I've been in the hospital for the past week...for suicidal ideation, substance abuse...etc...
This is why people with manic depression TAPER off their meds rather than stopping cold turkey.
Coming out of the hospital, you'd think I'd learn my lesson, but it was more of an adhesive medical strip; a temporary fix that lasted all of forty-eight hours. Oh, my mental-state is much more positive. I'm not wanting to get creative with plastic bags or household chemicals and enclosed spaces. Suicide is a bit of a far cry now. No. I left the hospital in denial. Denial that I am an alcoholic. Of the AA "disease" mentality. That I can manage my drinking. Moderate it. But who the fuck am I kidding? I can't moderate anything in my life. Not food, not exercise, not school, not relationships, not online-games. The reward circuitry in my brain is shot, was probably shot when I was born. What can I do about that? Part of me want to just go live in Japan, in some fucking Zen monastery and never see a single temptation again, but I've read enough Zen literature to know that's the wrong way of thinking. Part of me doesn't give a flying fuck. That part figures I like bad things and will keep doing these things until I'm dead, so what's the bollocks's point anyways. Then the part of me that LISTENED to someone two weeks ago when I was considering mixing some chemicals, sitting in my car and relaxing while they filled my lungs with death, that part of me listened to her. She said: get your ass to the hospital. And given her own mental health history, I listened to her. She brought me fantasy novels and sudoku. Sour Patch Kids and Jolly Ranchers we weren't allowed to have because coke-heads used them or something. Then she checks in on me yesterday, and I'm fucking drunk as hell at 9am and she sighs. And I walk into my therapy appointment at 4pm today and my therapist asks if I'm drunk. I always thought I hid my drunk behaviors rather well--fail. I told her, fessed up and wanted to cry in her office. She said she couldn't ethically see me while I was intoxicated, wtf? Another therapist came in and he cracked some jokes while ther called a cab for me. I rode home embarassed, bought more booze and drank more. I did eat a sandwich though, so I guess that counts for something.
My psychiatrist asked me, on Friday, if I was even phased from the hospital stay, because I gathered he didn't think I was. I told him I felt scared. He suggested I go to AA, and I told him I wanted evidence-based support, not AA. I told him I was good with the Abilify AND the Topiramate. He said if you get really depressed take the Abilify, but stick with the Topamax. I thought that was okay since Topamax is generic now. I didn't tell him about the cutting, about how I think about digging deep into my arms in the shower. I forgot to tell my therapist about the amount of online games I am playing. I forgot to tell her that I am binging and purging a lot still, and feel really guilt about it, then again, I was drunk.
You know what I miss? I miss the days when I could sit down and read a book and enjoy the content, instead of feeling like I HAD to read it or else I was a failure. I miss the days when I didn't think about the end of the day, so I could drink. I miss friends and their presence and touch. I miss wanting things for myself. All the things I imagine are...well, they seem too far-fetched to me.
It's strange, people bent over backwards to save my graduation. I didn't have to take two exams, write two papers, and got away with a revised portfolio for my poetry workshop, and still, still, I don't seem willing to modify my behavior. I am thankful. I wrote every professor a thank you card and personally delivered it to their office, but I am still doing the same things that made me fuck up. Looking ahead, I have no clue what the bloody hell I am going to do. My doctor in the hospital said I need to stop being so passive; make my own choices and direct my own life. Good call. You know what I really want? I really want to be back in Los Angeles, writing. That's what I want. I want to be walking down to Union Station and Little Tokyo on the weekend, enjoying sake and chatting with the store owners. I want to KNOW those people. I want to attend the Unity Church in Little Tokyo, play at the defunct arcade and not feel guilty about eating Beard Papa's creme puffs. And most of all, I want to have a steady job teaching English somewhere downtown at a school. Volunteer to teach English to Japanese kids on the weekends. Stuff like that would make me feel absolutely happy. And thinking about it makes me cry right now. And all I can do is sit here and fucking drink and moan and bitch, but god fucking dammit, I will make it happen.
