Why Can't I Get Motivated

I want to go kayaking; slip through the ocean quietly and peacefully. I want to go camping. Pitch a tent, build a big fire, stare at the stars and listen to nature's peacefulness. I want to go for a bike ride. I want to go for a hike. I want to paint three paintings. I see them in my mind. I need to get them out of me.

I sit and stare at the wall. I want o change. Really I do. I want to be different. I want to DO things. I want to be active. I want to be busy.

The dishes pile up, and up and up. The laundry pile gets bigger and bigger and bigger. I feel completely overwhelmed by just the ordinary responsibilities of life. I feel overwhelmed even though I barely do anything.

I get up out of bed. I walk the dog. These are the two consistent things I manage to do.

Mostly, I feel suffocated by my existence. I feel ashamed for how little effort I put into helping myself get better. I feel like I waste Dr. X's time, because I know what I need to do. I need to DO. I need to get active. I need to participate in life. I need to work, to contribute.

Why then, do I just sit there staring at the wall for hours on end wishing my life would change?

"How Are You"? "I'm Okay."

I haven't really written for a long while. and for days now I have been wanting to write about this...and then in my last post I saw the last commenter comment about a similar dynamic when people ask how you are. So I am going to let it out...

It makes me crazy'(er) that I can never be me with anyone. When my sisters or stepmom, or dad call they sometimes ask how am. Sometimes they avoid the topic altogether. My usual response is either, "I'm okay", or "I'm not feeling so great". If I say the latter the topic changes so fast to something else that it is obvious the question was just a polite conversation opener.

My sisters and family are good, loving people...It must be the chronicity of my illness, the awful person it makes me become, and the neediness of myself that has them pull away from me so much.

A couple times I have tried to express how I need help because x, y, z is happening; i.e. I have been honest about how depressed I feel. The topic changes, or the person tries to get off the phone as fast as possible...and the stops calling or e-mailing completely to protect themselves.

What I most often want to write when they ask how I am , and I am unwell, is: " I am feeling really scared and depressed. I cannot stop thinking about suicide. The noise in my head, telling me to kill myself, telling why it is the best thing, planning how to do it, etc., won't stop. I feel like nobody loves "me".

They love the "me" who laughs and is funny and upbeat...that is part of me, but often that part of me comes out when I am trying to help others feel okay around me, or if I am trying to not act as crazy as I feel. When I want to be cared for, or loved, I try really hard to suppress, or minimize all the things about me that others either cannot handle, or understand, or will take as proof that for their well-being, they should get me out of their lives...NOW.

I understand why this happens. It would be hard to have a sister/daughter like me. I understand, but it hurts me so much that my family doesn't try to help me, or somehow let me know I can call them if I need help. I feel so intensely alone.

Even with my pdoc I am afraid if I tell him what I really feel he will think I am overstating, or that I am crazier than I am. I often leave his office thinking God I must drive him crazy. I try to be/say/express less suicidal thoughts/ideas/plans than I really have, or am, or really feel. I tell him I have the thoughts, but I don't think I have been able to express their relentlessness inside my brain; the way, over, and over and over, and over, the thoughts speed through my head, telling me to:

"...wrap a rope around my neck, wrap a rope around my neck, do it, do it, do it, do it do it...shoot yourself, kill yourself, hire someone to kill you, no one loves you, you are alone, completely alone, lonely, this depression just keeps getting worse, and the worse it gets the more people move away from you..."

"...your family doesn't want you anymore, they only want you when you are okay, they don't want to hear about how you need help, they want you to just go away. So my brain says to me, over and over, "...do it, do it, do it, hang yourself, wrap a rope around your neck, etc., etc." All the while, that Violent Femmes Song, "Why Can't I Get Just One Kiss?" is playing rapidly. obssessively, over and over inside my brain...like I can't get away from the song, or the thoughts.

I can't tell anyone these things. I even don't want to write them here, because all I want is to get them out of my head. I am venting; trying to help myself find some relief.

So I answer, "fine, been feeling a bit down, but that's okay"...WTF!!! "...that's okay"?."...a bit down"???? This will never end...end it.

What if Nothing Ever Works? Is Life Worth Living?

This post is just another blah, blah, blah about how desperate I feel. Please do not read if you are annoyed by me and my morose being, or if you are triggered by dark thoughts.

I am not writing this to reach out, or to help anyone. I am writing this because the urges and images inside me are overwhelming me. I need to get all these bad thoughts out of my head...I guess in a sick way my writing like this is a coping strategy.

Given my decision to write this blog, not just for myself, but for others to read, I often find myself afraid to write what I really feel. I try really hard to be genuine and honest, but sometimes I feel my unrelenting, chronic illness, its symptoms, my thoughts and behaviour might annoy, overwhelm, trigger, or burden other people.

This feeling of overwhelming and burdening others happens in my "real" life too. I feel if I share the truth, speak the truth, open up completely to my family and friends it places a heavy load on their shoulders. What the hell are they supposed to do with the information? It feels selfish to share such detailed and frightening imagery and information with them. So I keep the heaviest part of my load inside me, and then days like today happen and I feel like the load will tip me over and flatten me.

I have been sitting here on the verge of tears for the past few hours. At one point I called my Dad, ostensibly about something he might be able to help me with, but really I wanted to scream..."help me". Reason took over. My Dad doesn't even think I need help...definitely not the person to reach out to.

When my Stepmon asked me how I was, I so desperately wanted to reach out for help. I heard my voice quiver. About to break into tears I managed to squeak out, "fine". She did not notice and took my "fine" at face value.

I am not fine. My suicidal thoughts are so strong right now. I was in the gas station today, staring at the packages of rope. My brain kept saying buy it, buy it, buy it...do it, do it, do it. I managed to move away from the rope, only to be drawn to it again...three or four times. I left the gas station with no rope, but not without an intense desire to die.

How do people survive chronic MDD. As the years go by with nothing able to help me for any length of time Iam losing my resolve, my will to fight, my desire to live. I cannot see how it is possible to keep trying when I still feel so much severe depressive pain, isolation, fatigue, attention difficulties, memory loss and amotivation...these things have completely destroyed me.

