So, if there's any of you who had started following this blog more regularly, you've probably been wondering where I've been for the past few weeks. I do still want to make weekly posts, I just was unable to do so for a little while. Here's why.
The medication changes that I've been trying since January (and spoke about here in April, in the post called Medication) were not only not helping, they were making things worse. One of them, called Lamotrigine, did something very strange; it made my emotions feel like they were off in the distance where I couldn't tell what I was feeling, while I still had the physiological reactions that went with the emotion. I'd go through the physical stages of feeling upset or anxious or angry, but not be able to access the thoughts and feelings that should have gone with them until they hit overwhelming levels. Even then, it was like hearing someone from 5 blocks away - you know something is really strong/off, but can't make out very much. Needless to say, it was extremely strange and confusing. I didn't realize how bad I had gotten until almost too late. I'd hit the planning stage of suicidal thinking.
Somewhat miraculously, I told my therapist. She helped me talk to my partner, and we started putting safeguards in place - getting the numbers for crisis lines, arranging to meet twice a week, seeing if I could get in to see my psychiatrist sooner, etc. At my next session with her, we discussed how to tell when you should go to the hospital. I felt like I was right on the edge, but wasn't sure if I needed to go that far. As we spoke though, I realized (stopped avoiding) that I didn't trust myself to be home alone while my partner was at work; so far I hadn't acted on anything, but I was more exhausted from fighting the impulse everyday. By the end of our session, I'd decided it would be best to check myself to the hospital. Again, my therapist helped me talk to my partner. We made arrangements for him to pick up of my things from home and meet on the way to the hospital (I was afraid that if I went home than I would lose my nerve).
I spent a week in the hospital psych ward. It probably would have been longer if my mother hadn't been able to come stay for a couple of weeks - I still didn't trust myself to be home alone for hours at a time. I was taken off all of the medications that I had been on. I'm now in the stage of waiting for the old medications to get completely out of my system before I can start a new one. Having my mother here has made a big difference; she keeps me company and encourages me to go out and do things without pushing too hard and overwhelming me. For the week or so I've mostly just been tired (sometimes exhausted), without the hopelessness that went with the exhaustion before I went in to the hospital. While the new medication comes with some significant dietary restrictions (including very little cheese and chocolate, and no bacon), I'm told that it often works well for people with the kind of persistent, treatment-resistant depression that I have. I am back to feeling like my depression is a life-long illness that can be managed and minimized, rather than a terminal illness practically guaranteed to end in an untimely death.
So there you have it - that is why I've missed a couple of weeks of posting. It's been a difficult time, and a time that is difficult to write about. It's still very fresh - I don't even start the new medication until next week. I hope though that writing about my experiences helps the movement to improve understanding of mental health struggles and decrease the stigma associated with them. It was stigma that almost kept me from going to the hospital, and yet it was the best place for me to be at the time, and may be again. Always remember that mental illness is just as legitimate as physical illness, and never hesitate to claim the care that you need.