-Mt
I've been in the hospital for the past week...for suicidal ideation, substance abuse...etc...
This is why people with manic depression TAPER off their meds rather than stopping cold turkey.
Coming out of the hospital, you'd think I'd learn my lesson, but it was more of an adhesive medical strip; a temporary fix that lasted all of forty-eight hours. Oh, my mental-state is much more positive. I'm not wanting to get creative with plastic bags or household chemicals and enclosed spaces. Suicide is a bit of a far cry now. No. I left the hospital in denial. Denial that I am an alcoholic. Of the AA "disease" mentality. That I can manage my drinking. Moderate it. But who the fuck am I kidding? I can't moderate anything in my life. Not food, not exercise, not school, not relationships, not online-games. The reward circuitry in my brain is shot, was probably shot when I was born. What can I do about that? Part of me want to just go live in Japan, in some fucking Zen monastery and never see a single temptation again, but I've read enough Zen literature to know that's the wrong way of thinking. Part of me doesn't give a flying fuck. That part figures I like bad things and will keep doing these things until I'm dead, so what's the bollocks's point anyways. Then the part of me that LISTENED to someone two weeks ago when I was considering mixing some chemicals, sitting in my car and relaxing while they filled my lungs with death, that part of me listened to her. She said: get your ass to the hospital. And given her own mental health history, I listened to her. She brought me fantasy novels and sudoku. Sour Patch Kids and Jolly Ranchers we weren't allowed to have because coke-heads used them or something. Then she checks in on me yesterday, and I'm fucking drunk as hell at 9am and she sighs. And I walk into my therapy appointment at 4pm today and my therapist asks if I'm drunk. I always thought I hid my drunk behaviors rather well--fail. I told her, fessed up and wanted to cry in her office. She said she couldn't ethically see me while I was intoxicated, wtf? Another therapist came in and he cracked some jokes while ther called a cab for me. I rode home embarassed, bought more booze and drank more. I did eat a sandwich though, so I guess that counts for something.
My psychiatrist asked me, on Friday, if I was even phased from the hospital stay, because I gathered he didn't think I was. I told him I felt scared. He suggested I go to AA, and I told him I wanted evidence-based support, not AA. I told him I was good with the Abilify AND the Topiramate. He said if you get really depressed take the Abilify, but stick with the Topamax. I thought that was okay since Topamax is generic now. I didn't tell him about the cutting, about how I think about digging deep into my arms in the shower. I forgot to tell my therapist about the amount of online games I am playing. I forgot to tell her that I am binging and purging a lot still, and feel really guilt about it, then again, I was drunk.
You know what I miss? I miss the days when I could sit down and read a book and enjoy the content, instead of feeling like I HAD to read it or else I was a failure. I miss the days when I didn't think about the end of the day, so I could drink. I miss friends and their presence and touch. I miss wanting things for myself. All the things I imagine are...well, they seem too far-fetched to me.
It's strange, people bent over backwards to save my graduation. I didn't have to take two exams, write two papers, and got away with a revised portfolio for my poetry workshop, and still, still, I don't seem willing to modify my behavior. I am thankful. I wrote every professor a thank you card and personally delivered it to their office, but I am still doing the same things that made me fuck up. Looking ahead, I have no clue what the bloody hell I am going to do. My doctor in the hospital said I need to stop being so passive; make my own choices and direct my own life. Good call. You know what I really want? I really want to be back in Los Angeles, writing. That's what I want. I want to be walking down to Union Station and Little Tokyo on the weekend, enjoying sake and chatting with the store owners. I want to KNOW those people. I want to attend the Unity Church in Little Tokyo, play at the defunct arcade and not feel guilty about eating Beard Papa's creme puffs. And most of all, I want to have a steady job teaching English somewhere downtown at a school. Volunteer to teach English to Japanese kids on the weekends. Stuff like that would make me feel absolutely happy. And thinking about it makes me cry right now. And all I can do is sit here and fucking drink and moan and bitch, but god fucking dammit, I will make it happen.
-Mt