I had lots of friends, went to school, worked hard, , both physically and socially. I did everything you are supposed to do to have a happy life.

I am not the person I see inside me now. I have become some monster. I have become the epitome of hell. I have become an empty vessel, an inanimate being, the living dead.

I am a zombie; dead inside, but walking directionless, searching and praying for a way to make the death destroy my shell as well. Why did this happen to me. I always tried so hard to be alive, vivacious and passionate about my life, and other people's lives.

Now, everywhere I look I find myself searching for a way out of this life. I see an car accident taking me away, a truck running me over, a rope hanging me in a tree, a dog leash and choke chain slipped around my neck and over the bathroom door, a leap from the Alex Fraser Bridge, a fall in front of the train, ...a note pasted on my door...someone help my dog.

What's Wrong?

I adore and love my boyfriend "I". He is one of the most interesting, funniest, warmest, sweetest and sexiest men I have ever known. I am at a loss in one area though. I feel really confused when the topic of my mood disorder comes up. It is as though he is in complete denial that I am depressed.

He "knows" I am depressed. We met at an art clubhouse for people with severe and persistent mental illnesses. That is one of the criteria for joining this particular art program. We both have mental illnesses. We have talked about how important it is for us to support and care for each other both when we are well and when we are ill.

"I"'s perspective on mental illness has been extremely complicated by his father committing suicide when he was a child. It becomes even more complex when you learn his father was a psychiatrist.

This is how the conversation that confounds me goes:

I: How are you.
Me: I am not feeling well.
I: Why not?
Me: I am depressed.
I: What are you depressed about?
Me: I don't know. No reason. I just feel intensely depressed. It never seems to be about anything. It just comes upon me for no reason.

This conversation may seem innocuous, but the fact that I have to tell him I am depressed, and that he wonders why I am not feeling well, and what I am depressed about...over and over and over...makes me feel really misunderstood.

I have tried to explain my symptoms to him; my suicidal ideation, my severely low mood, the fatigue, the amotivation, the anxiety etc. He sees me cry, and unable to clean, or cook, or do much of anything, but he keeps telling me I am not depressed and/or asking me why I am depressed. Having all these symptoms is depressing. How can he not understand that.

I have to admit that I hold back when I tell him how depressed I am. He is still traumatized by his Dad's suicide. I do not want to trigger him by talking openly about my suicidal ideation; especially because I ideate about hanging myself over and over throughout the day, everyday. His father hung himself.

While I do not relay the vivid details, I do express that I am desperate, that I want to go in for ECT, and that I cannot manage this illness much longer. He sees that I see Dr. X each week. For some reason he thinks I do not need to see a psychiatrist. He says I am not sick.

I think he sees me as being funny, supportive, loving and functioning maybe on a level above many who have the same symptoms I do. Maybe what he sees and experiences does not match what I feel, or what I tell him I feel. Maybe his experience of his own depression is different. Maybe this suggests to him I am not as depressed as I think I am.

He is so wrong. I am so depressed I feel like I might not survive if something doesn't change very soon.

What's wrong?

• I have to take so much medicine, just to still feel this bad...a Mood Stabilizer,an antidepressant, sleep medication(another antidepressant), thyroid medication, and a stimulant)
• I cannot stay out of bed I am so exhausted.
• I can't eat properly both because I cannot walk, or drive three blocks to the grocery store to buy decent, healthy food, and because I have enough energy and motivation to eat Cheetos and cereal...that's it.
• I feel sick inside all the time...physically sick, like I can barely move, am nauseous and I feel blah.
• I want to crawl into a fetal position and pray my life will end
• I see ways to kill myself everywhere I go: a car crash, pills, a bus running me over, being hit by a car as I cross the street, falling from a bridge, drowning in the ocean etc...
• I feel dissociated much of the time; detached, depersonalized.
• I feel desperately isolated, alone, lonely. I feel so alone through this. It is impossible for anyone to understand what this feels like. There is no one who understands the level of depression I feel.

I want to kill myself, I want to die, I don't want to live if this is what my life will be like...that is what is wrong.

Invalidated

Sometimes my therapy works to help me understand why certain patterns repeat in my life over and over again. Today's therapy was like that.

Therapy always leaves me feeling "heard", and (mostly) understood. This is something intensely important for me. I think today's session revealed why these two things are extremely interconnected and even more importantly, why they are so important to me and my well-being.

I just returned from a short vacation at a horse ranch and spa in the B.C. interior. I went with my beau, my friend E and my sister and 2 nieces. I haven't seen my sister for a while. When she came to my house in preparation to leave she told my boyfriend and I that my Dad might "pop in" to the ranch to visit.

This information put a damper on my vacation from the start. I love my Dad, but he is often not very nice to me. I find him very difficult to be around. To me it seemed intrusive for him to jut show up.

When I mentioned my stress about Dad coming my sister began saying things like:

• "He's not like that".
• "You need to give him a chance".
• "He does not treat you poorly".
• "He is always nice to you".
• "You know Dad, he just doesn't know how to talk, and you make it worse by getting hurt by him"
• "You have to get over your problems with Dad"

I felt completely letdown by my sister. She has seen my Dad reduce me to tears more times than probably I can remember. She hears and watches him ruthlessly tease me and belittle me. I thought she recognized why I so often feel hurt by how it treats me. Apparently, according to her, Dad isn't the instigator, in fact, he does not treat me poorly at all. It is just my wrong perceptions that hurt me.

I am willing to concede, that after years of emotional, and at times when I was a child and a young teenager, physical abuse, that I am sensitive to how he treats me. I know sometimes I overreact to small triggers. I believe though, that this overreaction is not my fault, but the fault of a man, who is supposed to be my father, continuing to abuse me, and destroy what little self-esteem I have left. At times I think he belittles me, and holds back his love from me, for the fun of it, just to watch me fall apart and cry.

