Wednesday, January 12, 2011


So, mental illness is an interesting thing to me, not just because I suffer from depression, but in general. When I was in the 6th grade, I wrote my first research paper on mental illness. I don't remember what other wrote theirs on, but I think, looking back, that's a strange thing to write a research paper on when you are 11. Or 12. However old you are.

So, I've been taking different anti-depressants off and on since I was 20-ish. Some worked ok, some made me crazy. Well, crazier. I had one that put me into a place that turned me into a hyper-active crazy lady. I'd have to stop my car to get out and run around because the inside of my body itched. I had so much pent up energy I had to get it out. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I finally got to where if anyone looked at me cross-eyed I plotted their death.

I have been at the mercy of my regular family physician while dealing with this because it was such a pain to find a psychiatrist, I found a psychologist and found out that they don't prescribe medication, and then when I did find a psychiatrist... he just stared at me. I couldn't figure out what I was doing there or what he wanted from me.

My first doctor... my pcp. He was the guy I'd gone to my whole life and about the time that I decided that I needed something for my depression, I had started to get tattoos, piercings, and had finally gone in to get the dreaded "peek and poke" visit and get on birth control pills. His first reaction was that not only was depression just in my head (I am pretty sure there was NO pun intended) and that I obviously just wanted drugs. Just look at me. I was an embarrassment and how dare I. I would make a horrible mother with all of my piercings...keep in mind I had one tattoo on my thigh, 8 in my ears, one in my belly button, and one in my tongue. Not too much considering who I know, what I've gotten since, and the fact that I don't think there is anything wrong with any of it. Anyway, he pretty much told me I'd be a failure the rest of my life and would never make anything of myself and heaven forbid I ever want kids.

I never went back and it kills me that my mom still goes to him.

I have pretty much been just dealing with my life on prozac. I am never motivated. I am never truly happy. I just get moved to a different med. No one ever changes dosages or adds anything, just one med at the lowest dose to the next one. I had one doctor that started putting me on meds for bipolar thinking that was my deal.

That was a real treat for me let me tell you AND I can just imagine that it was horrifying and awful for my coworkers.

Finally, we deduced that I have ADD and that is a lot of the issues I deal with. So I take Ritalin, I am still depressed but I can get stuff done and feel pretty ok with the day, I take it for too long and get WAY too irritable. It's a very hard line to walk.

Having kids changed the whole game, folks. I have to be on the ball all the time, I have to be much more motivated and if not that, then I need to be much more functional. I can't really drop the ball because my kids' lives are at stake. So, my depression has gotten worse. Much, much worse.

I finally found a psychiatrist to go to but it took me 2 months to get in. I decided to go off my meds for that period of time so I had a clean slate of what I was feeling so I could get a better diagnosis.

That may have been the hardest two months of my life for my and my husband. Maybe not my husband, I am pretty horrible pregnant... :)

I have always thought about suicide, always been too scared, and always knew deep, deep down that this too shall pass.

I started trying to figure out a way to do it with the least amount of horror to everyone. No blood, no horrible hanging purple head, no brain matter, no one needs to see that. Ever. I started to think that maybe I could get a hotel room and save up all of my meds and take all of them with a bottle of wine or shots of whiskey and get the job done. Put up a note on the bathroom door for the housekeeping to call 911 or whatever and not to go inside and there was an envelope with a good bit of money for having to deal with that.

I hate that it started to intrude my thoughts at night.

Finally, my first meeting with my psychiatrist and he put me on a medication that I've never heard of before and once again I am going through what I do with each medicine.

I am so hopeless, that the first week, I experience a high because I have hope that this will work.

The second week, the hope starts to falter because I am not really sure what I am supposed to be getting out of these medications.

Does anyone else go through this weird high/low when they start a medication for anything that is "terminal"?

This is the 3rd week. I am still tired all the time due to the sedating effects of the meds, but for the first time, I feel... good.

I don't really care to shower still... (ew, gross, I know) but when I do, I really feel good and get ready all the way.

I am finally feeling like housework isn't so daunting I'd rather kill myself that load another dish or fold another item of clothing. It sounds so stupid now that I was so ... I don't even have a word to describe my depth of dread of getting up and doing the housework and taking care of my kids, let alone changing ANOTHER poopy diaper.

I am finally laughing with my kids and find that they really are fun and not so hard.

I am finally liking my husband again.

