Don’t Jump! I’m Still Looking for a Rope

steep cliff of suicidal thoughts

Why can’t someone with a gripping familiarity with an affliction find words to guide another suffering the same? To help a brother or sister in arms, aching with a familiar pain? It makes me uncomfortable. Not another’s pain, that part I understand intellectually and emotionally. The discomfort comes from my perceived inability to offer succor and relief.

While I have real empathy and an affinity born of traveling the same shadowed passages, my responses or advice never feel helpful. Not completely.
This must be what family and friends feel when I’ve stumbles to the precipice.

My responses to someone with suicidal ideation aren’t flippant, but after uttering or writing the words, they seem hollow.
How can this be when I know the ropes? And pills? And a closed garage? It feels like a book written by someone who has never experienced the hopeless unending agony themselves.  Ever read or been subject to the fitness guru who has never had a weight problem? How about the jackasses who write, or tell you, that if you just tapered off, or didn’t drink so much, you’d be fine.
Don’t believe it’s a coincidence that all of these disorders manifest in the physical.

Unless you’re a very good actor, the people closest to you will notice the despair. If you’re not used to hiding your feelings then ALL of these illnesses are immediately glaring to anyone.

I can’t hide the weight, but dress and hold myself like a beautiful sexy woman. I can’t hide being an alcoholic, but I don’t pick up a drink even when my ass is falling off.

I can and do hide my depression. Most of the time. The tears can’t always be stopped at will. The mental anguish induces a physical reflex that cannot be hidden 24 hours a day.

There is nowhere to go at this point. No option seems worthwhile or helpful. We’re broken and when someone offers to help fix us they don’t know what to do.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that the best thing in the world is the simplest.
Listen.

Listen to another’s pain, their specific problems, the reasoning which brings them to thoughts of suicide.
Listen without comment. Without advice. Without condemnation of any kind. Especially without inane cheerful platitudes.

I think this is something everyone requires. Another human being who takes the time to hear us. Allowing the words and tears and snot and pain to flood from mind and body. Those of us already walking on glass need this something more than an average individual.

We need someone who cares. Especially when we are afraid to let the sickness have a voice. We need someone who takes the time to listen.

~R Noir

Listening to:
Stubborn Love
By: The Lumineers
Album: The Lumineers

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Cry Baby. Cry.

falling_down_stairs

Today I fell. First time in several weeks. Was sans walker and concentrating on every step. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

Is this my fucking life? Already on disability and now the Transverse Myelitis?
Living with mom? Waiting to find low income housing with the crack heads and welfare mothers? Trying to find a decent pain management doc, psychiatrist and neurologist?
Mom insisting I stay in rural redneck northern California…. forever.
Tonight she told me she was tired of the constant crying.
Bit my tongue.
I’m tired of the constant living but I get up every day and don’t call a cab to the gun store while screaming ‘Step on it!’. Not a day passes that I don’t want to blow my brains out to end this surreal nightmare.

Did pretty well the first month or so out of the hospital. Did pretty well the three months in the hospital.
Until it sunk in that this was it. The constant wrenching back, leg, ankle and hand pain is forever. The electrical shocks, though much better thanks to the Lyrica, are forever. Being unable to walk in stilettos is forever. Never standing on my tip toes is forever. Never being with a man again is forever.

Two days ago I found an amazing ski program for the disabled (and hopefully disgruntled) at Squaw Valley. It’s a two hour drive each way. It would be possible to race again and the cost is reasonable. Even found a grant available for those with spinal cord injuries (TM qualifies) who are serious about getting into or continuing a specific winter sport.
Mom will not drive me three times a week and I will not even ask. I can no longer drive. Have no idea if that is forever.

Sent mom a link to the following piece instead of speaking. Wish I had written it. Goddamn this writer hit the nail on the head. It isn’t often that I say that. Not because I don’t respect a lot of other’s writer’s work, but because this is something that has affected me for 30 years.. and it will forever.

The 10 Stupidest Things You Can Say To A Depressed Person

I can damn well cry if I want to.
You’d cry too
If it happened to you


Currently Listening To:
O
by Damien Rice
2003 Vector Recordings

~miss b

Manic Panic

Manic Episode

Someday this will be funny. It kind of was right after I attempted it.

Clearly the new mix of meds isn’t working and I entered another bout of severe  mixed state mania. This particular circle of bi-polar hell is now referred to as Dysphoric mania.
I could tell it was starting because of an inability to sleep for about a week and the agitation I felt. Plus, I heard cats.

Have never had an episode of euphoric mania. We always want what we can’t have eh? Think of the housework that would get done around here. But no, it’s always been dysphoric for me and it’s getting more severe over the past year and a half. This is the second time in 4 months. What the hell.

My answer? Take an ice pick to a plastic safety razor and try to get the blade out. It was a damned cold day so I thought slitting my wrists in a hot bath would be the way to accomplish my task.

Am pretty sure I looked like a moron at the kitchen sink attempting to dissect the damned razor on the cutting board. I almost cut myself. The irony. It burns.
In the end all I accomplished was bending the shit out of the blade. I burst into hysterical giggles and gave up.

Was suicidal, severely, and had no one to talk with. My closest friend has become embroiled with their own personal demons. Even if my confidant didn’t understand the my illness, I could freely speak what I felt. I feel very alone now.

