I had to credit my habitual Ativan ingestion for my magnificently low blood pressure score of 93/54 and for causing that little thing that I like to call my “don’t-be-weird” filter to malfunction yesterday at my family doctor’s appointment.
Actually, I’m kidding. I was born weird.
“They’re like my fingernails,” I joked.
Family Doctor – blank stare
“Um so instead of shredding my fingernails with my teeth when I’m anxious,” I explained, “I take Ativan. There are a lot of nasty germs under your nails but I wash my hands a lot though. I don’t have OCD. I don’t think so but I now have intrusive thoughts like a while ago I was afraid to use a toaster because I thought of putting my hand in it – whew. It’s hot in here.”
Family Doctor – blank stare
She pulled up my medication record that had not been updated since last fall and I didn’t realize how many medication changes that I had gone through in a span of at least 5 months until she almost fell out of her chair.
“My God sweetheart.” she interrupted with a genuine concerned expression on her face, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s ok,” I said while flashing her a smile, always amazed and eternally grateful for her continued kindness, compassion, respect, and treatment as a person and not just as a diagnosis.
But at home, when I slid back into my purple jogging pants, the ones that barely hang onto my boney hips anymore, it was not ok.
It was not ok when – instead of dramatically flinging myself onto my bed – I had to carefully lay down, strategically swinging leg over the edge of the bed because sciatica makes me move like Jagger.
It was not ok that the sight of another empty tissue box reminded me of all the bled thoughts collected in the middle of the night – since the early fall.
It was not ok that it has been an eternity of waiting-hoping-trying to make-the-sun-come-out-tomorrow.
Every day is the same.
It was not ok.
And for the first time in a long while, I cried for myself.
A pity party.
Contrary to popular stigma, people with depression do not sit around wallowing in self pity. My depression exists because I have a shitty thing called bipolar disorder and the fact that I’ve eaten enough gummy bears to build a staircase to heaven.
There are so many people out there right now who are trudging some hard trials and are far worse than I can even fathom. I know this but I can’t stop feeling symptoms of depression just like someone can’t stop feelings of cancer. Every once in a while I need to just be sad and angry and downright flip a f*cken bar table over (never because I can’t lift anything over 10 pounds) just like you need to when life is punching you in the face.
Right now after my good long cry, I have hot tea, twisted sheets, pen and notebook, my son will be out of school soon and he is such a happy heart, my husband will be home, and f*ck dinner it’s called grilled cheese….
I am grateful for those small things and very big things.
And just like all of the other there-is-not-enough-life-left-in-me-to-do-this-again nights, I’ll be hoping that the sun will come finally out tomorrow.