I can see you.


My stepmother was diagnosed with cancer at the beginning of 2012 and she passed away nine months later in the fall. Right before she passed away we were in the living room watching TV together when I began watching a shadow climb over a box that was sitting on the floor. I was watching it because it wasn’t the first time I had seen it or one like it.

I had been seeing these shadow things climb around on stuff for a few weeks at that point. There would be one climbing over the back of the couch, along the kitchen counter, one would move from under one couch to the other. I would see them in random places. At work there would be one go around the corner as I’m walking. One would come through the door as I sat at my desk. Or in my car as I’m driving down the road.

They didn’t scare me really. They confused me because I couldn’t understand what they were. They were shadows but they were solid but they didn’t have a shape but they had hard edges. I seen them everywhere, not all the time but a lot.

I didn’t think anybody else could see them, or maybe I just didn’t think about if they could or not. I didn’t know I was sick then so I never thought maybe I was hallucinating.

But as I sat there and watched this one climb over the box my stepmom said “do you see that?” and as she spoke it climbed back down the box and disappeared into the wall. I said “yeah, I did, I’ve been seeing them all over the place” and she said “I have too”. We just kind of stopped talking about it then and kept watching TV.

The next week she went into a coma, in the same room, and died. I’m convinced those shadow things were connected to it. Not in killing her, obviously, it was the cancer. But I think they were there to get her, you know? I think they were there to tell us she was leaving soon.

I hadn’t seen one again since she died… until last week.

They’re back. I see them a lot at home. Thanksgiving day I seen one in the empty field across the street, it was bigger than the last ones. It stood up tall, like a person would, and moved behind some trees. I’ve seen them in the garage. In my car. And THEY don’t scare me, but I’m scared.

This last week has been filled with death with the death of two dogs in the house. Both were very tragic and I was home alone with both of them when it happened. And I wonder if they’re there because of them or if they’re trying to tell me that somebody is going to die.

I don’t think I’m hallucinating. I don’t believe that one bit. My stepmom seen them too. It wasn’t just me. Nobody has seen them with me this time, but maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe if they see them too they’ll die. God, I sound fucking nuts.

I do believe in the paranormal. In spirits and ghosts. In evil and in good. I believe in signs and omens, you know, those kinds of things. So it’s really not that hard for me to believe that I’m actually seeing spirits or a spirit and everything in me believes its connected to death. Maybe it is death, maybe it’s just deaths messengers, I don’t know. So there was this battle in my mind. Am I seeing what I’m seeing or am I hallucinating? Do I believe that I’m actually seeing something to keep from admitting that I’m hallucinating?

So I went to a store that specializing in aura readings and crystals and gems, those types of things, thinking I would walk in and something would call to me. Something would catch my attention and it would all make sense. I was really hoping for a book but nothing stood out. Nothing drew me closer. I walked out so disappointed.

I don’t know any more. I haven’t seen anything in a couple of days now so maybe they’re gone for good. Maybe I was just hallucinating and the episode has passed.


I’ve been wanting to write for a while, well, since the day after I last wrote. This place seems like an old friend that understands my habit of isolating myself even when there is something I need. And right now, there is something I need.

I’ve not taken my medicine in a very long time. Long enough it’s out of my system but not so long I couldn’t start it back up and see changes in my thoughts/behaviors rather quickly. It’s dangerous, you know? To do well without the chemicals. I know that I need the pills, I know life is better with them. But I’m not so tired and weak when they’re not in my system. I’m not struggling to stay awake and I have the energy to actually use my voice to speak. Today I cleaned the kitchen, I would have never done that on medicine. I need to start taking them before I get bad again. But working two jobs… I don’t have time to be tired and weak. I can’t afford it. I can’t afford the medicine either. Even with two jobs and no rent.

