I will start by saying that I have had a deep underlying depression for a long time now, I have been battling it for quite some time.
Then I will jump into a separate story, but one that goes along with everything that happened in a way. See, my husband and I have had two flea market booths for three years now. Our kids have always been a part of it, and they have been coming most every weekend this whole time now. They are both under ten. About a month ago my husband took our boys, plus his twenty one year old nephew and his one and a half year old son, to the flea market with him one day. The owner of the flea market has a bad temper and can be very moody and temperamental. Well, our nephew’s little guy fell and hit his head on the concrete floor about ten minutes before opening time. The owner of the flea market came flying over to our nephew and began yelling at him, demanding to know “what the fuck was going on over here, what’s all this noise”, and proceeded to tell our nephew that “he and his little asshole needed to get out of his building”, my husband was standing there the whole time in disbelief. A little later that day, the owner came to my husband and told him that from now vendors cannot have children under that age of ten with them. He told my husband that it’s always been in the “bylaws” and handed him a print out of those supposed rules. So when they came home and told me, you may guess that I was highly annoyed, as that’s not just my husband’s booths, they’re mine as well. I chose to vent a little on my personal facebook page, giving an account of what happened and stating how wrong I thought the owner was and that he apparently needs some anger management. Well, the owner was given a copy of my post on fb, and he was ready to kick my husband out that day. My husband managed to talk him into letting him stay, but neither myself nor my kids or anyone in my husbands family is allowed in there anymore. Which means that I now will be taking care of both my boys all weekend long, by myself.
Now some may be thinking to themselves, “why is it an issue that she has to take care of her kids by herself?” The honest answer is, they do not listen to me because I never enforced punishments with them, instead I’ve always yelled and made idle threats. So now at five and seven, when I DO punish them, or try to, it’s like a joke to them, and because I don’t stay consistent, it doesn’t stick. I don’t stay consistent because truthfully, it’s a lot of frickin work, hard work, and I often just don’t have the motivation to do so. So a day of taking care of them alone for eight hours, is like a day of torture for me, and that’s sad. It should not be that way, because I do love my sons with all my heart, they’re the reason I’m still here, but man…. They sure can make it easy for me to allow them to drive me crazy. I often beat myself up about this, and I feel like a poor excuse for a mother because I can’t even control my own children, but it’s all truth. I WANT to be a better mom, I WANT to be able to get my kids to listen, and so on. With that said, ever since this no kids at the flea market thing has caused weekends to be miserable, I fight with my husband every Saturday and Sunday morning, having an extremely child like fit over the fact that he’s continuing to stay at the flea market instead of staying home with me and helping, because he knows.
The morning of Sunday March 8th, I lost it. I woke up completely pissed off because I just did not feel like taking care of both the boys by myself that day, but yet I wouldn’t allow him to take them to his sister’s house because it’s disgusting and just isn’t a good place for them. Plus I was so angry at myself for not being able to care for my kids like a normal mom, and that was just making me angrier, and though no one knew, it wasn’t at them, it was at myself that I was getting angrier at, because I could feel myself losing it over this, this stupid thing. I yelled at my husband, called him all kinds of names, said I wasn’t watching the kids, that I would go back to the bedroom, all kinds of stupid, ignorant things. I was SO angry, not just at this whole situation, but at everything it seemed. I had cut myself the day before, not in front of my children or anything, it was later in the evening when my husband was home. Cutting is something I haven’t done since I was a teenager, but I took a utility knife/box cutter, and I locked myself in the bathroom and made several cuts. My husband found out because he somehow managed to see them. So during this fight on Sunday, he eventually tells me he’s calling the police to come get me, he picks up the phone and starts to call…. and I go ballistic, totally nuts, I blacked out….. I reached over the hallway banister and pulled his hair so hard that I picked him up off his seat, my husband is not a small man. I continued on into the dining room where I was told that I picked up the microwave and threw it across the room, and also destroyed the stand it was on, and managed to crack the antique French provincial desk that my husband bought me for Christmas, I cracked it all the way around. I seriously and honestly do not remember this, because I would’ve stopped because of my kids had I known what I was doing. My husband said they were yelling “mommy just stop, please stop and it won’t be so bad” pleading with me to stop the madness I was in. It brings me to tears and tears my heart apart that they had to see that. How can they trust a mother like that? I can’t imagine what their little heads were thinking, are still thinking. God how I have really fucked up with this one…. I don’t know if I can ever make it up to them…. that memory of me will always be there in their minds and I hate that, but my stupid, selfish ass did that.
