It’s been a day over four weeks since the overdose.  I’ve been struggling mightily and thought that throwing some thoughts on paper might help me to identify what’s going on.

I was thinking about this last night:  the overdose, the aftermath, and my current mental state.  I decided that the best way to describe how I’m feeling right now is that I’m living my life like a black and white movie.  There’s no joy.  There’s no excitement.  There’s no energy.  I told a friend this morning that I was “okay” and then realized that I’m not—not really.  I’m surviving.  That’s it.  

I miss the old me.  Not the old suicidal me, but the old happy, funny, enthusiastic me.  I was actually all of those things in the past.  I wasn’t always depressed, and I wasn’t always suicidal.  It’s hard to remember that girl.  

In the past, I would’ve slapped my mask back on by now and just pretended that everything was back to “normal,” whatever that is.  I’m consciously trying not to mask my emotions.  I’m trying to be authentic and to honor them.  It’s hard, though.  My default was (still is, to be honest) to be happy to help make everyone around me happy.  I know what it’s like to be around depressed people all of the time and it’s exhausting emotionally.  I don’t want to exhaust anyone.  I don’t want to annoy anyone.  I don’t want to frustrate anyone.  

This is where everyone says, “Oh, but you’re not exhausting/annoying/frustrating me!” (Well, except my family.  I always annoy them. 😉) But I’m not stupid.  I’m exhausted/annoyed/frustrated by me so certainly everyone else is, as well.  And if I keep being sad or down or depressed or numb or whatever, then I’m afraid I’m going to end up being even more isolated.

So is the answer “fake it til you make it”? I don’t know.  I really don’t.  I know that’s what I’ve always done in the past and that landed me in the ICU & psych unit so it doesn’t seem like a great option.  Still, what I’m currently doing obviously isn’t working, either.  

I realize this blog is disjointed.  My thoughts are disjointed.  This new job has been H A R D.  Hard because I haven’t really been trained and hard because my brain isn’t working like it should.  I forgot to take my purse home yesterday—after forgetting to bring my lunch in.  WHAT WOMAN FORGETS HER PURSE??? Of course, I assume that I have early onset Alzheimer’s because that’s what I do.  Worst case scenario, always.  I can thank my mom/sister/brother’s deaths for that.  I know the worst case scenario.  I’ve lived it multiple times.  

I’m about to lead a group on self-care.  I picked that topic both for them and for me.  Showering?  Why bother.  Brushing my teeth?  I guess, before work.  Eating healthy food? Too much work.  I did start a yoga challenge that I’ve been loyal to—but there is no joy in that.  Yoga used to be a refuge for me.  Now it’s just another chore to complete.  I’m still doing it.  I’m hoping at some point, some joy/some peace will come.  Kinda tired of waiting, though.

“So, Jen, answer what we all really want to know—have you had thoughts of suicide?”  Fuck, yes, I have.  No plan or intent but certainly thoughts.  And like I’ve said before, suicide isn’t about dying; it’s about not living.  Not living with the constant pain and turmoil.  I’ve only had one moment where I had some genuine concern about my safety but I managed to stumble through that moment.  Doc appointment next Wednesday.  I’m hoping for some relief but not expecting any.  Not at this point.  I know my track record with meds:  I’ve been on just about all of them.  

I just cannot fathom doing this for the next 35 years.  It feels suffocating.  And I want to know why this (life) seems easier for other people.  I don’t think I’m stupid.  I don’t think I’m weak.  I’m probably lazy, but I don’t think I’m utterly pathetic.  Yet this is all so hard.  So hard.  Why does it always feel so hard?

…

So I finished running the group and went to talk to a couple of inpatients about attending our Partial Hospitalization Program (I’m basically the mascot).  Right now I relate to them so much better than my coworkers.  Depression is lonely business.

Once again, I’ll keep moving forward.  With no enthusiasm or joie de vivre.  In black & white (both in feeling and in thoughts—seeing life in absolutes is a hazard of the illness).  But I’ll keep moving forward, anyway.