A few days ago I did something that makes me feel like a different person. A horrible person capable of anything because I never thought I’d be able to do something like I did. I wish I could admit what it was but I can’t. I am ashamed of it. Horrified of it. I feel guilty and dirty. I’ve told K and she doesn’t understand the harsh reality of what I did. She doesn’t understand that I think about it constantly and I relive it over and over again in my head. I had to do it, the thing that I done. I had to. It was the right thing to do. It was. But fucking hell, I feel like a monster. There has never been a single part of me that has ever thought I could do anything even close to it. But I did it. And I can’t tell anybody about it. I can’t forgive myself for it even though I swear I know it was the right thing. God, I fucking hope it was the right thing to do. Maybe I don’t believe I was justified in doing it and that’s why I’m tortured so much by it. I wish I could forget it.

High and Low.

The excuse I held so tightly in my hand for not being able to write anything worth a damn is no longer valid; I’m not medicated. The chemicals aren’t keeping me from being able to produce something of substance and information any more, I just can’t seem to find the words and hold my attention in one spot long enough to be able to write what it is I feel like I need to. There has been so much going on lately that I feel like I need get it out in some air with people that understand me… well, understand me as much as anybody probably ever could.

My family is dead to me. And no, I won’t regret this if something happens to them. My family is shit and I’m done with them.

I moved out of my apartment at the beginning of this month (yes, thirteen days ago) and moved in to my dad’s house because I couldn’t afford to live on my own, get treatment, and pay for my medicine at the same time. Something had to go. It was a very tough decision to make but in the end I knew that my mental health is more important than being independent. To be honest, I knew it wasn’t a good idea to move there because my dad likes to ask me for money all the time and I can’t say no, even when I don’t have the extra cash to spare. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to save money while living there but it was the only option I had where I could keep all my kids together with me and cut down on my bills – well, try to anyways.

I’m going to fast forward to actually moving in and spare you the time reading how horrid packing, cleaning, and moving everything on my own was.

Have you ever watched Hoarders: Buried Alive? Well, that’s my dad’s house. Except it’s a super small run down trailer. There was no room for me but some how I managed to fit two dressers in my dad’s room for my clothes but I had no where to put random things or to hang anything up. I had no where to LIVE.

The house was disgusting. Animal urine and feces were all over the floor because my sister didn’t bother with a litter box for her cats and she was too lazy to let the dog outside – ever. The couch smelled like urine. The bathroom floor was covered in clothes and towels that were in standing water because the toilet leaked and she was too lazy to pick up after herself. The bathroom was crowded with trash and junk and it gave me anxiety to go in there and pee. The bathtub was covered in mold. Seriously, every inch of tub was moldy. The shampoo bottles were covered in mold, the shower curtain, everything. In the kitchen trash was piled up half way to the ceiling and the fridge was packed full of rotting food. The sink was overflowing with dirty, moldy dishes. And it was infested with fleas.

I knew it wasn’t the cleanest place ever, I knew it was dirty and junky, but I didn’t realize how bad it actually was until I was in there… trapped. You notice I blamed my sister for the mess? Well, that’s because my dad doesn’t actually live there. He lives a few towns away with his girlfriend in her nice big clean house. My 17 year old sister lived in the trailer alone. No adult supervision. No food. No money. No water to drink (the tap water is undrinkable). I didn’t know that.

I could fix all that though, you know? I could clean, and I did as much I could without diving head first into an anxiety attack. I could make sure my sister had something to eat and some lunch money and water to drink. I could. Did I want to? No. I wanted to to focus on myself, yes I wanted to be selfish, I wanted to focus on myself and work on TAKING CARE OF ME. I’m not a mother, I’m not her mother, I didn’t want to have to take care of her. But I would make sure she was okay too.

But I couldn’t handle the animals being neglected so I made a post on Facebook stating that I was looking for a home for one of the dogs I rescued and had been staying out there. I said the truth, that a teenager had been left in charge of taking care of the animals and they weren’t getting fed everyday. They were getting neglected and I wanted better for them because I just couldn’t take it. As well as asking my friends if anybody was looking for a roommate because I just couldn’t live like that. I had even went as far as asking my friends that volunteer with me to help me find foster homes for my kids so that I could move out faster.