So the police came and they called the EMS and by that time I was calmed down considerably but still very upset. I had also went to the kitchen to start taking as many of Klonopin as I could while my husband was on the phone with 911. So I imagine that had some effect to me being calmer. He smacked the bottle out of my hand so I couldn’t continue taking them, so I hadn’t ingested enough to be concerned about. I went cooperatively with the EMS and the police to the emergency room at our local hospital. The let me put a bra on and grab a few things before they took me and they were very nice. I gave my boys big kisses and hugs before I left and told them how sorry mommy was and that I was going to go to the hospital to get better and how much I loved them, then I walked out the door and got in the ambulance and left for the hospital. I actually got down to the psych unit pretty quick. I thought I was prepared for this, that I was really going to try to get better. I had no intentions of messing up or doing anything crazy while in there. Unfortunately, it didn’t stay that way for me.
That first evening/night that I was at the psychiatric unit, I went into one of the recreation rooms/areas to call my husband. I don’t know why I even called him in the first place because I should’ve known he wasn’t going to have anything positive to say, and probably nothing nice either, but I called anyway, hoping that this time it’d be different. The definition of insanity, right? Doing something over and over even expecting a different result. Anyway, I don’t even remember our conversation, all I remember is slamming the receiver down as hard as I could, (which apparently broke the entire phone), after that I remember bits and pieces, but for the most part I don’t remember much. I know what I was told by staff and patients the next day. I was screaming when I slammed the phone down, I left the rec room and tipped over the big potted tree they had in the hallway, then I went down to my room and continued screaming and hollering, staff gave me two shots of Ativan, and I still carried on, eventually tipping over my dresser. That’s when it got bad I guess, because like eight guys were outside my door, staff and security and they carried me out of my room kicking and screaming, trying to BITE and SPIT, down to the seclusion and restraints room, where they proceeded to strap me down and inject me with Geodon, and I eventually calmed down, but it was still all kind of hazy to me. Almost all the things I just said I did, is information I gathered from staff and patients.
I have been hospitalized more times than I care to count since I was twelve years old, and NEVER, I mean NEVER, have I had to be put in restraints. Now here I am, almost thirty fucking years old and look at me! I acted like a complete and total lunatic, not once, but TWICE in one day!!! Who the fuck does that?! That day was apparently it for me, my breaking point, for whatever reason, it’s what made the damn burst and it all came flooding out. Even though I know people do these kinds of things, that shit happens, it still does not stop me from feeling like a complete and total asshole, ashamed, embarrassed, heart broken that my kids had to see part of that, like a failure as a mother/parent, or from feeling so damn stupid for behaving that way. You just don’t do that… but I did, and I have before, sometimes close to that degree of severity. I should have this right by now, I should be able to deal with bipolar and borderline personality disorder and anxiety, better than this. I should be able to remember my meds EVERY single morning, instead of one day I do and the next day I don’t, so they never get into my system right. I take my night meds every night, but there are certain meds that can’t be taken at night and I’m out of options as far as putting me on something different, I’ve been on literally almost everything. I feel like a freak, like a giant mess, a fuck up. I can’t seem to get life straight and it shouldn’t be that hard.
Some of you may read this and think wow she needs to get it together or what kind of parent does that, some may think I’m doing a woe is me type of thing, and some may think I’m being hard on myself, beating myself up, whatever the case, just as you’re entitled to think what you want about this, so am I. This isn’t a pity part woe is me post btw, I want to clear that up now. “In My Words” is supposed to be about my life, my world, my feelings, the way I see things. That’s the whole purpose of this, that and to help even one person in some way by just one of my posts even. That would make all this worth it, for just that one person I touched.
I stayed in the psychiatric unit for eight days total. I didn’t sleep the whole stay this time like I have before in the past. I got up and went to all the groups, not just the rec group/arts & crafts group, I went to each one, and I stayed the whole time no matter how bored I got. I tried to get something out of each of the groups I attended. I journaled, I worked on my DBT Skills book, I read. The one thing I noticed I didn’t do enough of was pray… I need to work on that big time. I didn’t get along with the doctor, I’ve dealt with him two other times in a different psychiatric facility in a different area of the state, and we didn’t get along then. He’s callous, cold, uncaring, and he’s been doing this for too long. I didn’t feel like I got much use out of him. The only change he made for me was to add Paxil to my other two psch meds that I take. I’ve been on Paxil before, but it’s been so long I can’t remember if it worked or if I gave it enough time to work, etc. So I figure I’ll try it again for a few months, see what happens. All in all, I don’t really feel much better than I did when I went into the hospital. It would help if my husband and I could get along, if he would stop blaming me for literally ALL of our problems, stop screaming at me and calling me nasty names, that would all help things a lot, but I know I’m dreaming. I will never be good enough for him, because no matter how good I can be doing, he always finds something that I’m wrong about or doing wrong or are wrong for, whatever as long as I’m wrong. So it’s often like, why even try? But there’s a part of me that knows I need to build myself up, learn to not let his meanness and cruelness get to me or hurt me anymore, because I know that he too is sick mentally, but will not get help for it. He is truly right and living in his own world…. meaning no one can tell him anything, he simply doesn’t believe them, even if it’s one hundred people telling him, he’s right. Anyway, like I said, I don’t feel a lot different, but I think I have a little more motivation to get better than before.
