't shut out, images I didn't ask to see, images I didn't feel the need to see. That was the first time I went to the hospital. I was afraid the ideation might stop just being an intrusive thought. I was afraid it might become directive, as it did the second time I went.

I didn't hear physical voices. It wasn't psychosis...at least not that kind. I do believe that one has to be psychotic to attempt suicide. I think it's psychotic to hold your breath until you pass out. I believe every healthy thought reaches for light and life, even in grief or pain. Hope springs...unless it doesn't. Then, you need help. I needed help. A whisper in my mind--again, not like hearing voices but also not like myself--told me what steps to take and what to write. It soothed me, told me how much better the world, their worlds, their lives would be without me there. Such lies. 

I may be an inconvenience regularly to a lot of people. People may get tired of hearing/reading me.  My husband sometimes wants to get away from me, wants some other voice, some other face as comfort. I can be impatient or numb with my son. But my death would rip a hole in the world. Some people would say, "Oh, her? That's sad." Some people would hate me. I've felt that hate. Sometimes, I hate myself for those selfish, deluded minutes when I listened to what I can only guess was the persuasive voice of evil, of absolute darkness. Not beautiful, intriguing darkness, though it can appear that way at first. It promises a cessation, a rest, a nap, an eternal sleeping in. And even if it hurts others, you won't be there to feel guilty, to see the pain. Some people would grow from my loss. But I'd chop them down first, and they'd lose so much height. Better new growth from existing branches, I think.

But I'm not having suicidal thoughts. I haven't at all in the last few days. No coercion, no intrusion, no desperation. Those are the three forms, I think. I've written about intrusion and coercion. Desperation is more automatic, the feeling that comes when you feel shockingly horrible or horribly shocked, in need of instant (and eternal) escape. I haven't felt that lately either, though I did have some of that about a month ago, the discovery. The unbearable that feels like it will last, in this tenor and shade and angle, forever unless you do something to stop it. 

It doesn't last, not with that intensity. But if pain automatically leads to plans, that's a problem. A sickness. Even if they're positive plans. The first step of dealing with pain is feeling it, acknowledging that it has changed you forever. I think of the Evita lyrics:

I'm not that ill

Bad moments come

But then they go.

I think of this less in the context of feeling pain than in the context of suicidal ideation. We say, hey, everybody feels that way sometimes, which I think is probably true...though I can't imagine it for some people. But it is a problem, a kink in the wiring. Those thoughts shouldn't lurk at the edges, waiting for an in. It can get that way if you ever think about it, if you ever have, especially if you've done more than think. It creates a pathway. 

So what do you do about that?

I think you clear other paths and make them more inviting, more...in practice. More trodden, more traveled. Other ideation. Other attempts, as weak as they may sometimes be.

Today, I can't see a good path ahead of me, but I have my back to the one I created, probably as a young teenager, when I hated myself--really, a black hole, and not in a cool way.

I'm feeling in the dirt. I'm dropping seeds. They're tiny, and right now, I have no faith that they'll grow. It's a drought: no sun, no water. But maybe I can cultivate the edges of these paths. These trails. Maybe I can dig up some rocks. All I've written may be senseless, obsessive, or self-indulgent. I'm terribly self-indulgent in my writing. But it's not just Shakespeare's whirling words. Here's what I've done in the last 24 hours.