Well… my dad and my sister both took it upon themselves to comment on the picture of the dog and cuss me out. Telling me that I’m worthless and no better than them and if I think the animals are in that bad of condition then I could take them and myself and leave. Then it moved to text messages. Both of them. Telling me that they didn’t want me there and I was only there because they felt sorry for me. Calling me names and saying things that I don’t think my worst enemy would even say to me… but I guess they are my worst enemies.

My dad told me I needed to be out the next day but I said “Unlike you I have a job but as soon as I get off work I’ll move my things out” and he said to me “It didn’t matter that I didn’t have a real job when I paid half your rent so you could go on vacation”… now, he helped me with rent in August. I went on vacation in October. I needed helped because I couldn’t go to work for a few days because I was manic and literally could not go in. So I informed him that no, he didn’t help me so I could go on vacation, he helped me because I need to go to therapy twice a week and I need medicine to function like a normal person because of what he allowed to happen to me as a child.

And he said I made it all up.

He said I made it all up.

He said I was lying about everything.

So I asked him if he wanted to see my scars, he replied “I’ve seen your scars” and I said “No, do you want to see where I was ripped by grown men forcing themselves in my six year old body? My seven year old body? My eight, nine, ten year old body? My eleven and twelve year old body?” and he said it was my fault because I didn’t tell him….

It was my fault because I didn’t tell him.

I didn’t tell him my mother was selling my body.

… it was my fault.

My emotions shut off right then and there because I refuse to go back to believing that everything that happened to me was somehow my fault. I listened to my mom tell me for years that it wasn’t rape because I wanted it. I finally stopped believing her, I won’t let this sorry excuse for a father put the blame back on me. It was his fault he didn’t notice the bruises or my behavior. How could he not have known? Fuck him. When I didn’t respond the way he wanted me to he told me that he was going to kill my 11 year old cat and my two dogs. He died to me right there on that road when I read that text message. And to be honest, and you can say I don’t really mean it all you want but trust me, I mean it, I hope he dies a slow and painful death. I want him to be tortured.

My sister was constant with her bashing as well but I leave that situation knowing I tried to help her. I tried to make her life a little better but she’s content living the way she does and that’s on her now.

Tomorrow I’m calling animal control and child services to see if there anything they can do. But I will never have anything to do with either of them again.

So on to good news, I did find a place for my kids and I to stay. A woman that volunteers with the same group I do messaged me and offered me a room in her house and told me to bring all my  kids, even the ones that were outside at Dad’s (but I only “had rights” to two of them) and so I did. I moved an hour away from both of my jobs but the house is amazing. I have a room, a whole room, to live in. It has my things in there and my bed. Not only do I have a room (and a half bath) to myself but I’m allowed to have my stuff outside of my room. The kids can eat in the kitchen with the other dogs and I’m putting the little kids’ cat tree up tomorrow in the kitchen area. My kids are happy and I trust them there while I’m at work, I know they will be taken care of.

T is the woman that offered us the room and she’s amazing. I had actually never had a conversation with her until the one where she offered to let me live with her and I only met her after I had already moved in. She’s so wonderful though.

There is another roommate, A, that lives there and I found out last night that she didn’t know T either.  She is going through a horrible divorce and needed somebody to keep one of her dogs and she found T who took Hope, her little dog. A would text T and come see Hope and finally T said she could move in with her because she knew she needed help.

T fosters dogs and takes in stray people as well. She’s wonderful and I’m happy. I feel safe and comfortable. K is going to be coming over on Wednesday and we’re going to explore my new city and she’s going to meet my roommates. She’s happy for me too. img_5371

The punch clock.

Reading blog posts written by others brings me a sting of jealousy. Words are put together to explain something I’ve been struggling to find a way to say for a while now and have failed at every attempt. The handful of unfinished drafts in the appropriate place mocks me. Laughing as though to remind me that the chemicals have taken my words away, again. Jealousy then births melancholy and I mourn for the passion that I have lost while fighting for stability in my bipolar world.  It’s a dark and torturous place especially because I have so much bubbling in my core that I want to say with no way to release it.

