In The Land of Zombies & Scaredy Cats

I went to my doctor’s appointment last week. I hate confronting anything—especially this. It’s one of those things that I know needs to be addressed but a part of me wants to avoid eye contact with it. I noticed that I was the youngest patient in the waiting room. My mind began to wonder about the older patients. Was this my future? Going to psych appointments in my 50s? Living with bipolar disorder as a 33-year-old is challenging enough. Could I stretch this 33 more years?

I never thought that I would have made it to 30. As a teen, I vowed to end my misery before I reached adulthood. I always thought that I would have committed suicide by now. I know that sounds morbid but when you’re living with a mental disorder, it feels quite the opposite. It feels like a source of peace. After a couple of failed attempts in my teens, I decided that I wasn’t really good at it. Plus being a scaredy cat and a people pleaser aren’t adequate ingredients for a suicider. (I doubt that’s an actual word.) And besides, life isn’t unbearable all the time. I tell myself, “Just one more day” whenever I’m feeling very close to the edge.

I would say that guilt and obligation keeps me here for the most part. I have an older brother that my mother has been caring for. She had to modify her life and end her career in order to devote her time to him. It takes a very strong and selfless person to do what she does on a daily basis. I admire her for that. I have to let her know that one day.

I’ll most likely take over the reins if she becomes incapacitated or passes away. She said that she doesn’t want my brother to be a burden to us (or our potential mates) but I can’t bear the thought of him going to a home. He is unable to talk, has epilepsy and is mentally disabled. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone if he was being mistreated. The mere thought of this reduces me to tears every time.

Wow. I have totally drifted away from the subject at hand—my doctor’s appointment. The doctor assessed my condition and prescribed me Abilify and Prozac. He told me to take them on the regular basis or risked being hospitalized. He also suggested group therapy. I held back tears as he talked and couldn’t wait to get out of his office. I had such high hopes for my appointment but I felt the resistance and fear building up inside of me.

After a few days of taking my meds, I stopped. I felt numb and spacey. I call it the zombie effect. Even though the thought of therapy scared me, I made the decision to go to a session. I figured that it may help me to see the importance of taking medication.

My first therapy session was this morning. I arrived on time but the nurse said that once a certain number of people arrived, the session would begin. I took a seat in the waiting area. After 20 minutes, fear began to set in. The “what ifs” stifled me. My throat felt tight. I  hyperventilated silently and left the premises. The thought of sharing and being vulnerable in front of others scared me. It’s not the same as blogging.

They called my cell about 15 minutes later. I ignored the call.

I know that I have to give the meds another try. I know that I have stay for a session. I know. I know. I know. Sigh.

Under His Covers Blues (Part I)

“Why does my body ignore what my mind says?

I try to keep it intact, but I’m here in this bed.”

-Jill Scott

I was doing well at this no sex thing but it was cold and lonely. I missed the contact. I missed being taken to a different place. I missed the heat of it all. It was my ultimate distraction. My ultimate drug.

I avoided men. I rejected men that approached me. Heavens knows I do not make the brightest choices when it comes to men and it felt redundant to introduce new jerks into my life when I could always easily refer back to my spares.

The One Who Soothed Me started to have problems with his girlfriend this past summer. I slightly reveled in the unfortunate news. Horrible…I know. But I felt that this was must needed egg on his face! A part of me resented how he completely tossed me to the side after he found the White woman of his dreams. He even told me that she was The One. Who was I? Sally Fucking Fleming?

We began to talk more and hang out again. Shortly thereafter, she broke up with him. Asides from her fear of commitment (due to some baggage), she also felt that he lacked drive and that he solely depended on their relationship for his happiness.

After the break up, things seemed to pick off right where they left off. We talked every single day and saw each other just as much. It was like old times—cozying up on the couch for hours on end and releasing our inhibitions throughout the night.  It was a great distraction for me—perhaps for the both of us. We seem to thrive in unhappiness and uncertainty. It felt nice to have his undivided attention again.

A part of my attraction to him have a lot to do with our similarities. We are always in a state of constant wander, have the same insecurities and require a series of distractions to cope with our dramas. He admitted that he was getting addicted to me. He was quickly becoming my drug again too. We were getting high in different ways. It was only a matter of time before we both wanted more. He wanted to push my limits sexually. I wanted to push our limits in a romantic different direction…