It is funny (not ha, ha...but strange funny) that this weekend when my sister and I were canoeing near my Dad's canoe, we sped up really fast and in unison yelled, "Dad, look at us". We both cracked up when we realized some small child inside ourselves was still screaming, "Daddy, Daddy, look at me, look at me".

To make things worse my sister also began lecturing me on how:

• "no wonder you are depressed. you sleep so much, how are you ever going to get well if all you do is sleep?". (this comment came 1/2 way through the vacation, just when I was marvelling at my ability to do as much as I was, when I felt as depressed as I felt)
• "If you did more you would get better" (neglecting that to do more I would need to have the missing motivation, energy, and mood, and ability to do more...all these have been ripped from me throughout this MDD
• " You are never going to be someone unless you get doing things." Translation: your life will never amount to anything if you do not get back to work. You are choosing to stay depressed. You are only an important person if you are working and contributing to society.

There were more comments like these throughout her lectures...the thing that really hurt me, was that I thought she was the sister that understood how hard I try. I thought she understood how depressed I am, and how that impacts my ability to do things.

On top of this my boyfriend talked to me about how, "You are not sick, nothing is wrong with you" A statement that left me feeling really unheard, and misunderstood. It is not that I want to be sick, or seen as sick, but I also do not want others to think nothing is wrong with me, and I am just to lazy to try harder in my life.

I talked to Dr. X about what went on with my sister and my boyfriend, but I could not really place why I felt as hurt as I did. Dr. X said maybe it was because I felt invalidated by their comments.

That is EXACTLY what I felt and feel when these kinds of discussions take place. My family is not listening to me. They are not understanding how difficult this battle is for me. I feel like I am battling for my life, but they do not even acknowledge I am in a battle. They see my difficulties as a character flaw.

Dr. X and I discussed how both my sisters', and my Dad's expectations of performance are mirroring the malevolent feelings of guilt I have about not working; how the family belief system is so ingrained in all of us that it just keeps replicating this guilt, and guilt inducing, behaviour in everyone in our family. It is true. I belittle and poke and prod myself to do more, do something, get going, get active....Get better...get back to work. I have become the voice of my father, and the voice of my sister...that why it hurts so much to hear. I am hearing the same guilt producing words I hear every single day from myself.

I know my sisters both love me. I think my Dad probably does too. When I realize their voices are replicating negative patterns that are held deep within our family's psyche. I recognize these thoughts and feelings are held unconsciously, and so deeply they may always be there.

On many levels I know my sisters, my Dad, and my boyfriend are really trying to help me. I understand they may see their comments as encouraging, and helpful. I think they want what is best for me. Sadly, when I hear these kinds of comments I feel he exact opposite: I feel unbearably guilty, alone, unheard, and invalidated.

Suicidal Ideation

Last night my boyfriend looked at me and said, "don't go to the hospital. You are not that depressed". A few days back I told him I was thinking of having ECT done again. He was adamant that I not do this.

If I try to express how depressed I am he has a tendency to say, "You are okay", "You aren't depressed", "Your not that depressed". I have tried to explain what it feels like to be inside my head. It never seems to register with him. Either he does not understand how desperate I feel, or he does not want to understand.

I know some of it might be that I try hard to be as okay as possible around him. Two reason drive this: my fear he will leave me if he knows how messed up I am, and my respect and support for his own difficulties with mental illness.

He has attempted suicide before, years ago, and I see the external and internal scars from his internal pain, his sadness, the scars on his arms from cutting. This, and my knowledge that his father committed suicide, stop me from openly and honestly expressing how I feel. I also know he was hospitalized against his will; so I recognize his distrust of the system. I do not want to add to his stress in these areas.

Our relationship feels strong and intensely beautiful in so many ways, but it is new for both of us. I do not want to risk losing him by exposing myself as fully as I need to for him to see how desperate and depressed I feel, for him to understand what I am fighting against, for him to know I need to get better than I am to survive my illness.

He kept saying over and over last night..."you are okay", "You are not that depressed", "We are all depressed", "Just get more exercise", "Push yourself, you just need to force yourself to exercise and it will be better". I found myself sobbing silently beside him, looking the other way, feeling completely misunderstood; my symptoms and their power over me dismissed outright.

Last night, as I sat beside him, I could not say "I am so depressed I want to hang myself". I did not express how my wanting to hang myself is a desire gaining so much power I am afraid I will succumb to it. I did not say these things because his father hanged himself to death, and he attempted suicide in this manner. I was afraid the information would be too much for him to deal with.

I want him to think I am strong and powerful. I want him to feel attracted to me, not repulsed by me...so I cover my true feelings up, and then cry and feel isolated when he does not understand me.

In my life talking about wanting to commit suicide is so taboo that I feel intensely alone in my thoughts. This divide, this avoidance of the awful suicidal ideation I deal with on a regular basis, creates a cavern between myself and the people I love. It makes me feel intensely alone in my struggle to survive my depression. It makes me pull away and isolate myself from those I love.

Today my mood is crashing again, after lifting for a few days. In part I think the fall is a reaction to feeling misunderstood and isolated from my boyfriend and family. When I crashed a few weeks ago, and as I was crashing last night, I tried to reach out or support. Both times I hit a brick wall with my family.

I rarely mention my suicidal urges to my sisters, or my boyfriend. If I do try to be open out of fear and desperation for myself , I sometimes try to explain how depressed I am; "so depressed I don't want to be here" might be what I say to my sisters. Instantaneously they brush my feelings off with an, "Oh, don't say that. How do you think we would feel if you did that?" I know it would hurt them if I commited suicide, but what about me? I hurt all the time.

My sisters do not want to hear how sad I am, and my Dad, he has never once ever asked me if I am okay...not once. He has phoned me to say my stepsister was depressed and needed help. He has told me how crazy he thought my going in for ECT was...4 years after the fact. He has never asked if I was okay, or if I needed help, or if I was having any success with my treatment. He has certainly never asked me if I was at risk of committing suicide. I am.