I am not yet to the point that I can get out with my friends yet, but Rome wasn't built in a day as I keep telling my husband regarding the clutter and shit all over the house. Slowly. Slowly I am conquering this thing and I am really liking it.

Best of all, the guilt is gone. There is something about depression that causes horrible guilt. I didn't want to talk to my husband thinking I'd make him mad at me or that I was wrong and the guilt of me and my relationship with him was hard. I had horrible guilt about my mothering and about how I was treating my kids or how they weren't progressing as fast as this friend or that friend. I just don't have the guilt. I love it.

I love not second guessing myself and just doing what I feel is best for me and my kids. What is best for me and my husband. I love that I am able to just talk to him and it's things that have been bothering me and I just don't care. It needs to be said and it really isn't a big deal.

I hope this is really the medicine working and not a pavlov reaction to the hope that it will.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010


I had my first dream the other night about trying to kill myself. About situations that were so mundane and silly in real life vut in my depressed state andin my dream, it was getting tom the point of becoming the straw that broke the camel's back.

I stopped going to therapy.

I don't like her. I don't need someone to justify my actions and feelings by reiterating that I was neglected. I don't feel she was helping me move on or move forward. Just holding my hand and telling me that I'm not different, not strange, not weird and I've been neglected and don't know better. I don't want to be a victim of my childhood. I don't want to be treated as a victim. I want to learn what I haven't and learn to be a healthy, mature adult.

Back to my dream though...good thing that I made my psychiatrist appointment in October for the in case couldn't find someone else.

He is a child, adolescent, adult psychiatrist, his office is covered in toys, he has a calendar up of my favorite dogs, which we both share a passion for, and he was very easy to talk to. That's very important.

I went to a psychiatrist once and all he did was sit back and stare at me. It was weird and uncomfortable.

So, Dr. miller listened to my feelings and symptoms and seemed very confident about this medication Levox CR.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Pain in the Neck

I'm 3 weeks late in writing this. Sickness and death and just life have kept me from taking the time to update for myself. 

My first day of therapy left me with a week of severe migraines. I lived in severe pain in my neck, my head, my head and just I kind of thought that after telling this lady (who looks like Sara Brightman) about my childhood, teenager-hood, and young adulthood... This is too hard and I don't want to do it again. 

I don't want to be told that I was a nothing child. I don't want to talk about how I basically raised myself because my mom was sick and my dad was the typical old school male figure. He worked way too much and raising the children weren't his deal. 

I don't want to explain how I self soothe myself in very embarrassing manners because I don't know how to do so otherwise. Or how I can't deal with my children because I have no impulse control and am selfish and don't want to deviate from what I am doing because it's not what I want to do. Or how I have been exposed to porn at a very early age because I was not taught boundaries neither were boundaries enforced. 

I don't want to know that I went from a neglectful home to relationships where I allowed them to treat me like nothing because I didn't know any better. 

I don't want to be stoic about all of this and then cry like a baby because I am at the point that I catch myself screaming at my kids, swearing at my kids, and smacking heads cause of my rage. I don't want my kids to be afraid of me nor do I want them to not feel that they can come to me. I don't want to be a non-comfort.

I have realized though, that I have completely pushed people away from me who don't treat me like nothing. If that makes sense in my warped head. I don't know what to do with people who treat me like I matter, like my needs and desires and dreams are important. 

I have been to massage therapists, chiropractors, eastern medicine gurus, anything you can think of, and almost all of them have said the same thing. I have severe pain in my neck and shoulder. All of the "non scientific" medicine healers tell me that is where emotions, hurt, anger, etc. are held. I have been told that I really need to find out what I'm holding there to get rid of it and when I drop my baggage, my pain will go as well. So far, it has only aggravated it. But maybe there is a method to the madness and that is my body afraid to purge the hurt. 

So... therapy session number one... I grew up in a neglected household. Not that my parents didn't do the best they could, but they didn't give me the validation that I am important as a child. I didn't get the everyday skills and lessons that most children get. I WAS loved... very much so... but my mom did what she could with what she had. 

I do see the difference in my youngest two siblings compared to me and my closest sister. My mom was able to go to her doctor and demand that she get antidepressants. That yes, it was all in her head and she was sick and sad and needed help. My dad started to very much take an interest in the education of my youngest two siblings. He sat and worked with them on their homework every day... all the while, never paying attention to the fact that neither my sister nor I were going to school or failing all of our classes. Maybe he knew, but nothing was said or done about it so to me that is in essence ignoring us and our needs. 

