transitions

So I spent 8 days in a psychiatric ward.

In some ways, my entire world has been erased and re-written on crisp white paper. People know the truth now. The people who matter. I don't have to hide all of my struggles anymore.

Everything is different.

But I am still the same.

In my follow-up appointment with a psychiatrist, I had my medication switched from Prozac to Zoloft. Two weeks into the Prozac and I became an apathetic hollow empty shell of a human being. I hated it, but I couldn't seem to muster much emotion. Or any at all. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. I didn't want to do anything. I didn't care. I was so tired all the time.

It was exactly like being horribly, horribly depressed.

So my doctor switched my medication. So far the Zoloft seems to be a little better? It's hard to tell. I've only been taking it for half a week. So far I've mostly felt a tiny bit less drowsy and much more nauseous and restless.

Sounds great, right?

But I do feel a little less numb. I just hope that doesn't go away in the next two weeks when the medication really starts kicking in.

I've never been on medication before.

And to be honest, so far it's mostly scared me.

I know I feel things too much. My emotions swing too far. They get out of control. I get out of control. It's not safe.

But I would rather feel everything too intensely than feel nothing at all.

I haven't given up hope. I know this is a tricky process, finding the right medication. I know there's lots of options. I know I have to be patient.

I'm afraid I'll never be happy without the help of drugs.

I'm afraid I'll lose important parts of me with my emotions. Like my creativity. My imagination.

I'm afraid I'll never find the right medication and I'll be a zombie for the rest of my life.

I had a nightmare the other night. I dreamed that I was reading the side effects of Zoloft and one of them was "uncontrollable eating." And I completely panicked because I was sure that Zoloft was going to make me lose all of my self control and gain back all the fat I'd lost. I woke up in a cold sweat. I had to look up the side effects online before I could convince myself it was a dream.

The nightmares we have, right?

I know this is going to sound slightly crazy, but I feel like a part of me, ok a large part of me, is grieving the loss of my intense emotions. I actually had a mild panic attack about it shortly after coming home. I felt like I didn't know who I was anymore, and to some extent, I still feel that way. These emotions, for better or for worse (mostly worse), have been such a huge part of my life for at least sixteen years. They were with me as I grew up and became the person I am. It's like someone cut off my arms and legs.

Sometimes I feel like my brain is trying really hard to find ways to still feel anxious and depressed. To somehow get around the drugs.

Sometimes I feel like I am totally crazy.

The Mr. has remained a constant shoulder for me to lean on. He's been amazing. Amazing is such a stupid way to describe it, but there aren't really any better words in the English language. He prompts me gently to talk, to keep from bottling everything up. He asks me what I'm thinking about. He listens. He doesn't try to fix it.

The hardest thing is food.

It's always food.

The Mr. has been great about that too. He doesn't push me to eat. He lets me eat my safe foods. He compromises. We have a shit ton of vitamins now. All gummy ones. Because we are secretly little kids at heart. He's been so patient.

But it's so hard.

I've been eating more often. Small amounts of things, but more frequently. This makes it harder to not eat more. It makes it almost impossible to skip meals. Which was how I would punish myself for eating too much. Or what I would do to plan for eating out with friends.

I feel out of control.

I talk to the Mr. now. I do. I tell him the truth. I don't hide it when I don't eat a lot or I skip meals. And it is a huge relief to not have to sneak around my own house. But at the same time, I hate putting this burden on him. I hate being needy. I hate feeling whiny. I hate feeling weak. I hate showing him this side of me. It's so ugly.

So far I haven't cut again. But I've wanted to.

They warned me in the hospital, over and over, that after you've cut once, the odds are staggering that you will do it again.

And I've wanted to.

Wanted to punish myself for eating certain things. For eating too much. For eating at all.

The Mr. put the hair cutting scissors out of sight. As well as my exacto knife and my pin cushion full of needles. He leaves work early to get home before I do. He goes into work late so he leaves at the same time as me. We make plans for me to hang out with my siblings or friends if he has to be gone.

I see all of this. I see what he does for me. What he has to do for me. And I feel both overwhelmed with love and guilt.

My head is a bramble patch. I don't know which way is up.

You see? In so many ways, I am still the same.

I got a stern talking to from the psychiatrist about not starting any therapy yet. And I know she's right. I can't just take some drugs and be magically cured. My head is far too messed up for that.

I did finally get the courage to contact that treatment center, the one for eating disorders. The initial assessment, that first appointment alone, costs almost $900.

I've been denied health insurance for my pre-existing conditions. I could get a special (really expensive) health insurance, but it won't cover any treatment for my pre-existing conditions for six months.

I know a lot of people are angry about Obamacare, but it will literally be saving my life. We can struggle by until January when the new health initiatives go into effect. And then I will finally be able to get health insurance. So I can continue to get help. So I don't kill myself.

The Mr. is determined that I will get whatever help I need, no matter the cost. So I did it. I signed up for that initial assessment. I also signed up for something called Dialectical Behavior Therapy. Both things strongly recommended by my psychiatrist at the hospital. I made the appointments today.

My first therapy session is Wednesday. This Wednesday. As in, the day after tomorrow.

My initial assessment for an eating disorder is October 14.

I am so scared.

I'm so certain the treatment center people will laugh at me. I know it's stupid, but it's just the plain blunt truth. I do not think I'm skinny enough to go to a treatment center for people with eating disorders. I honestly, genuinely believe that I need to lose at least 15 more pounds first.

I know I'm not the only person who feels that way.

Why do we create these mind games? These sick, twisted beauty pageants where the winner dies first?

I don't know.

I keep losing weight. Slowly. And I'm so thankful for that.

My parents are coming next weekend to visit.

I am the skinniest I've been since my senior year of highschool. When I was anorexic.

It still feels like it's not enough.

What else? Work? My first day back (1.5 days after being discharged), I walked in the door, looked at my boss, and burst into tears.

She handled it really well. I am seriously so lucky to have my boss. She struggled with depression, so she understands to a certain extent. She gave me a huge hug, a beautiful bouquet of flowers, and helped me transition slowly back into working.

But it's still hard. I get really anxious Sunday nights, the work week looming before me. It's so hard, now that I've shown so many people the truth, to wrestle that happy smiley mask back on. It's exhausting.

I worry that people will think that since I've been discharged that I'm "cured."

When really, I still can't honestly say that I'm ok.

Sometimes I feel ok.

Sometimes I wish I could lie down, close my eyes, and never ever wake back up.

I want to die.

Then I feel happy. I laugh. I smile.

I want to live.

The next moment I'm overwhelmed. Floundering.

But I'm not alone. There are people helping hold me up now. And they keep promising me that they won't let go. Even if I never change.

So I'll just keep holding on.