• I switched from an ugly ink in a skipping pen to a silver-blue ink in my best pen.
• I've written through every mood swing, my way of holding onto myself as I change forms, snake and bull.
• I took a shower.
• I took a bath when I was cold. I didn't use bubbles, but wouldn't that be expecting too much?
• I lay still in the dark of my son's room because I didn't feel that I could move. When I felt like I could move, I moved.
• I cuddled the blanket I've slept with since I was a baby, even as I left my journal downstairs and my phone on the bathroom floor (after the bath).
• I filled my pill boxes, mechanically, but it was necessary.
• I made Oliver's lunch even if I forgot to put more Gatorade in the fridge.
• I put marshmallows, cups, and cookies in Oliver's backpack for his hot chocolate party at school.
• I took a Xanax when the fizzing in my chest got intense, like hydrogen peroxide in a wound that's really dirty.
• I took my afternoon meds even though I was late. I took my night meds.
• I took NyQuil.
• I didn't vaguebook. I'm actually not sure if that's good or not--I kind of shut down to others.
• I wrote a blog post and shared it with three people who aren't on FB and don't check my blogs.
• I wrote on this blog, acknowledging the shift.
• I didn't unplug the fairy lights.
• I told Josh I had the impulse to take down all my art, and I didn't do it.
• I ate a doughnut. Josh had brought them home, and I hadn't eaten dinner.
• I ate another doughnut for breakfast. 
• I took my morning meds. And ibuprofen. And Mucinex.
• I retrieved my phone when the alarm went off.
• I read my text messages and responded to them even though I wanted to ghost everyone. 
• I stayed awake to see Josh.
• I gave some guidance.
• I read my journal aloud to Josh even though I knew some sentences would sting him. I wanted him to see the progression of my mood.
• I drove Josh to work. I listened to "Chandelier" on the way home.
• I ate a Christmas tree cake. 
• I resisted another day of hypergraphia. Too much may be too much.
• I graded one class's rough drafts with plenty of revision notes even though I didn't feel like I could.
• I sent out an announcement to guide my students through these last days of the semester.
• I plugged in the tree in our room. 
• I lit a candle even though I'm too congested to smell it.
• I opened the shutters and let in some sunlight.
• I told Josh I had the urge to carry all my journals down to the trash, to have bare shelves. I didn't do it, not even when he was at work.
• I forgave my belly.
• I wore my favorite coatigan.
• I ate a turkey, gouda, and pesto sandwich.
• I made myself an ice peppermint mocha with whipped cream.
• I took my afternoon meds on time.
• I opened the blinds in the study.
• I skipped a shower and donned a bejeweled beanie without guilt.
• I listened to my December playlist, the songs of which I realized express my thoughts and feelings toward myself...or used to.
• I listened to Josh's December playlist, which is much more positive than usual, and read the lyrics.
• I asked questions about the songs.
• I chatted with Oliver's teacher at pickup.
• I sent Bruce a funny photo.
• I opened two used books that came in the mail.
• I told Josh I had the impulse to delete my blogs. I didn't do it.
• I left a message for my PA even though I have an appointment next week.
• I didn't expect anything, which could be good or bad.
• I wrote another blog post.

I consciously thought through what small actions I could take, like a person who has lost their faith but still practices the rituals of Judaism...because maybe they do mean something.

The Impossible.

I'm amazed at how crippling (sometimes literally) mental illness can be. A trigger could be anything or nothing apparent at all. Who can win against that?

Some of these blows happen daily at any time, and some are less frequent but can be extreme. The scope of what's possible, what I can do or communicate or find, narrows.

Here is what often is or seems impossible.

• Showering. This often feels like a massive task involving too much of my body and too many steps. I'm in a better place with that now--music has helped. I have to reach out of the shower to find the right song, whatever that may be. And I may wash my hair twice because I'm not paying attention to what I have to do.
• Eating. I don't feel hunger pains often. When I do, I'm usually already sluggish and dizzy. Preparing food is hard, but the worst part is trying to find something that seems edible. I skip meals. Then, on rare occasions, I feel completely famished and much more motivated to eat.
• Putting on makeup. I love makeup, and I love playing with it. But some days, I can barely put on my foundation. If I have even a little glitter around my eyes, you can know that I am trying. But eyeshadow and eyeliner are the real tests. On a good day, you'll see lipstick, blush, and all-over sparkle. 
• Moving. When my symptoms are high, I sometimes experience what I call the Tin Man. I'm suddenly unable to move. I can usually move my eyes, but I can't speak or get out of an uncomfortable position. Josh will sometimes rearrange my neck or my legs for me. The Tin Man seems to leave on its own eventually. Josh thought the name meant one of us is heartless, but it's about not having enough oil, and I haven't discovered much about the oil I need.
• Gathering enough affection. Josh and I are pretty affectionate. Oliver is pretty dedicated to his own space. Bruce gives good hugs. Sometimes, I feel so hungry for love in any of the languages.
• Being with several or more people, even if I love them and they love me. I need an escape hatch. With breaks, I usually do okay. Most family is aware of that.
• Cleaning. I often don't notice what needs to happen, or the awareness almost paralyzes me. I try to do a little each day--some laundry, the dishes, picking up toys, tidying up some of my clutter. Josh takes over a lot of the work. I am trying, and I hope to improve.
• Feeling fully comfortable in my body again. I have little hope for weight loss; I'm just trying not to gain more.
• Life without meds. This is probably just true--I will take varying medications for the rest of my life. I may deal with changing meds and side effects every couple of months.
• Doing anything but sleep. My body and mind cry out for rest or escape.
• Reading. The resistance can get strong. I believe I can't do it, and I know I won't retain much anyway. But of course, reading is one of the greatest tethers tying me to Earth.
• Writing product. Luckily, I've been able to keep up writing practice most days for a long time. But I don't know if or when I'll write a product (story, poem, essay) let alone submit it.
• Living without dread. My brain seems always able to find something to latch onto. The absence of work is a massive help, and I believe I'm so much better now that I'm not working. Still, my brain wants to overload and send me fleeing or fighting nothing.
• Understanding my illness and myself. I've read books and articles and studies. I need to learn to ask questions of my therapist. How do I sort my feelings, thoughts, and actions? Do answers exist that I simply haven't come across yet? I know I need to learn more.

