That is the original title of this post. It perfectly describes my day without devulging any details. It is the type of sentence I used on few folks I am moderately close to at work.
It describes my day without having to worry about the details. Did my day suck because Jimmy didn’t sit with me at lunch? Or did it suck because I stubbed my toe while getting ready this morning? Or did it suck because from 11am on, I wanted to die.
Why? I don’t know. Well, I do. Life is pointless. You are worthless. I am especially worthless. We all live 80ish years and then we die. In a 100 years, nobody will remember you, nor will they care. The observable part of our grand universe is roughly 93 billion light years across. Our entire planet could cease to exist — it wouldn’t matter.
Yes, I understand. Many are aware of the infinitesimal size of our planet, and it does not overwhelm then. They don’t cling to the thought of how worthless this makes them and everything around them. They likely even build meaning and purpose in their own lives.
Also, it doesn’t always overwhelm me. It often does though. Today it did.
For no reason whatsoever, around 11am I spiraled into the abyss. Sure, stressful stuff went down at work, it happens. Stress happens. Over the past few weeks Lamictal kept me safe.
It didn’t help me fight those fight my morbid thoughts. It eliminated them. Part of my brain, the part that is full of fear, doubt, anxiety, disappointment, guilt — that part shut-off. Over the past 48 hours, it came back on.
Three weeks ago, I didn’t even understand how low I was. I slowly stopped doing everything over the past three years. In the last few months, bathing even fell by the wayside. It wasn’t a conscious decision, I was just avoiding anything I found “stressful”. Having the energy to bathe, I started to show less. And less. My perspective is so different, I wasn’t even aware of this while it was happening.
Having tasted “normal”, I will not go back. I can’t. Every minute I spent treasuring thoughts of suicide, or beating myself up over constant failings. Even when doing tasks or talking to someone, in the back of my head, those thoughts ran on repeat.
It has been a week since I uped my Lamictal to 50mg, and that I did a week early. I called my doctor to get her input. The nursing assistant wrote down my message. An hour later she called back.
Nurse: The doctor said to stick with the schedule she gave you last week. She doesn’t want you to have any side-effects.
Me: Okay. I am really struggling. Like, really. And I can’t go back, having it incapacitate me like it did. And I already feel like I am halfway there. I can’t.
Nurse: Yes. I can let the doctor know your response.
Me: Yeah. Let her know that I will not be following her advice. I don’t care about a rash. At this point, it is more dangerous for me to have this then any rash. I am certain of that.
Two hours later, I got a call back. It was my doctor. I love her, we get along well and over the past two years have gotten to know each other. Obviously she expressed concern. In the five minute conversation that followed, she stated she understood. But to make sure and check for any sign of a rash.
I promised I would. And I will. But as I explained to her, even if I get a rash, even if it is life-threatening, I doubt I would want to be taken off Lamictal.
The past two weeks have been entirely knew. If what I am is bipolar, I’ve been bipolar since at least third grade. “Crashing” started then, or “depressive episodes” as my doctor calls them. They never stopped.
Well, that isn’t true. Over the past two weeks, none. Gone. Disappeared.
I am not going back.