I am not proud of what happened, about what I did, by any means. I’m actually very embarrassed and ashamed by my selfish and childish actions, but unfortunately they happened, and I can’t go back and change them no matter how hard I try. I normally do not freak out like this, I mean I have freaked out before, but this, this was different. I truly do think my mind had had enough and it just could not take anymore. I am so sorry to my boys, for putting them through that, and I hope one day I can help them understand why mommy has done some of the things she’s done. I’m a little sorry to my husband because I know each time I’ve been hospitalized or had a moment, he’s cared, even if he didn’t show it on the surface all the time. Although some of the times, if he hadn’t hurt me the way he did, emotionally that is, I most likely wouldn’t have freaked out. No matter what though, there are no excuses for my actions and behaviors, whether I black out or not, I should know enough to stop way before it gets to that point. I’m am almost thirty fuckin years old!! I need to get with the program or something. I feel like I’ve been trying forever to “get better” and I do good for a little while but then BLAM!, it’s back to the same old shit. Depression, anger, sometimes mania, anxiety, all of it, it starts rearing it’s ugly head again, and I lose myself with it. I have to conquer this once and for all. I need to work this every single day of my life, work to correct this, to find solutions and things that can work to finally squelch this crap. Nothing happens overnight I know, as much as I’d like it too, as we all would probably. This will take time, but I have to be sure and do it every day, try to live differently every day, because that is the only thing I can do, is try to make the next day more positive than the one I’m in. I know my strides will start out small, but I believe I can build them up, more and more until I’m taking large strides and I’ve finally achieved some things in life and living it. Bipolar, Depression, Borderline Personality Disorder, Anxiety, those things may always be there, but I don’t have to let them continue to take over me. Even though I may not feel motivated to do this, and I just want to sleep all the time, I know this is something I must force myself to do. I’m hoping that over time, there will be a detectable growth in different areas of my life, of my life in general. It’s time, time for me to be an adult, to do the things that I don’t want to do out of pure laziness and lack of motivation…. if my mom were still alive, she’d slap me stupid for living like this, oh my gosh would she be nuts with me, lol. She was an OCD clean person and she had a way or ritual for doing everything, and everything got done on time, she was always early for appointments, I’m always late, lol. Yeah, she’d be very upset with me. So I try to use that as motivation, that I’m doing it because I’d want to make my mom proud could she see me from Heaven.
I don’t know, an eight day hospital stay just didn’t seem to work the way I was hoping it would, maybe I put too much into the whole thing, too much hope. I knew the depression wasn’t going to go away in the short time I was there, but I guess that crazy part of me hoped it would somehow. That I’d leave feeling happy and chipper. But meds take time to work, too long if you ask me, four to six weeks, sometimes longer, is a long time to wait for someone who’s feeling depressed or manic or anxious or suicidal, etx. I’m going to do whateverP I have to to make sure I take my meds not only at night but in the morning too!! I’ve got a sign taped up right where I can see it first thing, I’ve set an alarm before, but I’ll figure it out and I’ll get on the consistently. I was thinking of keeping a little med journal about how I’m feeling each day and see if the meds are actually helping, and recording when I actually took them, if I did. I have to start with baby steps, or I’m never going to start at all and I’ll be this way for the rest of my life and that is so not what I want. So here I go, on this journey to “feel better”, this journey to getting my mental health in check once and for all, here I go down this path to learning to deal with my emotions in better ways, here I go in my struggle to take my meds correctly, just here I go! It is time, twenty – nine almost thirty years old with two kids and a husband of eight years, it just way overdue, it’s way past time for me to be getting it together, so I guess it’s now or never. I’m attending therapy once a week, or once every two weeks, I’m working on DBT. I’m going to start slow and go from there, one day at a time.
P.S. I realize that there is absolutely NO excuses for the things I did. Mentally ill or not, nothing I did was okay. There aren’t excuses for any of it, and I’m not trying to give any. Thanks! 😉