"I Kept Myself Alive." --Joyce Carol Oates.

I don't know where I got this or what the context was. I just found it written on sticky note in my last journal. The quotation makes me think of the movie Castaway, which I should probably see again.

Suicide attempts and mental illness bloom poison in my family. I've had to learn that I can't keep someone else alive. Nobody can keep me alive either, except briefly in a locked ward with restraints. I've never gotten there, and I hope I never will experience persistent thoughts of death or terrifying hallucinations that will drive me to such a place. But at that point, of course, I have to shout, "Help me! I can't keep myself alive anymore!" And that will pass my life onto that council member (Mom, Josh, Bruce), that intake person, that doctor, that paramedic. Yet even they will have limited power.

But as long as I don't get there, my main job is to keep myself alive. I have people whom I consider lifesavers, who are essential to my well-being. I have good memories to coat my brain. I have books and movies to make new ideas bloom and convince my brain that life is worthwhile. I have color to pierce the darkness. I have special objects (especially gifts) that help to tether me to the earth. I write to stay alive; I stay alive to write. As long as I have a tool and a surface, I will write, even if I have to write terrible words to purge my mind of its monsters. I have love. I have a child to whom I think I can be a good mother. I'm keeping myself alive.

Sensory Distractions.

Two nights ago, I broke down. Oliver challenged me beyond my coping ability, and I started to cry and think dark thoughts about myself. Perhaps the scariest part was that the dark thoughts weren't scary--they were soothing. Josh got home from an errand, and I told him I might need to go to a hospital. Bruce was on standby too. Josh found information for the local crisis center.

Hoping to get stable on my own, I decided to try sensory distraction. Back rubs or tickles from Josh almost always help me, so I experimented. Josh had brought home a root beer, so I drank that while taking a bath with Epsom salts. Then, I read poems aloud. I didn't exactly feel better, but I felt sane. Bruce also wrote me an E-mail that reminded me that in many ways, I am who I want to be.

The next day, I kept up the sensory distraction. I saw my therapist and talked about my word of the year. I got a cherry Sprite from Sonic. I was driving a lot, so when I had a one-hour gap before I could pick up Josh, I stopped at Michaels. I pulled in the colors to paint my darkened mind. I looked at planner stickers and pretty boxes. The night was too cold for walking, so Bruce and I went to Barnes. I spent a long time in the journals and in the children's area. I liked that Barnes had a shelf just for Newbery Award winners. I flipped through Seventeen to look at articles on makeup. I looked at Victoria magazine (which I couldn't reach. Luckily, Bruce is 6 ft. tall). I sort of bathed in comforts and in reminders of my self.

I have to make good choices for my well-being. I need ways to combat the disease when it reaches to choke me. Bits of strength can change everything.

Care Package.

If I had the money, and I heard about a girl who had recently been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I'd send her a care package with some of these items that have helped or could help me.

• Hand cream (lithium dries out my hands terribly)
• Bath and Body Works Mini Candles, which are so cute (not necessarily to burn but to smell when she needs a calming distraction)
• Sugar Free cinnamon mints--another great distraction. Ice Breakers are best but hard to find)
• Bubble bath
• Irresistibly lovely notebook and pen
• Related book such as An Unquiet Mind
• Comfortable pajamas or robe
• Hair ties (for when everything is in the way)
• Simple coloring books
• Scraps of fabric in various textures
• A handful of tiny bells
• A blanket in her favorite color
• $10 card to Michaels to start a little craft
• Bracelet or necklace that makes soothing sounds or has soothing textures
• Pacifica roll-on perfume

Most of these would distract and soothe, resetting the brain a little. That's my experience, anyway.