When my Mom wasalive she was a nurse. She used to talk openly with me about suicide. She would even ask me if I was having suicidal thoughts or urges. With her I would always leave the phone call feeling heard and relieved that someone knew, someone wanted to know. Someone loved me enough to ask and actually listen to my answer. Why is it so important to me that others understand how depressed I am, and how hard it is to be this depressed? I have no idea why.

I wish my family (and my boyfriend) understood how desperate I feel; how much I need and want them to understand me. I want so badly to be able to tell them my truth, for them to talk openly with me even if it is difficult to do, and for them to acknowledge that I am ill. I want them to say this is not my fault. I want them to say, "I AM trying hard enough". I don't want them to feel hurt by me and my awful thoughts, but I need help with them or I am not going to survive.

Whatever...I don't know why I need so desperately to be understood; maybe because I don't understand either. Last night my boyfriend kept saying, "you need to address what is making you depressed. Nothing will get better if you don't change those things".

At that point I began sobbing so hard I had to leave the room. I have been in therapy for years a fact that screams to others and to myself, "things" are causing my depression, and I need to change those things." Despite a sense that there must be things that are making me depressed...I honestly feel like all the things I want to change, would fall into place if I was not depressed.

I would get a job, clean my house, do more things, isolate less, stop obsessing about suicide, dance, play music, ski, eat well, sleep less etc...if only I weren't so severely depressed.

No one wants to acknowledge this raging rhinoceros, named "Suicide", rocketing towards me and racing after me every where I go. So I write here, because at least I can say how I feel.

Rivers Run Through Me

I'm just tired, depressed and worn out. I used to believe I would get well again; I mean almost completely well like I have after my other depressive episodes. I don't believe that anymore, and even Dr. X. has told me it is likely I will always have to manage some cycling up and down.

I know he is right. I see others having to manage cycling, even when it appears their illness is being well managed with medication

I have been having intense thoughts of suicide off and on all weekend. I envision myself hanging myself: how I will hang, where and what it will feel like. Most of all I daydream about all the relief I will feel as I slip into unconsciousness. I watch myself lift up a gun, arifle and shoot myself in the head. The violence of both ideas points to how anxious I have been all weekends. The more anxiety I feel, the more violent the methods of suicide I imagine.

My boyfriend told me to stop worrying the other day. He asked me why I worry so much. I don't know. I cannot remember a time when I did not worry. I remember, even when I was 5 or 6, worrying about all kinds of things. It seems like I was born worrying.

I told him, for me, worrying is a symptom of my illness. I think it is a material structure in my brain that makes me worry. Some kind of negative feedback loop in my brain has worn a path so deep into the forest of neurons and dendrites, the chemicals flow like a river down these worn paths; rapidly exchanging negative thoughts, beliefs and ideas down this canal. It is difficult for any positive ideas to cross the deep riverbed created by years and years of bad thoughts.

I feel like I do not want to keep trying; like trying so much takes all my energy. This past week I have slept, and slept and slept. I have slept in, slept late, napped in the afternoon, in the evening and then gone to bed early and slept in late. I want so badly to just disappear, for it to end, for my life to go away.

Try, Fail, Try, Fail, Try, Fail Ad Infinitum

A strange dynamic takes place on a regular basis in my therapy. I will sit across from Dr. X. and protest that I can't cook, eat well, clean, keep up, take care of myself etc. (which prior to the protest is the case)...and then either later that day or the next I end up doing the very thing I could not do earlier.

This happened last night. On Thursday I proclaimed an absolute inability to cook, eat well etc. Last night I had two friends over, made a beautiful salad of various types of lettuce and garden greens, mangoes, avocados, eggs and black beans. I cooked fresh corn; melted brie with roasted garlic and served it with a fresh baguette. I made raspberry vinaigrette salad dressing. Both the food and the process of cooking was enjoyable and seemed easy.

I believe my whining in therapy about the things I can't do rallies the fighter inside me to actually do that for which I confess a lack of motivation and ability.

I am a fighter, but I get tired of fighting to survive all the time. Last night I ate more vegetables than I have this entire month. Unfortunately, based on previous experience I probably won't manage to succeed like that again for a while.

Despite a sense of connectedness with my friends last night, this morning I feel morose, detached, and wish I weren't here. I walked the dog and most of the time I was somewhere else; some of the time visions of my hanging myself; separating my head from my body, ending my struggle forever washed through my head. I really wish I could either succeed at getting well, or get the courage to delete myself from this life. I can't seem to manage either.

All these experiences of trying so hard to pull myself out of the black pit that is my hell, and all the experiences of failing so miserably at doing so have led to my feeling an intense sense of learned helplessness. Giving up seems like the obvious next step.

Overwhelmed, Unable to Get Well, and Fed Up.

Waiting for a friend in my car. I am legally parked just past a bus stop, but the road is really busy and cars are weaving in and out of traffic at about 20-30 kms over the speed limit...numerous buses (at least their driver's) honk angrily at me as the pull out and pass my car

Bus Driver waiting at bus stop walks past me, towards the traffic sign so he can gain ammunition to tell me, with authority, I am illegally parked. His plan backfires. He reads it and walks back towards me...

Bus Driver: I know you are legally parked here, but it is very dangerous to stop here.

Me: I am waiting for my friend. It says I can stop. Why is it dangerous? (knowing full well why, but feeling really irritatable, angry and overwhelmed by life, and really becoming annoyed at all the jerky bus drivers honking at me, and by the the condescending tone of the bus driver addressing me)

Bus Driver: Buses are pulling out, cars are swerving to avoid you. They are driving at 70kms/hr. They might hit you.

Me: The speed limit is 50km/hr.

Bus Driver: If I were you I would be afraid to park here. I'd be afraid a car or bus might run into me or run right over me..

Me: (In my head) I see all the crazy drivers wizzing by at mach speed, barely missing my car. I noticed that not a single other car is parked in this lane. I deduced it was a dangerous place to park. I don't care. I'm sitting here precisely because I am hoping one of these cars or buses will crash into me at 70kms/hr.