I have a blanket that I sleep with every night. I know a lot of people have their wubbies or blankies or whatever, but I can't sleep without mine. I know I am getting tired or anxious or stressed when I feel the need for my blanket. I rub the binding and suck my tongue. That's how I soothe myself. I still rub the binding on my blanket and quite frankly if I am ever told I have to get rid of it... my answer will be a childish "Fuck off."

When I was very young, about 7 or so, my parents were invited to an adult party where the kids were to be put downstairs to play amongst themselves with no supervision. I sneaked upstairs to find out what was going on... again, the thing with boundaries and obeying... and found them all sitting around watching porn. Now, knowing my parents, my dad can't say no for fear of hurting someone's feelings and my mom doesn't do well with confrontation at all. So I saw my first porn at the age of 7. I knew what "mommy/daddy time" was all about. My parents were also very.... adventurous for a lack of a better word... in their own sex-life. Should I know all of this? No. Probably not, but I do. In the days before the internet, there were videos and magazines and my parents had them. Did I dig for them? Yes. 

I then learned about masturbation and started about the age of 11. A lot. Apparently younger and more often than is normal. That too is a soothing mechanism. One that is detrimental to my marriage due to the fact that I relieve my own tension and don't particularly need his help, as per the therapist. 

So, yeah. 

A lot of pain and neglect and not fitting in anywhere. I had one really good friend in elementary school who really treated me as if I meant something and I allowed it until I hit 6th grade. At that point, I didn't fit in with the smart kids -even though I was smart, I didn't get good grades. I didn't fit in with the bad kids cause I just wasn't a bad kid. I didn't fit in with anyone. I couldn't do sports, I wasn't into drama, I wasn't really that musically inclined or artsy. And those who really seemed to like me and really saw potential, I pushed away because I didn't know how to deal with being told I was worth something. 

And while I may try to find someone else because I just am a little weirded out by the strange Sara Brightman opera singer therapist, I will stick with it even though it totally is a pain the neck.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

And so it begins

So, I'm no stranger to therapy.

I pretty much did not fare well the first time I was pregnant. I went from being the girlfriend, to the wife, to soon-to-be mother, and from independent working woman, to full time student, to working and going to school- all within 5 month time frame. I just didn't deal well. And being pregnant makes me crazy... I think that's pretty common.

While I was in school, they offered free counseling with grad students who were working toward getting their Masters or PhD and needed hours and practice. It was video taped so a certified therapist could go over and make sure they were doing ok and help them improve.

Man it helped a lot. Not only was I able to successfully kind of communicate with my husband, I didn't drive us to divorce. The therapist was able to third party into my head a little to let me know what was worthy of anger, sadness, irritation and was wasn't. She taught me ways to let the stuff go that wasn't worth it and to talk out what was.

Then I stopped school and stopped therapy.

Today was the first day of therapy with a real, graduated doctor in psychology.

I don't want to ever do that again.

She asked me questions no one has ever asked me. She delved into my past. Into my deep, dark self that I don't go. She asked me question about things that I didn't think were an issue and then moved onto areas where they became an issue.

I told her things I don't talk about because it's embarrassing.

I'm so exhausted I can't even believe I am typing right now.

I left teary. Sat in my car and cried. Enjoyed hiding behind my giant sunglasses so no one could see me cry.

I don't want to go back and yet I will. She thinks that I have so much baggage that I haven't, can't, don't know how to deal with that I am chronically depressed. She has high in the sky apple pie hopes that I'll be able to get off meds all together and learn to cope. Learn to soothe myself without my blankie or other means that aren't normal.

After I sleep off what I dealt with today, I'll kind of explain what she thinks is going on. My traumatic dating life, my neglected upbringing, the bullying, the feelings of self hate, worthlessness, and the need for validation that I never got. I also seem to have signs of social anxiety and had no idea.

But I apparently am for real ADD mothafucka's. So, there's that. That explains my forgetfulness aka flakiness and my severe inability to organize things. You can imagine how the ADD would really throw a wrench in the house keeping, chores, kid raising, personal hygiene, etc.

Demons begone and let the healing begin.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

9 year anniversary

Halloween is always a very hard time of year for me. I try to pretend it's all fun and games. But, it is all I can do to even do a little bit. I want to dress up and go to parties and go to haunted houses. I want to take my kids trick or treating and dress them up.

