Last week was one of the worst I’ve had in a very long time. I believe it all started with a panic attack ( which I will get to in another blog). I came to the notion that I quite simply could not go on. I mean, like, with my life. I wasn’t necessarily suicidal, I just couldn’t imagine being on this earth for the rest of my life. Let’s say I live another 50 years, I can’t do this. I can’t ride this rollercoaster. It was a wall of depression, not a soul-sucking hole.
I cried. I cried some more. And when that was over, I began to cry again. I had had enough. I called my psychiatrist’s office to see if they could squeeze me in. They did. I cried in the waiting room as a woman with a little boy sat next to me and a show about service dogs played on the television screen. When I was called back I glumly sat down and, you guessed it – I cried. I told him I was done. D.O.N.E. Done living this life I was leading, that I couldn’t take it, that I was doing everything I should be doing yet it still wasn’t saving me. Maybe I could learn to manage my anxiety, perhaps my OCD, but the bipolar was chronic.
He sat in his chair, trying to reassure me that things would get better (I am not so sure he did a great job, but bless him for trying). We tried a new angle, starting again on a medicine that had once worked. I had gone off of it because it had stopped working. But we were at a loss as to what to do so we decided to try it again. We’ll see if it works.
I WILL tell you what got me out of that dark place, that black wall I couldn’t see past, was a friend. She reminded me that I had been through it before, that these dark depressions come and they go and I would make it through this one too. I just had to hang in there. She said who knows maybe the happiness of mania was just beyond my reach.