I Am Disappearing

My sister and nieces have just left. I feel tired and exhausted. I feel nothing. We went bowling this morning and I cheered, and yelled good job when my nieces were bowling. I went through all the motions of being a supportive and loving Aunt, but inside I felt nothing. No love, no excitement, no passion...I felt gone; somewhere else, like I had disappeared.

I can't explain. If you saw me with my family you would believe I was a great Aunt, all loving and kind. I am not, because it is all a facade. I am really an empty vessel. A body missing its soul. The material that is left behind when the spiritual dissipates into the wind.

I am disappearing more and more every day. I can "act" like I am something, and almost fake my way through my daily routine. I can act, that is, if I can find the energy to act. Otherwise I lay in bed unable to move, or do anything. I am so tired and sleep does nothing for me. I hate this life.

Hell and More Hell and More Hell and More Hell

All I want to do is lay down, hide under the covers and sleep. I don't want to do art, teach art, sing, write, shop, dress or even get out of bed. Everything I manage to do takes an enormous effort to do. Everything is annoying me. My dog keeps "talking" at me to go out all the time (even if I just took him outside not long ago), my husband, the staff at the Art Clubhouse...everything and everyone. I can't cook, or clean, do the dishes, shop, or do laundry. The house is a mess and my sister and two of my neices are coming tomorrow. All I want to do is sleep.

I've been crying off and on throughout the day, because I struggle so much with wanting so badly to be better. I want to be better. I try to help myself. I know I don't do enough; if I did all the things I was supposed to do I would be better. It is me that is stopping me from getting better.

For some reason I always run out of steam, or I seem to gain momentum in getting well and then I fall right back into the blackness I have been mired in for so long. I garner the hope, I make the effort. I try. I fail. It is getting more and more difficult to continue trying.

Dr. X. says it can always get better, there is always something we can do to help me, there is hope...but the longer I live with depression the more I am certain of my bleak future. I have tried so many medications that at this point I pretty much think none will help me more than a tiny bit. That is not enough.

My husband thinks I'm lazy. He repeatedly mentions how much I am sleeping and how little I have done, am doing, have been doing, around the house. It is as if he thinks I don't notice what a crappy housekeeper I am; as if he thinks I don't recognize I have a problem. He thinks he needs to tell me because obviously I am not noticing I am a shitty wife.

I do recognize. I do know I am not doing my fair share at home. I feel intensely guilty about this. I always had so much energy before I became depressed, even when I was depressed before this depression I managed to work, cook, clean etc. Now I can't even manage to eat properly, or go for a decent walk, or stay out of bed.

Today I was looking at my hoard of medications. Thinking about taking them, over and over. This afternoon I felt so mad at myself, so enraged by my inability to make myself change: I wanted to shoot myself, stab myself over and over; kill myself. I don't have a gun. I am afraid of the pain a knife would cause. I have no energy to kill myself: to plan, to execute the plan, to end it all. All I want to do is sleep.

I wish I could let go. I wish I could disappear. I wish I would die. I wish I had the resolve to do what I have wanted to do for years.

But I don't. So I stay stuck and tormented in this hell. This is what I have to look forward to...a life in hell. And when that ends I will probably end up in hell again because I didn't live my life the way I was supposed to. Ironic, fucking ironic!

Is It Over Yet?

It is 6:01pm. I woke at 7:00am, went back to bed at 9:30am, woke a couple of times for less than an hour, and slept the rest of the day...almost 8 hours more sleep, after I already slept 8 hours.

I know this is not healthy. I know it, yet I am so tired and fatigued and I have such little desire to be here that I sleep to disappear. My sleeping makes the day go away without me having to experience it as just another day I want to go away.

For someone with so much death anxiety you would think I'd at least experience what little time I have on earth, but I can't. I just want to know: Is it over yet.

My death anxiety is not really about being afraid of death, rather it is being afraid that I will not live a meaningful life before I die. I fear I will always be stuck, always cycling, depressed; avoidant. I fear my life will end before I have the opportunity to really live.

In my session on Dr. X asked me what I have been eating...because I have been eating very poorly, especially these past few months. On top of that my blood tests came back with low iron, which definitely could be feeding my fatigue.

So what do I do when I discover I am eating all the wrong things in all the wrong amounts, and leaving out the things I need (i.e. fruits and vegetables and iron and vitamins)? Do I eat better? Do I take my iron and vitamins consistently? And when I recognize that my exercise routine is much like a snail's daily workout...do I pick up the pace? Do I take care of myself?

Absolutely not. Why the hell would I do that. That would make too much sense. Why would I want top lose some weight, to have higher iron, to get important nutrients into my system?

Dr X asked me why I am eating so much food that is bad for me. I got off track and didn't answer, partly because I have no idea. Partly because I don't have the energy to prepare any food for myself, partly because I don't want to be here anyways, partly because I am self destructing.

All I really want to know about my life is this...Is it over yet?

At What Point is There No Hope Left?

I volunteered to teach a class today. I was dreading teaching the whole time beforehand, even as I drove to the studio. While I was teaching I felt some relief; I was too distracted by the complexities of the lesson to think about how much I wanted to die. The second I touched the door to leave I was exhausted and fell once again into myself and all the hell that brings with it.

When I look objectively at what I have tried to do to to help myself make the depression go away it frightens me. It scares me that I have tried so much, and so many things, and still nothing is consistently helping my depression dissipate. My mood still continues to cycle, I still feel angry and frustrated and depressed, anxious and panicky, and can't sleep, or sleep too much, eat too much, avoid everything, have difficulty leaving the house, doing things, cleaning, cooking, laundry, dishes, sex, lose interest in everything, lose hope...All this never goes away for any length of time. When it does it feels like temptation threatening to drown me as soon as I begin enjoying myself. I feel like Satan sits and waits for a good mood to begin inside me...and then BLAMO! he whacks me upside the head just to show me I am still lost to hell. Paradise; a life of enjoyment and happiness, is lost.