I just can't.

About two weeks before Halloween in 2001, I was out of town doing blood drives in the St. George area. I wasn't feeling well and took my hematocrit to check the amount of red blood cells I had. To donate blood, you have to have 38% or higher and I was always around 42%. Not this time. I was around 32%. I was sick.

That weekend, I realized I had missed my period. My test came back positive.

Monday, I went back out of town to Ephraim, Ut to do blood drives at Snow College. I hadn't told my boyfriend I was pregnant.

I spent that time in Ephraim in absolute misery. I was in so much pain that it would take my breath away and I couldn't move. I'd hunch over, trying to do my job wielding a huge ass needle and I'd be completely thrown into fetal position. The guy in charge of the blood drive wanted to send me to the hospital, but I didn't want to go, what do you say to something like that? I didn't want anyone to know I was pregnant. I convinced him to let me wait until we got back home.

By this time, I'd started growing gigantic, huge, disgusting canker sores in my mouth. No breast tenderness, no morning sickness, just cramps and canker sores... I was a little weirded out.

I guess I should interject at this point to explain my situation. I was 23, on birth control, and living with this guy. I didn't particularly like this guy yet why I was living with him is one of my biggest mysteries. This guy is going to be the spotlight of many posts. He has damaged me in many, many ways and I am still trying to heal emotionally and mentally. I would try to leave or move out and he would hide my keys, hide my things, make it impossible, and finally woo himself back into my graces and I'd stay. Over and over this happened.

So, I should not have been surprised at the reaction I got when I finally told him I was pregnant.

"Do you want me to punch you in the stomach now or wait until you are further along?"

I'm sorry, what?

So, he told me he'd give me the money for an abortion.

I knew my options were, keep the baby, give the baby up for adoption, or get an abortion.

I was 21 and in no way, shape, or form ready or ok having a baby. I didn't want one, I never wanted one, so that left 2 options. I told him that I was going to give the baby up for adoption and he freaked out. He basically told me that there is no way that he'd let anyone else raise his child and that if I did that, he'd hunt me down, kill me, and take the baby.

In my older, not so naive, not abused state, I would have reminded him that he had two children already that he had signed over parental rights and that he had another possible one out there that he wouldn't get genetic testing to prove either way, so shut up, it's my body, and get out of my way. Oh, and don't fucking threaten me you douche.

I had been with him long enough that I was so broken down. I was such a shadow of what I used to be or what I am now. He had already managed to alienate me from my friends and family. I didn't really feel I had anyone to talk to. I didn't feel very comfortable talking to his mom. I didn't want to put his sister in is path of this wrath. I chose the path that was easiest for me to deal with regarding him.

I made an appointment and was seen pretty quick in the nearest place that provided this service. The doctor did an ultrasound and seemed to have a hard time finding the embryo. I did take a pregnancy test, he found it finally, and then gave me a pill. The RU-186 pill kills the growing baby. They gave me a pill to insert vaginally the next day to finish the process and it would be over.

I went by myself.

After I took the pill, the doctor informed me that the embryo had implanted itself very close to the fallopian tube and that the canker sores have been shown to be signs of a folic acid deficiency. So, if the baby didn't grow into the fallopian tube, it'd probably have spina bifida and that I could have probably had my insurance cover the cost of it. Sorry. Shrug.

Well, that must made my whole experience even better. This "doctor" has me go through with this decision, shell out $500, only to tell me that I didn't have to be in his disgusting office feeling like shit.

In the event that I had been strong enough to walk away from this abusive man and not chosen to go the the abortion clinic, had found that I, indeed, had a baby that had a neural tube problem, I would have probably made the same decision, but it would have been on my terms. I had an Aunt whom I never met who had spina bifida and hydrocephalus and died when she was 12. It was so very hard on my dad to lose his sister. It was so very hard on his parents dealing with a disabled daughter. I couldn't do it. I couldn't put that on my parents to help me. I guess I could have put the baby up for adoption, but at that time in my selfish mentality, I couldn't do that either. I couldn't give that responsibility to someone even though they'd be fully aware of it thanks to modern medicine and ultrasounds.