There are two hours left in my work shift. I have accidentally referenced my workplace as my home multiple times lately. If it seems that I work more than I am at home that’s because I am. It escapes me if I have mentioned in previous posts about my struggles with my jobs schedule. I’m sure I have as it has been causing me quite some grief in the last months but I am happy to report that I feel like my superiors are trying to get me on a better schedule. The only way this can truly happen is if one of the dispatchers retires, there is one that is very close to retirement and yet will not go.

Guilt consumes me when I wish this person would finally give up and quit. He is a nice enough man so I shouldn’t wish him away like I do. There are health issues with him though and on the logical side of things it’s best if he did retire. He says that he will be leaving before the summer because we’re working a two month shut down. Honestly it doesn’t make a difference to him how long the shut down is, he doesn’t do anything during it any way.

You see, he’s a larger older man who has problems standing up after sitting down and standing for long periods of time. During shut down we have more truck traffic and our business hours are about four to five hours longer so while he would normally only have the risk, barely a guarantee, of doing work for three hours at the beginning of his shift. While working shut down we, the dispatchers who also double as weigh-masters, have to stand up to grab a printed ticket and walk it to the window to have the driver sign, then file it, and we return to our seat to wait and weigh the next truck and repeat the process for hours. It is rather tedious but any healthy person can do this. Since he cannot get out of the chair easily our office manager has to stay and work with (or really, for) him, doing all the work himself after already being here for eight hours beforehand.

We also have five different computers we use throughout our shift and he cannot use any of them. He does manage to look up the GPS of boats we’re looking for but he does not check emails where we often get after hours orders for our boats. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t want to learn how, to input the information for the different trucks that we load – which is really the main duty we have.

Security rounds are supposed to be made hourly, granted none of make on the hour every hour, some shifts we barely make rounds at all, but we are physically able to do them. Except for him. Because of his age and size he cannot get into and out of the truck safely. He has fallen out of the truck before and 9-1-1 had to be called. While on rounds, if it is raining or has rained, we are supposed to pump a pit on the dock. They load different kind of products there and it is usually pretty slippery. It’s essential that this pit is pumped to keep the product from turning bad – but he doesn’t pump the pit because he can’t get into and out of the truck.

So what does he do during his shift? I don’t know. I cannot tell you. Why don’t they fire him? Because they’re good to their employees. He’s been here for well over twenty years. He knows he is nearing time to retire and if not for me desperately trying to get out of my schedule they wouldn’t worry with him right now. But I do feel like they are seeing me struggle and understand that I need a normal sleep routine in order to be as healthy as I can be. They do not want to lose me any more than I want to leave. Looking at the calendar I wonder if I’ll be able to make it much longer though. Tonight I dreaded coming to work so much I almost cried.

There are my work woes. An hour and a half before I can clock out and go to K’s for some sleep.

Party for one.

I’m not sorry for feeling sorry for myself. Insert shoulder shrug. I’m just not. Life has been unkind to me lately and I’m going to lick my wounds. Yes, of course, I will be strong and know that I can’t attend my pity party forever but right now, damn right I’m going to get some punch and dance on the dance floor. And if you don’t like it, fuck you.

Ha, life. Yeah, life. It’s a doozy I tell ya. A real whopper.

I’m in the process of packing my apartment so I that I can move into my dad’s and so far I’ve only gotten the downstairs packed. Oh well, at least it’s something. But you see, I can’t do anything with my belongings until my dad helps me. I can’t move things in my car to the storage unit that I have yet to get, but shhh another issue for another day. I can’t move my things into his room until he makes room for me. So I’m at a stand still. I can’t very well pack up my bedroom until I’m ready to start staying at his house because it’s the only room I occupy. So I’m at a stand still. I’m standing still.

On top of that stress I’m still trying to find a second job but I’m having no luck. You see, my current schedule is so fucking ludicrous that everything I’ve been offered I’ve had to turn down. Let me tell you my schedule:

  • Sunday I work from 0700 until 1500
  • Monday and Tuesday I work from 1500 until 2300
  • Wednesday and Thursday I work from 2300 until 0700

So on Friday I get off work at 0700 and I sleep until about noon or a little after and then I can’t sleep at all during the night because my body is so used to NOT sleeping at night. Saturday is my ONLY full day off. On Saturday I do my volunteer work, I get up around 1000 and by the time I come home it’s 1600 or so. By then I’m so exhausted from not sleeping the night before I take a nap and then again I’m up all night, late for work on Sunday and then when I get off of work I feel so drunk I have to go right to sleep. So I don’t have time for another job but I desperately need one.

Most people wouldn’t see the issue, get a new job, right? Well, yes. But I love my job. I very much do. I get paid well, just not enough, and I have insurance that I cannot live without. I can bring my dogs, who really should be classified as emotional support animals, I’ll have to look into that. I have been looking and applying for another full time job, I want to become a groomer, but so far nobody has even interviewed me for a position. Stress.

Is everything all bad? No. It’s not. It’s really not. But I’ll leave the party when I’m damn ready to.  

So long, September.

I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve wrote. There are a handful of half written, half thought out drafts sitting in a folder to the left of me. It’s the medicine. I’d like to say, but sometimes I wonder if perhaps my life is just so uneventful I don’t have much to say that would be of substance. Wouldn’t that be a nice change of pace? An uneventful life? 

Let me start by updating what is going on with my apartment situation: they’re letting me out of my lease without penalty. Of course I won’t get my deposit back but I wasn’t expecting to get anything back anyways. I have completely destroyed that place. Not on purpose, of course. But for the last year my lack of house keeping skills have taken a toll on it. This month I’ll be moving in with Dad, something I swore I would never do after I moved out. I’m trying not to be so hard on myself over it. There is a voice in my head mocking and laughing but even on it’s worst days it’s quiet. There is a louder more confident voice telling me it’s okay, that I’m doing what I need to do. It’ll be worth it. I’ll be able to save some money. I can move into a nice apartment this spring. I’ll have my medicine worked out so that I’m stable and I’ll be able to start over, start fresh somewhere that is absent of all the negative energy that lingers in my apartment now. It’s going to be okay. It really is.

K and I went on a great vacation this last week. We went to Las Vegas and visited my best friend. It was much needed for both of us and for us. I didn’t have the money to go but I made a way, I always do. I made it so I wouldn’t have to stress about money while I was gone. It was my one real mission: to have fun without feeling guilty about it. I worked sixty hours the week before we left. Sixty fucking hours. Most of my shifts only had eight hours between them. I sold some things from my apartment – some book cases and some books – and done a few dog sitting jobs in order to have money for the first two days we were there. It worked out perfectly. The first two days we had about $200 to work with. We didn’t do much except sleep on Monday, our first day there. On Tuesday we didn’t do anything during the day except breakfast and that night my best friends boyfriend treated us to a show at the Luxor. It was fantastic. Around midnight my check hit the bank and I felt like a little kid opening presents at Christmas and finding I got everything I wanted! Wednesday we drove a few hours to the Grand Canyon and I was miserable. I was so tired (I later found out it was because of my medicine) and honestly, the Grand Canyon scares the fuck out of me. Of course K and my best friend, M, had to go right to the edge and dangle off. I was already dizzy from how nervous it made me but then I kept having visions of them falling off the cliff. I hated it. After we left we stopped by the Hoover Dam and I wish I could remember it but truthfully I smoked a little and got high (to numb the anxiety) but I’m not used to what M smokes (it’s weed, nothing harder) so I was high out of my fucking mind. Thursday was the best day, I think. K and I went zip lining from the top of the Rio casino. It was so awesome. Afterward we got on a helicopter with the doors off and took a tour of Las Vegas. It was the most amazing thing I have ever experienced. Truthfully. It was soul freeing. I cannot wait to do it again. After the helicopter ride we went to the High Roller, its the world’s tallest Ferris Wheel and it was beautiful. We had to end the night early because we had an early flight to catch. When we got home from the airport we stopped at the grocery store and picked up dinner and a movie and spent the last night of our vacation on a pallet in the living room floor. Saturday morning K had to go back to work and this morning is my first day back at my job. Which leads me to my next paragraph.

