Mental Illness ..Recovery is HARD
I feel like the whole world is living. Living, laughing, dancing, singing, having meaningful conversations. And I’m just standing here. Watching the world go by, watching people live and talk and laugh, watching days and weeks go by. And here I am just standing, occasionally giving a head nod, a smile. The only way I can describe it is like in the movies where there’s a girl or a guy standing by a busy bus station in New York or somewhere and everybody else is just running by so quickly and they are just — there.
I’m trying so hard to get better, be better, be patient. But I feel like I’m just an empty corpse standing here, maybe almost screaming inside, watching the world passing me by. In conversation, but not really, in activities but not really, smiling but not really, telling myself I’m getting better but not really. I want to be better so bad but sometimes I fail to see any light at the end of this dark, cold, lonely tunnel. My biggest fear is I wont get better and my life will be over and all I will have done is fake smiles and stare at walls dreaming of death and happiness.
It’s so hard to live with an illness that eats you up from the inside out. Nobody see’s it. Nobody can hear you coughing. Nobody can touch your head and feel a fever. Nobody can see the bruises. And nobody can hear you screaming inside, at the top of your fucking lungs, just screaming for a way out. How do you explain an illness to somebody that you don’t even understand? But I’m just so so sick. And I’m just so tired of it. And I just want with all my heart to be better — to feel some relief. Because I can’t continue to live like this.
It’s almost unfair. I have small little moments where I can almost taste the old me again. The old Kitti. The happiness, the goofiness. But then it’s gone. Like the fucking dark cloud come backs to smother it and it’s gone again and I’m back to pretending to be old Kitti again. And I’m just on my hands and knee’s begging and praying for her to come back. I’m so sick of pretending. I miss myself. I hate who I am now. I fucking hate these fake smiles. I fucking hate being in conversations with people and not hearing a fucking word because I’m in a daze just thinking of how bad I want to die in my head.
I’ve fooled so many people into thinking I’m okay that sometimes I can even fool myself for a couple hours, but then the heaviness of whatever the fuck this mental illness is gets to me and I drown in it again.
The psychiatrist is a firm believer that the Paxil I have been on for many years now has a lot to do with the severity of my depression. I remember starting at 5 or 10mg just for my panic attacks and it worked wonders and I was happy. And slowly but surely, I started feeling “off”, then “off” turned into depression. And the more I talked to my doctor about it, the more he just upped my Paxil all the way up to 40mg. I have now done some reading about Paxil and apparently its quite the intense drug that has affected many many people. I’m not blaming it for my depression because nobody knows but, I really wish I would have done more research before letting my dosage get so high.
We have finally weened me off of Paxil (I was on so many medications just to deal with the weening of this) however, severe withdrawal symptoms from this drug stay in your system for two weeks after fully being off paxil and then slowly decrease for the next six weeks. It takes six more weeks for you to return to your “pre-Paxil self.”
I am now on two other medications that I take twice daily but I don’t see much of a difference. I’m trying to stay positive but it’s just so hard.
Being mentally ill is like being fed up with yourself 24/7 but your STUCK — stuck with yourself. These thoughts that aren’t even my thoughts control me. “Dumb bitch, fat bitch, stupid bitch, failure, nobody loves you, they’e better off without you, they wouldn’t miss you anyway, you’re a hurricane and ruin everything in your tracks, should’ve just went through with it the first time, why can’t you get out of bed, Oh you’re crying, you’re so weak, you’re such a fake, go cut yourself again you pathetic cunt, just go do everyone a favor and kill yourself now but don’t chicken out this time you dumbass, oh poor you boo hoo, why are you crying cry baby, Your Mom hates you; she even told you so, why do you think you had the childhood you had; obviously it’s because of you, now you’re ruined, nobody loves you, even your dog would be better off with somebody else, people are getting sick of your mopey ass, do it weak bitch, do it, do it, look you’re so weak you can’t even do it, stupid fat dumb cunt.”
And before you know it you’re on your knee’s on the bathroom floor digging your fingers into your temple covered in tears and closing your eyes as hard as you can hoping that maybe you can just escape, screaming as loud as you can, “STOP! STOP! STOP!” But the thoughts just get worse. And the thoughts are right, and now you’re crazy. A crazy, disgusting, bawling mess of “why’s” on the bathroom floor. You look in the mirror and you just fucking hate what you say. You just want to fucking smash the mirror. You want to put your head through a wall. You want to blow your brains out. You dig your nails as deep into your skin as you can. You want so bad to crawl out of your skin. You run your hands through your hair and pull your hair and just cry and scream and scream as that voice in your head laughs.
And then you glance over to the bath tub and spot your razor. It’s not a good razor but it’ll work. You run the water and climb in and it’s almost like you’re a druggie fumbling around trying to get your fix. And then you just cut. I like to cut deep and slow so I can feel it. And it’s almost intoxicating. Like a high. One deep breath. And then you see the blood run down your arm and you continue to cut and every cut just feels so amazing. It’s as if it takes some of the pain you have on the inside out. And as amazing as it feels, you still hate yourself for it because you told yourself you would stop this and you gave in and did it again. You’re truly crazy. And you feel like such a loser. But it almost puts the thoughts to rest enough to take the edge off for a little while.
So yeah, recovery is DEFINITELY not fucking sunshine’s and rainbows. Actually, it really fucking sucks. But I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Depression is living in a body that fights to survive with a mind that tries to die. I haven’t been back to my own house since my suicide attempt. I can’t step foot in there. I just have instant flash backs of that curtain around my neck, of the blood everywhere. Of Wolf’s face. Of my desperation. Of how close I came to being another victim to this horrible illness. I went there to go get some things of mine, got to the door, had some flash backs, stood there for I don’t know how long just staring at the door in a daze, and then walked back to my car without even opening the door.
Sometimes I feel sorry for existing because I’m such a mess right now. Depression is forcing yourself out of bed in the morning when all you want to do is lay there and die. Depression is forcing yourself to go to Starbucks because normal Kitti loves it, and forcing yourself to drink it even though you can’t even taste it. Depression is forcing yourself to do what you know your passionate about — saving animals, educating others about wildlife and trying to let that passion come through even though the depression is trying to smother it. Depression is forcing yourself to get up and train even when your energy is gone.
I know this isn’t going to come easy but I am an amazing person and I deserve my fucking life back. I have a lot to offer this world. I’ve done amazing things for this world, for people, for animals and god damnit, I deserve to be fucking happy. I deserve love, I deserve to feel loved, and most importantly, I deserve to love myself. I am a fucking bad ass and I will get through this. And when I do, I will be there for others who need a hand to hold as they fight through this. Because our stories deserve a way better ending then “she let her depression win.”
Until then, I know you’re tired, I know you’re sad, I know you’re empty, I know you feel alone, I know those thoughts are tearing you apart, I know you don’t want to wake up — but do me a favor, and wake up, and continue to wake up, and ask for help and get help — and stick with it, and stick with it even when it fucking sucks to stick with it. Because if you ask me, I’m willing to go through this hell if it give me even the slightest chance of the happiness I (and you) deserve.
I love you all.
Be strong.
If you are in crisis, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1–800–273-TALK (8255) or contact the Crisis Text Line by texting HELLO to 741–741.