So, October 31, 2001, I "miscarried" my baby in the toilet amidst horrible cramps and tears and thinking that it was for the best. I didn't want to pass the genetics of the evil I was living with onto anyone. I wanted to save  the baby from knowing it's dad. I wanted to save the baby from a life thinking it wasn't wanted. Because it wasn't by me or it's dad. I wanted to save the baby from a possibly disabled life. I mostly was very selfish and didn't want to be tied to this man any longer than I had to and didn't want the pregnancy to be a factor when I was finally strong enough to leave.

I'm selfish. I killed my baby because I am selfish and was not strong and did not feel that I had a support system.

So, I mournfully "celebrate" this anniversary every year. Yet, in the back of my mind, still think it was the best decision, for where I was, who I was, and what my options were.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Surprised? No.

I used to be utterly shocked, disgusted, and bewildered when I heard of stories where mothers kill their children. I would think, "How could someone do that?"

I no longer wonder. I no longer find myself disgusted but saddened by it.

These women obviously needed help.

I feel that I have gotten to that point and the difficulty in finding someone to help you...well... it leaves me speechless. I am able to recognize my need. I have family that I know I can talk to who will take my kids if I ever get to the point that I need a break. I have a husband who loves me enough and knows that if I am asking for help, I really mean it.

Finding help is nearly impossible.

I went into my insurance web page and called the 4 places that say they cover. The first place gave me 4 different numbers to call. One of the numbers finally got me to someone who told me that I have to pay for services up front and then deal with my insurance to be reimbursed.

I called all of the other places only to find out that no one answers their phones, there are no secretaries, or no one is taking new patients.

When you are depressed and overwhelmed... there is no motivation to keep trying. Duh. Why would getting some type of mental health help be so difficult? I have a cold? I can call up a new doctor and get in the next day. My life or my childrens' lives could be in danger and nada. Nothing. No help here.

Matt called and called and finally found the golden list of the handful of doctors that are taking new patients. He got me an appointment and... lo and behold... she isn't in our network. I don't need to add the guilt of putting us further in the poor house cause I'm sick in the head. I know, I know, Matt made the same reference you are probably thinking. If one of us had cancer, we wouldn't just ignore it because of the bills, we'd face it, treat it, and do what we needed to do. I'm irrational though. That's just where I am right now.

So, I tried calling this Doctor to let her know that I needed to cancel and I couldn't find her number. Anywhere. What the hell?! Is she even a real doctor?! Matt got the number for me, I called her, got her voice mail and left her a message. I then proceeded to call 9 other numbers trying to get an appointment. Not one live person. Not one secretary. And no call backs. Not one. All day.

You know who called me back? The lady with whom I cancelled and she tried to talk me into seeing her. Apparently I can get a good deal, blah blah blah. So what the hell am I supposed to do? I guess I end up going to the lady that isn't in my network because I can't find anyone who will call me back.

Or maybe just go commit myself but then what do I do with my kids? And how do we pay for it? The University Hospital is the fist place everyone wants to put me and our insurance won't pay there.

They are the only burn clinic in Utah and no one would see Linus for his burns. But our insurance still won't fucking pay. It's infuriating!!

So, I now understand why moms kill their babies sometimes. They can't deal, they can't get help, there is no help to be had, and they break.

I'm not saying I am going to kill my babies. But I sure as hell want to smack them sometimes and then we all end up crying all day long because I am so frustrated, I don't know how to control my rage, my anger, my sadness, my hopelessness, and then the guilt that ensues is gut wrenching and sinks me further.

I do, however, have friends and family who would, in my darkest hour, not even hesitate to help if I needed them. I do have a husband who, even though this shit is killing him as well, will go to the ends of the earth to help me.

I am lucky.

Others are not and their children never live to see tomorrow.


It was inevitable that my Mr. and I would have the conversation about my blog.

He is advancing his career at a pretty large bank and he works on the computer/internet banking end. He therefor works with people who are pretty savvy at finding info about him. And if you have never read this blog, do. He didn't want the term "to be dooced" to be referred to him.

So, in the interest of my Mr. keeping his job, having some things that I need to get out that I don't particularly want his family reading, and wanting to keep a log of my upcoming venture, I started this blog.

I will be logging my journey of trying to get help. Mentally, emotionally, physically. I am exhausted and am not dealing well with my life or my children. It's causing horrendous stress on my husband and I don't want my babies to suffer.

I will also be using this as something of therapy by getting out things that are painful to me. There are going to be thing that you will probably not want to read. There are things I've done, things I've lived through, and choices that I've made in my life that have been hard.

Don't judge me.