Crashing after a LONG good spell (Needing to vent a little here)

Rock and a hard place

I feel like the little rock – caught between two others, trying to maintain my balance. How long can I?

Let me just say up front that I know my life is hunky-dorey compared to many of my virtual friends. I really don’t have a D*#M thing to complain about. But here I am, venting in a post after I haven’t written anything for several weeks. I’ll be surprised and happy if anyone even bothers to read this. I know it may sound like I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I’m trying to avoid that cop out. I realize that I am the only one who can change anything about me. I am trying to.

I’m struggling with how to express how I’m feeling right now. Not Good just doesn’t cut it. It’s pissing me off because over the past month, I’ve felt better than I have in over a year or two.

I don’t feel like I fit in with my family (my husband and son.) Maybe that’s a male vs female thing? But what I do know is that my husband shared just how depressed he’s become over the past year or so. Maybe much longer, and I have to feel that me and my crap has played SOME part in that. And my son is repressing feelings from his girlfriend breaking up with him and it’s caused physical problems with exhaustion, weakness and heart palpitations to the point that he’s missed a bunch of school – again. SO, I am trying to be as supportive to them both as I can … yet everything I do seems wrong (at least to me.) I end up pushing my son to talk. I’m f#@king scared of what to say to my husband about anything, even if it’s something like “I’d like to paint the bedroom.” I’m picking on them both (even when I hold the words back, the thoughts are still in my head) about the tiniest sh#t that was asked to be done and/or didn’t get done.

And I’m feeling HORRIBLE about my physical self. I have to sleep using a cpap machine (just call me Darth Vader) or I snore enough to wake up the neighborhood. And I’ve gotten huge! We were being intimate last night and he wanted me to get on top. I told him I couldn’t. I felt like there was no way. I’d had a big supper, way too much. I really wanted to throw up and even went into the bathroom to do so. But I didn’t. I stopped myself, realizing that it would be another form of self harm. And I’ve not done that for a few months now.

I just want to pull off my head and put it on another body … a different body. I guess I’m acting like I’m feeling better … but it’s just repressing and exhibiting in other ways.

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Realities

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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.

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IMG_2360I 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.

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Scars and the tales they tell or hide …

My mom (who is almost 88 years old) just flew home after visiting me for a week. It was one of the quickest good-byes I’ve ever had at an airport. I think we were both afraid … afraid of the tears, afraid in case this is the last time we ever see each other. At her age, you never know. For someone who struggles with depression and BPD (me), you never know. These days in general, you never know. And we now live 2,000 miles apart.

my “Stoic Swede” mom and me in Tahoe

My mom knows that depression has plagued me most of my life, but she doesn’t know about the BPD and I don’t plan on telling her. She’s seen many of my scars. Some she asks about, most she doesn’t. Although she is quite educated and was a nurse and educator, she gets quite anxious at any indication that I might be struggling to cope psychologically with anything or be seeing a psychiatrist or psychologist. It worries her that there’s something wrong with me … Partly because she will then blame herself. So, I keep it to myself. I wore long pants and sleeves while she was here. I was continually conscious of myself and what she could see.

It was a good visit, setting her mind at ease that our move out here was right for me. The mountains help me to feel settled, grounded in a way the midwest did not. The movement of the American River soothes me whenever I am able to be near it and watch the sun reflect off its surface as the water rushes around and over rocks.

American River Canyon

American River Canyon (Photo credit: aresauburn™)

This is only a few miles from my house! The Forest Hill Bridge in the back is the 3rd highest in the US

I continue to have moments when my anxiety and fear of loss and abandonment overtake me. I had some even while she was here and again as I said good-bye. Will those ever go away? I’m beginning to doubt it. That is my cross to bear or fountain of youth to seek. Am I Don Quixote fighting windmills in my mind?

Don Quixote and Sancho Panza

Don Quixote and Sancho Panza (Photo credit: M Kuhn)

In my last post, I was very discouraged about how few people were reading my blog. I contemplated the suicide of my blog and the word suicide was in the title. Suddenly, there were many more hits and several comments from readers saying they were reading, even if they weren’t commenting. Thanks for the comments that were made to that posts. They helped. I guess I need to keep fighting my windmills and some of them might turn out to be real and I can win the fight! Others will taunt me as they will. More scars may come from the fights, but I will fight to the end – never giving up hope for happiness in life. Not just fleeting moments, but deep seated, know it in my bones and it shows in my face real happiness.