Today, I hate my job. Maybe I just got used to sleeping at night but today I dread being here. I want a job where I have a steady schedule. Where I’m not working a first shift, then two second shifts, and then two third shifts with only one full day to recover before starting all over again. It’s always bothered me but it’s killing me today. I want a normal work week. I want to sleep at the same time every day. But I love my job, I really do. The second shift dispatcher is supposed to be retiring at the beginning of next year, I hope he does. I like him, he’s an alright guy, but I want his shifts. Badly.

I’ve decided I won’t see Grace any more. I feel like she’s a waste of money. Everything she’s said to me so far has been nothing new, I’ve read it all in books and I don’t plan to stop reading the types of books I do so I don’t see her being useful to me. I will continue to see Dr. W as I believe the medication is working. I hate it, I can’t afford it, but it’s working.

So that’s my update.

Dear Anita…


I’m writing to inform you that I will be vacating my apartment at the end of October. I am fully aware that in doing so I will be violating my lease which states that I will be under contract until the end of March. I do hope that explaining my situation to you and to the owner(s) of the property we will be able to come to an agreement that will lessen the penalty for me.

As you are very aware I am late with my rent every month and this has been a consistent occurrence for many months in a row for some time now. I have previously explained to you via email that the reason I am late is because of medical bills that are pertinent to my mental health. I thought my changing doctors would lessen the financial stress that I am under but that has not been the case.

My condition (Bipolar Disorder, along with a slew of other mental illnesses) has been treatment resistant and has worsened. I am currently undergoing treatment at least twice a week and will be doing so for the foreseeable future. Along with the office visits I pay out of pocket for my medications which causes an even steeper hardship for me. Not only has the frequency of my doctor’s visits increased I am currently not suitable to live on my own. It is important to my mental wellbeing and physical safety that I move into a caregiver’s home so that I can be monitored more closely.

I have discussed this with my doctors and they agree this is the best course of action for me and my treatment. They have advised me to contact you in writing explaining my situation and inform you that if you or the property owners need documentation from one of them stating this I can obtain a statement.

You may have noticed I very rarely, if ever, pay my rent in person or come to the office for any reason. This is due to my extreme anxiety. However if I’m needed to speak with you or anybody else in person I will make sure I have somebody hold me accountable for making the appointment. Otherwise feel free to email me any contact information for the owners or response to this notice.

I sincerely hope you understand the position I am in but I do understand and respect that business is business.

That’s the letter I typed out and put in an envelope along with my last rent check and slip into the deposit box in the middle of the night. Why in the middle of the night? So nobody could see me. My hands were shaking the entire time. I felt nervous and unsure. I was terrified. What if they don’t understand? What if they think it’s just an excuse? What if they say no, that I have to keep paying rent or they’ll take me to court? And you know what? …

The next day, yesterday, my landlord slipped a piece of paper through the crack of my door that was an agreement of termination. My soul sighed a sigh of relief. And I was felt so at peace I couldn’t even cringe at the idea of living with my dad again. It’s what’s best for me and I took a step in the direction I needed to go and everything worked out for me.

My medicines have been decent so far. I’m taking 100 mg of Lamitcal, 600 mg of Lithium ER, and 40 mg of Latuda. I am having an extremely hard time getting Dr. W to understand I cannot afford the Latuda and that I need her to fill out some papers for me to try to qualify for assistance but it’s whatever at this point. I’m trying. If it doesn’t work out then maybe she’ll listen to the next person.



When I originally started writing this post I was drowning in my depression. I couldn’t keep the tears from being born and I fought myself to keep from calling my boss and telling him I couldn’t stay at work tonight.

Now I have a little more than two hours left in my shift and I haven’t cried in hours.

Things didn’t get better for me, things are the same. I still fucked things up with K, again. I hate when I do that. And I broke her phone so I can’t even call her to hear her voice tell me it’s going to be okay.  I am in an awful place financially. The truth is I’m losing my apartment this month and I’m behind on all of my bills.

