What a Fuckin’ Day? (Part I)

What a fucking day! I’ve called this part one. I’m sure I will have many more parts, assuming I haven’t topped myself first that is. I sure have had part zero and several negative parts before today. What started off as a normal shitty day just got worse and worse. Mood wise anyway. I woke up before my 06:00 alarm. I got up, but got back into bed. I found it so hard to stay out of bed. I had nine hours of sleep, but felt miserable and exhausted. Yay. Depression is killing me.

It was bike to school day, which I was dreading. I really didn’t want to have to walk with the kids to school, as they rode their bikes and scooters. I feel completely unable to do the little extra parenting stuff these days. I remember the days when I was the mom who volunteered, and walked the kids to school when possibly, worked full time, and cooked wholesome meals (for the most part) six-seven times per week. #2 also wasn’t feeling great this morning, so when he suggested we throw the bike and scooters in the trunk, and drive them to school for the bike rodeo, I was delighted.

When I took my meds last night I realized I hadn’t taken my morning meds. So when I put my meds for today in my backpack, I thought to myself, hmmm… I could have three doses of some of my meds in my possession if I bring these all with me. Not the best idea. I’ve been known to take that amount before, and have to go to the E.D. and be admitted. My husband has all my meds under lock and key, per my psychiatrist’s orders. I was pretty down, but I pushed through, and put Tuesday’s pills in the cupboard above the sink.

I somehow managed to shower and get the kids to school, although they were late, again. On the way downtown I decided not to take The Kennedy. Sometimes it just annoys me, even though it’s almost always quicker. On the way in this morning, at each red light, I started googling ‘best implement to gouge wrist’. My usual knife of choice, the Santoku knife, would not do the job this time. I had decided that slicing my arms wasn’t enough. No. It wasn’t a decision. It was an urge. That was what my mind wanted me to do. Google on the other hand did not want me to do that apparently. It came up with lots of articles on how best to protect yourself if someone were to stab you. Not what I was looking for – probably for the best.

When I got downtown, near where group is held, I went to Starbucks. I was in a pretty shitty mood as I’m sure you can imagine. I went in and tried to order my food and drink. My voice is very raspy at the moment. The barista could hardly hear me. It brought me back to four years ago when my voice was barely a whisper, and I was in Starbucks by work. I remembered my now deceased boss being there, which also upset me.

Side Note: It was in that SB where I broke down when I realized I might never talk normally again. I was diagnosed with a paralyzed vocal cord very shortly after that. It is called Ortner’s Syndrome and is caused by the heart enlarging putting pressure on the nerve that controls the vocal cord. I had several injections directly into my vocal cord every eight weeks or so, to allow me to have some sort of normal voice. My last shot was done during my second open heart surgery. After that my voice stayed the same. I thought my vocal cord had been cured. Maybe the heart surgery had done enough to release pressure on the laryngeal nerve. The Otolaryngologist did another exam, and noted that the cord was still paralyzed, but that the other one must have compensated enough to mean I could talk well enough not to need surgery. Well thank fuck for that. I had enough surgeries to last a lifetime. Before injections, I was choking on my food and drink, and could not talk in meetings, go out for dinner, order in SBs, etc. etc. because I could not talk.

I started realizing this morning that this could be my vocal cord acting up again. Of course it may just be a sore throat, but it might be much more sinister. It might mean many more injections. The first one I had created an agonizing hematoma on my birthday, which hurt for weeks. Would there be more of the same? If it was the vocal cord I would probably need surgery. Usually they give you six months to see if it heals on it’s own. We know mine is not better four years on. I was really upset heading into group.

In group after we all check-in, we all have an opportunity to talk about whatever is bothering us. I let loose. I bared my soul with everything that was going on. I was just fed up. I said it felt like one thing was going on after another, that I felt I just couldn’t catch a break. I realized I was a White woman living in one of the richest countries in the world, and so many people had it worse than me, but enough is enough. We all have our breaking point, and I am well past mine. I was really upset and tearful. Just after I processed, my phone rang. It was my psychiatrist’s office. I wasn’t expecting a call, but I didn’t want to miss it. I stepped outside the room. It was just a reminder call about next week’s appointment. We were only thirty minutes into our three-hour day of group, but I couldn’t face going back in. I sat out in the waiting area for two and a half hours, sleeping, curling up, arms in t-shirt, arms out. I was a mess, angry, scared, disappointed. I just couldn’t face anything. I had plenty of sleep, but was still exhausted. My counselor asked me to stick around to talk. We spoke about safety. I said I’d call my psychiatrist if I felt in danger. I said I wasn’t planning to kill myself.

After group I headed for home, calling my psychiatrist on the way, asking to have him paged. Usually when I call, they ask if it’s urgent, I say yes, and he calls back within minutes. This time she asked what was wrong. I said I was thinking of self-harm, and he wanted me to contact him when I felt like that. She said she would page him as a high-priority. Apparently that’s a different thing. Note to future self. I called my husband afterwards and we talked about what we might do if I needed to go to the hospital. When I got home I packed my usual shitty bag. Several pairs of underwear and socks, a few t-shirts and sweatpants that don’t have drawstrings. Deodorant and lotion that actually work. Oh – and a watch that doesn’t have WiFi – so frustrating not to know if it’s 02:00 or 05:00 when you’re in the nut house. It’s pretty sad that I know what to pack. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t bring me in, but no way was I wearing hospital underwear and a gown if he did!

I was due to meet a friend to watch “I Feel Pretty” near downtown. We are both psych patients (who else can I hang out with these days), and have both piled on the weight from our meds. This movie was going to be awesome for us. Except Amy Schumer looks like a stick compared to us – bitch! Anyway. I was on The Kennedy (I live on that bloody expressway) driving behind a truck. Not a huge 53′ one. More of a local food delivery one. I started contemplating ramming into the back of it. Would I be killed instantly outright? Obviously that would be the best outcome. Would the airbag save me? Would I suffer irreversible traumatic brain damage, leaving me completely paralyzed, but completely compos mentis? That would be the worst outcome. Or would I land somewhere between that awful fate and no harm at all. An even more miserable life than my current state of affairs. Multiple physical impairments, causing severe daily pain. Emotional, mental, memory issues. Would it be worth the risk? The benefit or ramming a truck, is that it is unlikely I would hurt the driver or anyone else. It’s the one thing that has put me off crashing the car in the past. Well that and the whole brain damage thing. If I rammed into the median I would worry I’d take someone else with me. Not fair. Anyway. I made it through those thoughts, but wondered if I should call my psych and say it was an emergency this time. I didn’t.

I got to the cinema, and parked. I met my friend, hugged her and said I would probably cry. She said she probably would too. The movie was hilarious. We laughed so hard through most of it. And then the sad part started, and we cried. A lot. On the way home I started feeling pretty crappy, pretty quickly again. Dr. D. called me. I told him everything that had been going on. He said it didn’t sound like I was very safe. I was dreading he’d bring me in. I told him I was not feeling suicidal at this point. He asked the usual questions: what did the rest of the day look like? Rest of the week? Had I talked to my husband? When would he be home? Etc. etc. We left it with me agreeing to call again if things got worse, or anything more came up. Things actually went okay with the kids this evening. I was by no means super-mom, but I survived and so did they. We actually survived without screens! We drew together. Well I typed this while they drew. They were all somewhat behaved. I’ll end this on a happy note, and show you what #3, aged 5, drew while I was typing. It’s a portrait of me as a teenager. It’s surprisingly accurate since she’s never seen a photo of me from that era: