My anxiety is shooting up – at unexpected times and for no apparent reason. OK, I guess there is/are reasons. Work is stressful – returning to it and being in a new place to teach, and feeling like I’m not up to snuff and worried about it all. Now I’m trying to find a new psych doctor and worry about the money aspect of that. My husband would say not to worry, but do what I feel I need to. But I don’t feel worthy of spending that kind of money on myself. I need to find a doctor, though. My meds run out in about a month and I need a psych to prescribe them. Me with no meds is a BAD thing! I’ve only fairly recently seemed to find a “cocktail” of meds that seems to be a good balance for me. I just sent an email to a prospective doctor. I gave him all the basic facts up front. I hope I hear from him soon. My insurance website provided his name, but then I didn’t see my carrier on HIS list, so I’m worried about that. I’m turning into my mother with worrying!
Something’s wrong and I can’t figure it out. I went off the latuda because, although it helped my mood, it made me feel really creepy. I felt like my skin was crawling and couldn’t handle not doing something – although nothing was what I wanted to do. So now I’m on lamotrigine (building up my dosage). I’m apprehensive of side effects. The last time I was on this, I gained 25 pounds in one month, so was quick to get off it. Hopefully it was something else that made me gain the weight back then, and the lamotrigine will work this time. Aside from that, I have overwhelming feelings of dissatisfaction with my life. It seems to all be for naught. I can’t find success in anything I do. I’m not adding to anything.
And then there’s losses. Last May, my dad passed away and I’m still not over it. In a few months, my son graduates from high school and moves out and into his new life. My mom is 89 and doing well, but life keeps moving and people will keep passing out of my life. I can’t seem to get anything figured out anymore. My head can’t wrap around simple tasks. I’m moody and don’t even realize it until it’s pointed out. I want to crawl into bed and never leave.
I haven’t posted in awhile and I think it’s a good thing. I’ve been feeling better. I’m now on Latuda (mood stabilizer) and it seems to be helping – a lot. There haven’t been any flare ups of my rage for awhile now. Whew! I know they can come at any time though. I will enjoy this time as long as it lasts and hope that the medication will decrease the severity of my rants. I know it’s still with me and will always be. On FaceBook today, I came across this picture and it serves as a good reminder.
I know I still have lots to learn … in time.
I read a post recently – about eyes and what we see about the person behind them. After a conversation with another blogger, it was suggested that I post my eyes. I’m wondering what others see in them.
This first picture was taken with my laptop camera. I was feeling pretty depressed.
A few minutes ago, I took another with my phone.
What do you, the reader see in my eyes?
I know that when more of the face is shown, more can be read into it. Eyebrows up or a wrinkled brow. But to see the soul through the eyes, I wanted to see only the eyes. If I get a few comments, I’ll edit my post and put what I see, but I don’t want to influence any comments with my own perception. I want to hear what others see.
I want to write a post, but my mind is a blank. I’ve been working in my garden a lot, which is very therapeutic for the mind! I think I finally have it all planted and now the tending is to help everything grow. It’s somewhat of a zen garden. There are a few herbs and a cherry tomato plant. Other than that, there are roses (although I’m having trouble getting them to bloom), many different perennials for sun and shade, a slope of succulents, a fig tree, peach tree, Rose of Sharon, tons of rosemary … and a small zen fountain. So rather than write, I’ve decided to share some pictures. Mentally, I’m very good today and grateful for the friends I have and the support and love they have for me (and I for them.)
Yesterday I had a psychiatric evaluation. the hard truth was put before me. Yet another specialist has confirmed my having BPD. It hasn’t gone away, and doesn’t look like it ever will. I feel depleted inside. Empty. For the most part, the last few months have been good. Better that it’s been for a long time. But just when I realize this, something triggers me and my anger. I’m feeling really sad about this. The mountain continues in front of me. Upward and onward.
Yesterday, my husband and I took a walk across the Foresthill Bridge. It’s 730 feet high, the third highest in the US. At least one person commits suicide, by jumping from it, every year. At the midpoint, there were several names and dates scratched in the paint of the handrail. Each one named a person and the date of their death. It was very sobering to stand where they had stood and contemplate what had brought them to that same point on the bridge, with the intention of never walking off of it. Looking over the side was dizzying. They must have been extremely determined, and hopeless, to climb up and step out. There’s a call-box right there, imploring them to not jump, but reach out for help. How many make the call? How many don’t? How many choose neither and return to their life with no one the wiser? They were very sobering, these realities. It was a cloudy day yesterday. Heavy with thoughts and emotions.
I thought about all the times I’ve felt everyone would do better without me around. But I could not jump off that bridge, and I won’t. I will continue my search for strategies, methods, meditations, beliefs and actions to help me survive and heal here, on Earth and alive in my world.
Death can be very abstract until you see it up close and real. Those names and dates were real. And a caring, grieving family member or friend scratched them in the paint so that the person wouldn’t be forgotten. Nor their pain and desperation. Someone was the last person to speak to them. Someone discovered them, fallen. Someone had to pick up the crumpled, lifeless body. Someone had to find the family and let them know what had happened. And then there are those the person left behind. Those who knew of their pain, and those who didn’t. But they were all left with the loss of that person in their lives, and how they would take that knowledge forward into their own. I hope it made a difference.
Below the bridge flows the north fork of the American River, flanked by beautiful forests, tumbling to join with the middle fork in an area known as the confluence. It’s an area enjoyed by all kinds of people every day of the year. To see such beauty and energy so close to such sadness and desperation is difficult to comprehend. But in seeing and reflecting, I know which scene I want to reflect my life. I hope all those who choose to walk the bridge to the middle will stop and use the call-box. My next walk there will be to enjoy the view and beauty, before I continue my walk to the paths below where life is exuberant and ongoing.