See, I don’t buy myself things. I’m not behind on bills because I went on a shopping spree or went out and had a good time. I’m short on money because of how expensive treatment is even with insurance.

Yesterday I paid one-hundred dollars between two doctors appointments and getting my medicine filled. That’s money I didn’t have. That’s money that I should have paid towards my rent that is two weeks late.

But you know, I have places to go. I’ve decided to move back in with my dad for a while. I’m going to save up enough money I can move into a new apartment once my medicine is stable and I can afford it.


Right now I’m focused on getting off of work and going to sleep for a while. I’m exhausted mentally and physically. But I’ve survived another night.


A year ago I broke. I broke. My mind broke. My spirit broke. My soul broke. I broke into a million thousand tiny pieces. I stopped cleaning my house. Showers became fewer as the weeks drug on. I hated K for the first time. I fucking broke. It didn’t get bad all at once. It was a slow build up. But there is no denying it; September is when I snapped.

Dr. W talked to me as though she had never seen me before and I tried my hardest to look over it. I told myself I am a new patient, she doesn’t know. Therapists aren’t immune to bad days. But she didn’t even remember what medicine she prescribed me. She had no idea that I called the day before to schedule the appointment because I was losing my mind. She looked at me with this frustrated expression like she couldn’t understand why I was there. Why did I spend the last of my money on a co-pay for this appointment? How am I going to eat for the next two weeks? How am I going to get my medicines filled? FUCK!

After I refreshed her memory of what medicines I was taking she tried to put me on a medicine that I had taken a few years ago that did nothing to help me, I reminded her of that. She then proceeded to tell me that I really needed to be on this drug that costs over $300 with a discount card. I can’t afford that. I explained to her that I have been having suicidal idealizations for a over a week, she carried on like I had told her that I seen a cute shirt at the store. I then informed her that I wouldn’t survive my next depressive episode. Her response? “Well, let’s try you back on lithium at a higher dose and let’s see what happens.” Let’s see what happens? Right. Let’s see. I have zero will to live any more, but you’re right, let’s fucking see what happens, Doctor.

Utterly defeated. Completely lost. I have had these thoughts before, I’m no stranger to waking up and being disappointed. I’ve mingled with the thoughts of how wonderful it would be if I just didn’t exist. But I have never lost my strength until now and it terrifies me.

Before I knew that I would get through it, I knew that it would get better, that recovery WAS a possibility for me. But I don’t feel that way any more. Not right now. I’m too tired to fight it. I’m too weak. I’ve been fighting for my life for too fucking long now and I’m done. I just can’t.

After my failed appointment I went home and laid in bed and cried. What am I supposed to do? Nobody is listening to me when I tell them I need help. I’ve lost my voice, I can’t scream it any more.

This morning, as I’m typing this, I don’t feel as hopeless but I don’t feel as hopeful as I normally do. I want to fight it, I want to get better, but I’m exhausted. I just want a good day. I want a break from life. I want to be happy and laugh at everything. I want to wake up and not immediately have to tell myself that I don’t have to kill myself today. I don’t want the thoughts that aren’t mine screaming in my ears for once. I want to be able to open my front door without praying there’s no eviction notice hanging on the outside. I want to be able to go to the grocery store and get food. There’s no relief in sight for me though.

A fatal disease?

Over the weekend I dreamed I was held at gun point and I told the man to kill me because I didn’t have a reason to live anymore. He shot me. I fell down on the warm concrete and noticed how beautiful the stars were. I cried when I woke up, disappointed that it was only a dream.

I started a second job over the weekend as well – a second job I desperately needed to save myself from eviction. It wasn’t a job that was glamorous or as low stress as my primary position but it was a way to earn a paycheck. I have always worked and worked hard to make my way and this job was no different. It didn’t matter my job duties, nothing is beneath me.

The first two shifts went well. I was hired as a dish washer/salad bar attendant, back of house staff at a chain restaurant. From a previous job, I learned how to properly use a dish pit and the basic rules of kitchen etiquette so it wasn’t very overwhelming – at first. My co-workers were fun and I anticipated making friends quite quickly. The money, while not great, was better than minimum wage and the managers understood my standing schedule and were very willing to work around it – even offering to not schedule me on Wednesday’s so I could have something close to a day off.