It gets to the point where I begin to ask: Is it worth it? Am I worth it? There is a lot of money, medication, time and effort, both on my part, and the part of others, going into helping me become well. If, as I suspect, I will always cycle in and out of depression: What is the point of all this trying? From a utilitarian perspective it makes no sense at all to keep me here.

Why take medications? Why continue in therapy? Why continue living? If life is going to be as hard as it has been these last 7.5 years and the two years, with a two month reprieve before that...and the too numerous to remember episodes of depression before that, if life is going to be this hard a struggle forever...why keep trying? At some point don't you just give up and say it will never get better. Live with it, accept it, give in, or die. Dr. X said let him carry my hope, but at what point is that futile? At what point to we both concede to having been beaten by this illness? If you review all I have tried you will think the same thing:

1. 19: Journals filled with writing

2. 304: Number of blog entries

3. 425: Psychotherapy sessions with Dr. X. (give or take a few)

4. 21250: Minutes of therapy with Dr X

5. 14.75: years in my life lost to depression (conservative estimate)

6. 6.2: Number of years spent unemployed because of my depression

7. 104: Number of days on top of the 6.2 years lost employment because I could only manage working 4 days/week

8. 29: Number of years underemployed because of my depression

9. More than 8640: Number of pills bought to try to treat my depression if prescriptions were all one pill per day (many weren't/aren't)

10. 288: Number of bottles of pills purchased

11. Hundreds: of Visits to the pharmacy

12. 33: Number of psychotropic medications tried**

13. 9: Number of different vitamin/supplements tried

14. 8: Number of ECT sessions received

15. 177: Approximate number of months I have spent depressed in my lifetime

16. 5384: Approximate number of days spent depressed

17. 40: Number of years spent anxious and wanting to hide

18. 36: Number of years I remember having difficulty sleeping

19. 6: Number of therapists I have seen

20. 3: Number of psychiatrists I have seen

21. 2: Number of psychiatrists/ therapists I connected with

22. 1. Number of Psychiatrists, Doctors, Health Care Workers I trust.

Supplements/Vitamins I have tried/++Supplements/Vitamins I am currently taking:

1. St. John's Wort


2. Valerian


3. Salmon Oil (took 6 grams/day)


4. L-Tryptophan 2grams/day


5. Iron supplement twice daily++


6. B100 Complex (B1 100mg) ++


7. B12


8. Folic acid 1.0 mg


9. 100mgs of each B vitamins++


10. Multivitamin++

SSRI's

1. Prozac 60 mgs
2. Paxil
3. Celexa
4. Effexor
5. Luvox
6. Zoloft

Novel Anti-depressants:
7. Wellbutrin.
8. Remeron
9. Moclobemide

Tricyclic Antidepressants:
10. Nortriptyline
11. Amtrytiline (took for trauma symptoms...for 5 days after a traumatic incident)
12. Desiprimine

Anticonvulsants/Mood Stabilizers:
13. Lamotrigine 200mg
14. Lithium
15. Epival
16. Gabapentin
17. Lithium (800-1200mg)
18. Carbamazepine (800-1000mg)

Benzodiazepines:
19. Clonazepam
20. Diazepam
21. Lorazepam
22. Temazepam

Beta blocker:
23. Propranolol

Other:
24. Low dose Doxepine
25. Clonidine

Atypical Antipsychotics:
26. Seroquel
27. Risperdal
28. Olanzapine

Hypnotics/Sleep Medication

29. Trazadone (25/50mg/100mg/200mg/300mg)
30. Zopiclone (7.5mg/15mg)

Stimulants:

31. Ritalin
32. Dexedrine (tablets and spansules 5-20mgs)
33. Modafinil

Note: Also tried numerous combinations of above medications

Am I doing something wrong? Am I making things not work? If so What? and Why? Does this happen to other people? Am I the only one who never gets better? Why? I used to want so badly to live a beautiful life. Now I have no desire to live.

Happiness Sits Amongst the Saddest of Times

Warning: May Trigger...but may also provide some hope even in the bleakest of times.

As I went to bed last night I recognized it was okay to die, so I lay awake most of the night last night planning how to kill myself. I managed to get through the night and get up and go to my pdoc appointment. The whole way there, and as I sat down in the chair to talk I was feeling intensely guilty about making these plans, but also praying for some relief from both my life, and the thoughts.

I had one of those appointments where I felt so small, so insignificant, so worthless, until Dr. X started talking to me and caring about me. I have no way of knowing if he really cares, or if what he does is his "job", but he always manages to make me feel connected to at least him. For that I am grateful.

In my appt, amidst tears and anxiety, Dr. X asked me if there was anything good that happened over the past week. At the time I could only think of a couple things, but this is my exercise this evening, to remember any joy I felt even in the darkness of my thinking. To try to brighten the darkness I feel now with memories of happy moments:

Here goes:
1) My youngest sister has the most beautiful smile. She has a dimple when she smiles carried over from my maternal grandfather. I love her smile.

2) I love listening to her. She speaks with radiance and excitement about all her activities and her children. She draws you into her stories. She has a killer sense of humour

3) My youngest neice is 5. I completely cracked up when she did this to me...it's her latest gag

...imagine a perfect southern drawl coming from a beautiful sparkling (Canadian) 5 year old imitating someone between Scarlet O'hara and Mae West:

• She flicks back her hair and her head; looks directly into your eyes and says,
• "My you're a tall drink 'o water. Wanna dance?
• We proceed to waltz around the house and it begins again...
• this time with her looking directly into my eyes and pushing my hair off my forehead...
• "My you're beautiful. Wanna dance?"

4) Her sister 8 years old coming home with the most incredible report card, saying she is being put ahead into reading groups two years above her grade because she is such a great reader. The teacher commented "If all my students were as interested in learning, as thoughtful towards others and polite to everyone as A is, my job would be easy"

5) Listening to this niece read and recognizing her love for reading is even bigger than mine was at her age...and mine was huge.

6) Getting packed up to leave my sister's house and going to get my "pearly white" dog, (who I had, just the night before described to my little sister as "Super white, but you should see him dig holes, he's black, shakes of and he's super white again...it's a miracle).

