Executive Decision

That’s it. Everyone has a breaking point, and six months of non-function, of, let’s face it, non-stop insanity, is mine.

This med has been enough to get me out of the wicked depression and into a horrible agitation. It is once again 5 AM, I have been awake for hours, unable to shut the fuck up in my head, angry, suicidal, cruel, and terrified. I have one week left to pull together all the shit I haven’t been able to deal with before starting this new job, and I can barely move.

Tomorrow, I am supposed to meet with the shrink about whatever the hell med disaster is next. But I know the options, and unless something comes to the table that I wasn’t expecting, I am making the executive decision to go back on the old med, and apologize formally to the universe for ever thinking burnt skin was bad enough to justify complaining. I know I have said that I sometimes hate Super Sara, but right now, I need her.

I wrote a long time ago about rage dreams. Last night offered me a new twist – I had the typical dream, but whereas in every previous dream, I flew into the same rage and woke up shortly after, this time, I had the same rage, but the dream kept going. Because of the rage, I was considered out of control, and dragged off to a mental hospital.

Thank the shrink for that dream. I guess I’m still furious about that. But I know that finding another doctor isn’t the answer, not really. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men don’t have any magic drug to offer me. And since I still cannot speak the words “manic depression” or “bipolar,” going to another shrink would probably just delay the diagnosis again. There’s no way I would go to another doctor and honestly tell them that. Not after all that this diagnosis has brought me. The best I can do is listen to this guy’s take on the meds, take the opinion for whatever it’s worth, and try not to put my fist through a window while I’m there.

The worst thing about being crazy is that you lose the right to your emotions. Anger, sadness, existential angst, even happiness – it’s all a disease. You are a child, irrational and unreasonable, and anyone is allowed to pass judgment on you, to dismiss you. None of your good qualities, achievements, or contributions count for anything nearly equal to your crazy. Nothing you could ever do could ever possibly compensate for that.

And the fact that this will hover over me every day, over everything I do and everything I touch, for ever and ever, until the day I die and probably beyond, into whatever pathetic posterity I may merit, makes a more than adequate case for suicide, does it not?

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7 Comments

  1. Hi there,

    I hope it’s okay for me to leave you a comment. I just stumbled on your blog and wanted to say hi.

    “The worst thing about being crazy is that you lose the right to your emotions. Anger, sadness, existential angst, even happiness – it’s all a disease. You are a child, irrational and unreasonable, and anyone is allowed to pass judgment on you, to dismiss you. None of your good qualities, achievements, or contributions count for anything nearly equal to your crazy. Nothing you could ever do could ever possibly compensate for that.”

    I know what you mean. It seems like they tell you that for every feeling there must always be something else to pin it on, some kind of mood swing. For me especially, since Borderline Personality Disorder is related to emotional regulation… there is always supposedly some other cause. I remember that everytime i got angry, my family members would brush it off because i’m “ill”, even when i had legitmate reasons for being angry. But you know what? I think when people have some understanding of what it’s like to be in that situation, they try not to pass judgement. You are more than your Bipolar. And i think the people who really know you can see that. Whereas shrinks and psychiatrists won’t really get it because it’s their job to focus on that one part of you, no matter how frustrated it makes us feel. Anyway, take care.

    Jaimi

  2. oh, Daer Sara, p l e a s e tell me this isn’t a suicide note….

  3. No, it’s not. I’m just saying. I’m finally starting to understand how much expectations of the mentally ill play into them being “ill.”

  4. “I”m finally starting to understand how much expectations of the mentally ill play into them being ‘ill.'”

    Bingo. When I was untreated, I thrived off of stress–I could eat it for meals, and it was the best energy pill. Stress made me go manic–and therefore, motivated and energetic enough to do anything I needed to do. Now that I have something to modulate my stress response, stress makes me do worse, it seems. No matter how hard I work, my achievement often feels like the inverse proportion of my stress level. Which is bad, when your program director is constantly telling you to get your grades up, when your best friend got his stipend taken away in the middle of the year for less-than-perfect grades, when it all goes wrong again.

    And I’m entirely with you on the “you’re emotions aren’t yours” bit. Rather frustrating, isn’t it?

    By the way, did you have Match Day yet?

  5. I’m so sorry for what you are going through, i will pray that you get resolution and sleep.

  6. I can relate. It took me a long time to accept the bipolar diagnosis, and it has brought me far more misery (read: medication) than relief. Every time I see the doctor, I get more pills, if I react badly they give me more pills, if that doesn’t work they switch pills and the cycle continues. On and on. I look forward to hearing about your response to just Effexor.

  7. What you’re saying is true, but you do yourself too little credit. You would not have come so far if you were incapable of succeding. When I was first starting being crazy, the attention I felt I needed to pay to my moods in order to monitor “normal” feelings from crazy feelings was exhausting. Fortunately I was lucky enough to respond quickly to meds that let me find a baseline from which such mood vigilance was less necessary. Unfortunately for all of us, it takes time, even once the meds kick in, before we begin to be able to allow ourselves to be mad, to be sad, to experience a more delimited range of the emotions that had us at their beck and call before. And it’s work– and it takes a lot of therapy, and being honest with yourself. But it is possible, and you are smart enough and self aware enough that if you can find the patience and perserverance, that I think you can do it. I really do.


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