Yesterday morning, in the midst of my shift, I walked out, I quit.

For the last week I have been suicidal. I’ve made peace with the fact that I have a fatal disease and it’s going to kill me. It’s a constant screaming thought in my head. I know exactly how I will do it but I don’t know when, all I do know is that I’m so tired of fighting. I’m tired of the persistent pain. The loneliness. The aching. I don’t have any fight left in me. I don’t see myself being able to get better. I am a disappointment to those who are close to me; I viciously attack K with words and thoughts that I know will damage her and it’s brutal.

I woke up yesterday morning and fought myself out of bed with my usual pep talk – reminding myself of the rent that is late, the electric bill coming up, my tags are late on being renewed – there’s no way I can afford a ticket, I need to make a vet appointment, I have two doctors appointments coming up, I need to go to the dentist to resolve the mouth pain I’ve been having, I need to go to my GP to get a physical for work so they don’t cancel my insurance, I’m pretty sure my phone will be cut off soon… and between all of that I need to eat and get gas and make sure my kids (two dogs, four cats) have food. There was nothing I hated more than being alive but I got up and dressed myself and fought tears all the way down the interstate to my new place of employment. I didn’t have the energy to exist but I had no choice but to clock in and go to work. I don’t know if I have ever experienced feelings like I did yesterday morning.

Immediately I knew I wasn’t going to last the day. While standing in the cooler I text K and told her I wasn’t feeling good – she knows what that means. K, who has been super supportive lately and who has been there for me the best she can lately, asked what she could do to help. I couldn’t breathe, the thoughts were too loud, my eyes were swelling with tears, I wanted to die. I asked her if she would call Dr. W and see if I could get my appointment moved up and then I had to walk out of the cooler because I had a lot of work to do in a very little amount of time.

Chopping celery with a knife pushed me over the edge. I kept imagining thrusting the knife into my stomach. I seen my hands do it over and over again in my head. My chest got tight and I was struggling to breathe. My phone vibrated and I was thankful for the chance to take my hands off the knife. K asked me what Dr. W’s number was but I couldn’t give her the information she needed, I could only reply with I can’t do this.

Shaking I put my phone back in my pocket and picked up the knife again and began chopping and daydreaming about how it would feel to not feel anything at all. Looking around at everybody else that was so busy in the kitchen, laughing and talking and carrying on with their work, I thought to myself that they have no idea that I’m going to go home and kill myself after my shift ends. They have no idea that it’s the only thing I can think about. It amazed me. It baffled me. They had no idea.

My phone vibrated again: Let me help you.

I finished my first assigned task completely and then walked into the managers office and told them that I was going home, I just couldn’t do it. I handed my hat to a woman who stood there staring at me like she didn’t understand what I had just said and turned around and put my apron in the basket and left. I needed that job.

While walking through the parking lot there was a physical weight on my steps. I could barely move. The tears that I fought since I first opened my eyes came streaming down my face and sobs followed. I called K and told her I just quit my job and she talked to me until I was calm enough to drive. Afterward I called Dr. W and asked to have the very next appointment. The receptionist asked if I was okay and what was going on – I didn’t want to tell her how suicidal I am because I know she would have told me to go to the ER, but I’ve already made that mistake before and I will not make it again. And besides, I can’t afford to go inpatient right now – as much as I know I need it and as badly as I want it I just can’t do it. There’s no way I can afford to take off of work. So I told her I was just freaking out and couldn’t deal with things. I plan on being honest with Dr. W today when I see her.

Even though I wanted nothing more than to lay in bed and sleep and cry I changed my clothes and began looking for another job. I was able to get an interview at a company and somehow they liked me. They didn’t seem to notice that I am a suicidal bipolar lunatic. While I don’t know if I got that job, it did seem promising and I do hope I get it. I don’t have the energy to hunt down another job. I’m at the end of my strength. I truly am.