Calling him into the house so we can leave for my Dad's in 5 minutes. The the dog is soaking wet and has BLACK mud all over himself. Needless to say I had to give him a bath and was late to my Dad's.

7) Had I known what an ass my Dad was going to be I would have "accidentally" let the muddy black dog into his house...but I am too responsible...sigh! That thought brings me some levity though. It would have been funny on some level.

8) Driving down to Victoria with my other two nieces (who had spent the night at there Grann and Poppa's) All three of us signing Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus songs that I downloaded for them on my ipod...We sang, and sang...they are adorable.

9) My sister and I went shopping and I found 3 beautiful bras...(I have a bit of a bra fetish)...a gorgeous khaki one, a black one that laces up the front and a lacey pink one. As soon as I got home the dog ate my lacey pink one...he too has a bra fetish.

10) I let my dog pee in my psychopathic/control freak brother in law's "perfect garden/lawn that even the kids can't walk on...just because every time I thought how mad my BIL would be if he knew the dog was peeing on his immaculate, useless lawn I felt like laughing (yes, I have a bit of a "spritelike" mischievousness about me sometimes..hee, hee.. I couldn't stop the dog anyways...he's a puppy and he really needed to pee right then and there.

11) I love my sister and it was good to see her, even if it is unbearable in her house because of her husband.

12) The whole time I was away I had my beautiful puppy with me. My love for him grows stronger everyday.

13) When I got home I went for breakfast with a friend I am getting to know and becoming close to. She really listened to me struggling, but after a while her company made me happier and my involvement in our conversations made me distracted from my own worries. She really helped me calm down.

14) Despite how desperately sad I was in my appointment today, Dr. X let me know I was cared for by him. At the time I struggled with believing that, but this evening I believe he does truly care for me. That helps.

15) I took a walk with my dog at the University today. A man came up to me and we started talking about dogs on campus and how there need to be more of them.

When he left he said, "It was nice talking with you. God bless you". I really felt it was my Mom talking through him...like he knew I needed to hear those words. He began walking away, then stopped and came back. He said, "my name is Kirk, what's yours? I told him and he said, "Have a Merry Christmas Aqua" and then disappeared.

I started to cry, because I am really struggling with Christmas and why , if there was a God he would take my Mom away from me at such a young age, and why I can't get better. I needed someone to bless me right then and there, and it happened and it felt very intentional, and personal.

Feeling Homeless

An Anonymous writer commented on my last post:

"You wrote "I want so badly to die." I'd like to challenge you by making an adjustment to that statement: "I want so badly to be loved and respected." It's what we all want."

This comment sounded like my pdoc talking...and you are sort of right.

In 2005 my Mom's Dr told her to have X-mas now because her end was near. Tomorrow is the 3rd anniversary of the last X-mas I had with my Mom. She died 5 days later.



The only place I ever called "home" was my Mom's house. It wasn't even my childhood home, because we moved all the time, and because when my Dad left us she had to move a couple more times. However, everywhere my Mom lived was "home" to me...it was her that made it so.

At my Mom's I could totally relax. I never had to ask if I could eat something, or make something, or do something. I always knew I could do what ever I wanted and I'd be loved and cared for and respected no matter what, no matter how I was feeling, no matter how depressed I was, no matter how little I was able to manage. She always loved me and told me so.

I guess in a way I am lucky. Some people may never have someone like that in their lives. As I was headed to my house and my husband, on the ferry from my sister's tonight I began thinking about love and home.

My little sister like to see me for short (very short) periods of time, but it becomes clear after a few days that she wants to be alone. My middle sister loves me, but she too wants me to go after a couple days, and her evil husband makes it so difficult to relax that I want to leave the second I get their. At both my sister's houses I feel like a "guest"; the need to ask if I can have something to eat, or make a coffee, or have a nap is made clear by the way they are. I never feel at home. I always feel I am on borrowed time.

At my Dad's it is even worse. Whereas when I used to stay at my Mom's I always assumed I could eat, drink, play with, watch, or do anything I wanted...it was home so all those were a given. At my Dad's I feel like I am a guest in a stranger's house. To the point that I feel the need to ask for a glass of water, rather than pour myself one.

I realized today that since my Mom passed away I have no one who loves me. I am desperately alone. I don't mean people who read my blog and care about me, I mean family, husband, or friends I see on a regular basis. I am so alone.

Even in my own house I feel on edge all the time because I am not a good wife, housekeeper, lover. I am criticized and made to feel bad about my abilities. I don't want sex, because I feel unloved, I cannot take care of my home, in part because I feel distanced from it.

I am, what I always feared I'd be: homeless, loveless, alone.

I watched the movie : "Into the Wild" last night, and I felt almost identical to the protagonist, except, even in an existential crisis, he knew where he was going. I feel lost.

On the ferry today it seemed like death is the easiest solution. I have tried and tried since before and after my Mom died to find my place in life. Maybe for some of us there is no place. Perhaps for some of us being alone is our destiny. I do not think I can live with that.

God, I miss my Mom so much it is unbearable. I miss her love, her non-judgemental and completely compassionate caring. The only place I feel is remotely similar is in my pdoc's office, but are 50 minutes a week of thoughtfulness and caring enough caring to sustain a person? I don't think so.

Lost and Need to Find...

Lola, over at "Marine Snow" has written a brilliant post that struck me to the core of my being. I feel so very much like she expresses. She thought of her post at the same time I was writing my last post, so there is an eerie sense of synchronicity for me in what she writes.

My last post makes me cry when I read it. I feel like that little girl, who had so much hope and promise has disappeared. She is forever gone.

This morning I woke up and wanted to write to myself:

• "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
• Shut the F$&# up!
• Get all those words and noises and condemnations and all that self-hatred out of my head!
• Please stop!
• Stop thinking! You will never "think" your way out of this mess you have created.
• What the hell did you do to yourself? How did you become this person?
• How did you so drastically lose your way?
• How did you destroy that beautiful and promising little girl?
• How did you become so worthless, when, as a child, you were so valuable?
• What have I done to myself?
• I worked so hard and did so well in school, how did I allow myself to sink so far?
• Why did that sweet little girl become the waste of space she has become?
• Why is she so filled with so much self loathing?
• Was there an exact time I became "worth" less?