My shrink’s practice is a medicare, and probably medicaid, mill. He’s virtually worthless but there are very few shrinks left who are not private pay.

At this point I called a musician friend who has been hospitalized for his bi-polar condition and also attempted suicide. He recommended that I check into West Hills Hospital. I called them. They couldn’t tell me if my insurance would be accepted because the billing office was closed for the day. Told them I’d be in on Monday morning at 8:00 a.m.

This all occurred on Saturday night.

On Sunday I went for a walk and tried to get some kind of focus. Kind of hard since I’d fallen the night before and now have a huge black bruise on my chin and a cut on the forehead which probably needs stitches. Being a klutz sucks when you have a step with wrought iron railings. Especially when you fall into them with your fucking head.

Anyway, Monday morning came and my bag was packed. Felt some better and decided that being locked up for observation would in reality suck. Don’t ask me how I know this.

Instead I asked my bi-polar friend for his shrink’s name, and also found out from West Hills that this same doctor is on staff there.

Have an appointment for April 5th which is a month out.
Am on the cancellation list though which is good. Have to see the lame-ass psychiatrist next week otherwise I’ll be out of the lame-ass meds.

Took another walk today and lifted some free-weights yesterday.
Here is something that I’ve never seen mentioned by anyone else
Exercise can help if the depression lifts long enough to accomplish it. I’ve noticed that sometimes exercise makes things worse. The endorphins increase the feelings of sadness, hopelessness and that underlying desire to die.

Feel as though the crisis has been averted, albeit temporarily.

Keep your chin up and your Geodon down.

Currently listening:
Happy Alone
Album: Mentor Tormentor
Artist: Earlimart

~miss b

Trazadone is not your friend

So yeah.

I had a short, but severe, dysphoric manic episode and made a lame-ass suicide attempt. Trazadone: the drug of choice for those with suicidal ideations!

This was after what was a total black-out-wig-out-manic episode one of those nights. I called 911 and two very nice patrolmen came by and gave me a lift to the hospital. So I was told.

straight jacketOnce there my clothes were taken away, an IV was stuck into me, stomach pumped blah blah blah. And I continued on my manic way. I remember trying to get out of my room on several occasions only to be blocked by a nurse perched on one of those damned mobility scooters. On my last attempt at freedom I was advised if I tried again they’d restrain me.

Go figure. For some reason this sunk in and I was becoming relative lucid. I knocked that shit off right away and tried to bide my time, mind racing. By 4:00 a.m. I’d spoken with a psych nurse and she suggested I go back on my meds. Immediately. Was finally released at 4:30 a.m. and took a cab home.

Have been back on medication for 3 days now. Geodon, Lamactil, and Lexapro. Also alprazalom as needed, 2 BID seems to ward off the panic attacks.

Have not had a manic episode in YEARS. Of course I haven’t been off meds in years either.

My roomie spends a lot of time bitching about everyone he knows being on medication and how none of them really need it. I started to believe this. Dumbass me.

Speaking of the roomie I’m pretty sure he wants my crazy ass out of the house. I fucked up our friendship with my craziness over the past month or so and cannot imagine ever making things right again. This makes me so sad and angry at myself that it’s a constant drain and burden. Just as I must be on him.

The entire episode was indescribably frightening. I’ve never had anything remotely like this happen. That’s it. Thought I should write about it.

~Some Manic Girl in Reno

The Banana Peel of Death

Some night I’ll drink one too many glasses of wine and take one too many Benzos. Well, assuming I decide to drink.

Just have a feeling.

Is it suicide then? Not sure. The Magic 8 Ball says Conditions Cloudy. Check Later.

The older I get the more it seems plausible; so many whose deaths were ruled as accidental were really not so. Maybe accidental on that particular day, but not in total.
Hollywood Babylon makes it the reality it is, and takes the romance out. Good reading if you’re planning on a non-accidental going away party.
Or a party of one sans invitation.

My tentative plans involve going out someplace where family and/or friends will not have to deal with finding me. Well, finding me and cleaning up the aftermath actually. One of the benefits of too many forensic/scientific shows and books is foresight. I’m such a giver.

I know what will happen after checking out. It will be a goddamned mess. Pills or a bullet it doesn’t matter. It’s a horror show for whoever finds you and has to clean that shit up.

I’m thinking hotel. Big hotel with lots of staff and a good reputation. They’ve a familiarity with these things. They have experience AND those big-ass commercial steam-cleaners.

In the last nine months my face has aged almost 10 years. It’s been the hardest year. I read that rubbing bananas on your teeth will whiten them. Now there’s some stupidity whose author could use a dirt nap.

Looking in the mirror makes me cringe. The lines of worry, dry crêpe spots from stress and creases from sleeplessness create a relief map. It’s hideous and sad.

So when does that desire to escape the reality which is slowly killing you turn the dial to Broil?

When does your subconscious slide into the Oops position?

That would be just fucking perfect. With my luck it would be Benzos and a bowl of ice cream. Found two days later covered in chocolate, caramel sauce, sliced banana, strawberry jam and Spanish peanuts. Oh, and kitty bite marks. I could do a Lupe Valez and a Marie Provost.
I gotta stop indulging in those damned noir and vintage films. Or the ice cream.

No matter what, I’d go out smiling

The banana peel of death.

I like that.

~miss b