With the exception of while I was at my eye exam, I spent the whole day binging and purging, as has become my norm. My last purge was especially violent and I feel weak and shaky and too tired to keep binging and purging, even though I have a few more hours left in the day to pass. I don’t want to not binge and purge. When I’m not binging and purging, I start thinking about my ex and I start feeling and I can’t handle it and I start feeling suicidal. I just want to stay numb.
I spent my weekend with my brothers. For the most part, it was great. We play games, we drank vodka, we caroused, we enjoyed each other’s company. The was only one down side.
As you may know, I was on a restrictive diet when I left for the weekend. While drunk, I ended up eating. I woke up the next morning, remembered eating a sandwich, and was suddenly filled with dark suicidal thoughts. You don’t know regret until your regret comes with the knowledge that you need and deserve to be dead because of the mistake you made.
Luckily the suicidal thoughts only lasted an hour or so, but it was a rough morning.
So, tomorrow, I am starting the diet over and it will be a fasting day.
A while ago I wrote that I was trying to get into a year-long DBT program through the mental health clinic where I’m seen. Well, I just found out I was accepted into the program! I’m relieved, and a little anxious. But mostly relieved. I really think this will be good for me.
Day #8: Share a scar.
First of all, I’m a day late, sorry about that. Yesterday was hectic. I went to the ENT and had to run errands and pick up prescriptions, and then I went up to the mountains again with my dad for several hours, so I didn’t get a chance to do this one, so you’ll get this one and today’s today. 😀
I don’t know if it means a scar literally or figuratively. I’m going to share an actual, physical scar that I have.
This scar is from the first time I cut deeper then superficially on my arm. It scared me. I should have gotten stitches, but I was afraid to go and tell someone what I’d done. I remember lying to my boss about it, when she saw it. I said I had caught it on a nail in my garage. I have no Idea whether she believed me. Probably not since I had a bunch of other self-harm scars on my arm.
For the longest time, I hated this scar. I thought it was huge and ugly. Well, it kind of still is, but I’ve come to accept it as part of my story. Part of my me, who I am, and where I’ve been. It’s a sign of strength. In that moment I could have given up. I was really struggling, but instead I found a way to cope. It may not have been a healthy way, but it kept me alive, and it kept me going, and it did its job until I could find better ways to cope. And I’m still here, still fighting, learning more and more how to thrive instead of just survive. I’m proud of that moment of strength when I chose not to give up.
Pictured above is me simultaneously doing an angry dance and a facepalm of frustration. Why? Well, it starts a couple months ago.
The psychiatrist I was seeing at the mental health clinic where I go for treatment of my bipolar disorder, bulimia, self-harm, suicidal ideation, etc quit a couple months ago. I was informed via a letter in the mail and told I would now be seeing a new psychiatrist and that I needed to call and set up an appointment after a certain date. I waited until said date, called, and set up an appointment, a month out (her first available appointment, apparently). I waited anxiously for the date to arrive as I could tell my meds needed to be adjusted. The day before my appointment, I got a call saying my appointment had been canceled because my new psychiatrist had quit.
So, I called intake to get an appointment with another psychiatrist, only to be told I couldn’t be seen by another one at the moment because they were shorthanded. Not good enough. I got the number to the intake manager and left her a message letting her know the situation and that I really needed to be seen by a psychiatrist. She promised to “work on it”. Today, I went in to see my therapist and we went to speak with intake together. We found a psychiatrist with a last minute cancellation so I could get in to see someone this afternoon if I was willing to come back later. I was. They scheduled me and I left, finally feeling like I was making progress.
NOPE! I got a call just before noon saying they needed to cancel my appointment! No explanation could be given. I am so fucking frustrated! I just want to see a psychiatrist and get my meds adjusted. Is that really too much to ask??
Sometimes, when I’m especially struggling, I miss being in the psychiatric unit of the hospital.
Right now is one of those times.
It’s dark and I’m barefoot. I’m sitting on the front step of my brothers apartment crying, wishing to die, wanting to claw my skin off. I stand to leave, knowing they won’t notice. I walk away from their apartment in tears with no plan in mind. I just need to get away. Away from myself. I walk and walk, the tears blurring my vision. I walk past the liquor store they frequent. I walk past the dollar store. I need to DO something. I see the brick pillars in front of the stores and I start hitting my arms against them, trying to produce bruises. I continue walking, the crying is now sobbing. I get a text from my mom. “Are you ok?” I respond, “No.” I explain that I’m walking around barefoot, sobbing, suicidal. She asks where I am. I say near a specific bus stop. She says to go there and stay. I do.
Shorty thereafter, my brother arrives. He sits next to me and wraps his arms around me. I lean into him and cry. We sit like this for I don’t know how long. Then, he quietly asks if I want to go home. I say yes. He stands and grabs my hand. He leads me home. The ground I was too distraught to feel earlier I feel acutely now with my bare feet so the walk it slow, but he just silently guides me home.
When we arrive home, he puts me to bed in his bed and closes the door. I feel alone, closed off, but safe. I cry myself to sleep.
The next morning, we act like nothing happened.
Journal entry from my fourth day on the psychiatric wing.
**Self-harm trigger warning**
Today was hard. My depression was high, my self-harm urges were high, my suicidal ideation was high, and my anxiety was high.
Having so many strangers (visitors) all over the place had me on edge, and not having a private place to go had me frantic. I wanted to cut., I wanted to hit walls and cause bruises, I wanted to bang my head against a wall, I wanted to stab myself, I wanted to cut my throat, I wanted to take the knife from dinner and use it to cut.
I was given Ativan. It helped mildly. It took the very edge off, and that’s all. Not what I was hoping from an anxiety medication.
I want to cut. So badly. I’m going to try to sleep instead.
I have a couple dozen cuts on my wrist at various stages of healing. Some are fresh.
I’ve never able to cut my wrists deep enough to kill myself. I’ve always been too scared.
However, lately I’ve been determined. Iv been working my way up to it, getting deeper each time.
I wonder how long it will be before I can do it.
When I was talking to the eating disorder center’s intake coordinator last week, she suggested I get evaluated for bipolor disorder based on my answers to some of her questions.
I had an appointment with my psychiatrist today, so I planned to bring it up.
I didn’t have to. She brought it up first. She recommended a diagnosis of bipolar 2 and prescribed a mood stabilizer for me. She told me that it’s common for people with bipolar to get worse, or even suicidal, on antidepressants.
After I had time to process it, I felt both a sense of relief and hope and of frustration and anger. I feel relieved and hopeful because I feel like so many questions I had about myself have been answered and I have a plan of action that could actually help. I feel anger and frustration because I have been telling doctors and mental health professionals for years that antidepressants make me worse and suicidal and they always just brushed me off like I was crazy and then prescribed a new antidepressant, then acted like I had done something wrong when I proceeded to get worse.
I told my mom this afternoon and she started crying. I thought she was upset about the diagnosis, but when I asked her about it, she said it was relief. She told me she’s never been so relieved about bad news before.
I’m unsure whether to tell anyone else. I told a close friend, but I don’t know whether I’ll tell other friends, or my siblings. Still thinking on this. Thoughts?