I feel so existentially lost and empty. I have absolutely no idea how to survive this life and manage to find something that I am consistently able to do, something I find fulfilling and something I feel contributes, rather than takes away from, society.

I have no sense of purpose, or meaning. I have no sense that I have any value, or any worth. I feel like all I do is take and take. I'm a burden on my family, on the medical system, on the government. I have lost my intrinsic value. I have no idea how to create, or make myself, a useful and valuable human being. I feel really, really lost.

"[R]ound [s]he throws [her] baleful eyes"

May trigger...(Please click here before reading if you are thinking of suicide)

In my blog I want to be able to write EXACTLY how I am feeling. I do not want to worry about what how I write things will affect others (although I try to be conscious that others who are struggling may read what I write, and I try to ensure others are supported and cared for in my writing), but I do not want to censor myself and my thoughts. This is me. The (unfortunately) sad me.

I need the freedom to use my blog as I used to use my journal. It means that at times I NEED to write things that are difficult, or may be scary for others to read. Without that freedom my blog becomes less effective for me.

In my last post perhapsI should have prefaced it with "these are just thoughts". The problem is, when I was writing them they felt like more than thoughts. It felt like if I hung myself the feeling would be the same, but the thoughts would finally end.

Over the past few days I have been having increasing thoughts of suicide again. It's strange because on some level I feel like my mood is better than before, but on another it feels just as bad, only different. I feel nihilistic now. Like nothing is real. As though the entire structure of my belief system is crumbling beneath me. Like everything I thought my whole life is a lie.

It's a lie that I will get better.

Feeling desperately anxious and sad last night I typed "CPA (Canadian Psychiatric Association), Treatment Resistant Depression" in google search. One of the papers that came up was so harsh towards those of up struggling to find a way to get well.
http://publications.cpa-apc.org/browse/documents/236&xwm=true

The position was basically, ... (my interpretation): "people with TRD take up to much of a psychiatrist's time, that time could be better spent on helping people whose mood disorders were fixable, psychiatrists should try to end therapy with these patients and have them taken care of by a GP, and the principles of care should be that as a patient with TRD you have to understand your problems are psychosocial, not chemical/biological in origins, therefore we can't help you unless you are willing to change your life. Go see your GP.

I have suspected I won't get well for some time now, but telling me to go see my GP when I feel like this? Saying that patients need to reduce their expectations of recovery? When all I want is some symptom relief?

Am I supposed to simply tell myself..."its a fact of life, you will have suicidal thoughts, often obsessive and violent thoughts, for the rest of your life. Learn to accept that. You want to work? Learn to accept you will always be depressed, have memory and cognitive problems, be on medication that maybe, sort of, kind of helps some things.

Why don't you just tell me to kill myself and have it over with?

That's where the suicidal thoughts come in...the belief I will never see me or my old self again. Even beyond that, the old me is a state too which I cannot return. That that part of my life is over and unobtainable again. Not only is it unobtainable it is undesirable given how much stress I was under. I sense my life has been minimized. I have become less valuable, less desirable. I have become an outcast. Heaven on earth, or maybe even just a life worth living, is unobtainable.

That meaning and purpose are a bad joke, do not exist, they are an illusion that only proves to make me desire them more.

I feel stuck with the belief that my depression has made me become like the depraved and soul starved Satan miserable in his Hell in Milton's "Paradise Lost", when God kicked him and his miscreant, and treasonous army out of glorious heaven, and into the depths, and fiery darkness of Hell. "Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to Arms" forever lost to God and his previously shared Angel's heavenly home above:

"...Him the Almighty Power Hurl'd headlong flaming from th' Ethereal Sky
With hideous ruin and combustion down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire
Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to Arms.
Nine times the Space that measures Day and Night
To mortal men, hee with his horrid crew
Lay vanquisht, rolling in the fiery Gulf
Confounded, though immortal; But his doom
Reserv'd him to more wrath; for now the thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes
That witness'd huge affliction and dismay
Mixt with obdurate pride and steadfast hate:
At once as far as Angel's ken he views
The dismal stuation waste and wild,
A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round
As one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv'd only to discover sights of Woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery Deluge, fed
With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum'd:
Such place Eternal Justice had prepar'd
For those rebellious, here thir Prison ordained
In utter darkness, thir portion set
As far remov'd from God and light of Heav'n
As from the Centre thrice, to th' utmost Pole."

(Paradise Lost, John Milton, 1674
(Book I, Lines 44-74)
(Note: I have highlighted the bold and blue section)

Like Milton's Satan, I feel "unjustly" sent to Hell, although I know full well actions in my life that I take, and cannot seem to manage to take are/were complicit in sending me here. That is what my treatment resistant, chronic MDD, my anxiety, and my mood cycling feels like. It feels like I will never return from where I came. I am lost forever. I especially feel like the part that is made bold and blue...like my world has become this blackness with no light, like in the darkness all I can see is woe and sorrow.

I have thoughts of suicide still. I used to have them all the time. I have them less now, but they are still there. They come at me almost everytime I cross the bridge. I envision my self stopping the car and jumping of the bridge deck. I look for back packs and coats of those who have jumped before me. The thoughts come at me when I see strong solid trees or giant wooden beams; beams and trees that I could throw a rope over and end it all. They come at me on the ferry, where I try so hard to make myself step into the dark water and disappear. They come at me often, but less than before.

I write about them because getting them out of my head and onto the page seems to alleviate some of the power behind them.

I am sorry if I concerned anyone with my previous post. If I AM suicidal (vs. thoughts, images, and fantasies) I probably would call Dr. X. I lived 7 years, and a few more, in Hell. I am sure I can last a bit longer. They are thoughts. Bad thoughts, anxious thoughts, thoughts that are plans for relief. Sometimes the thoughts themselves ARE the relief. I know, I always know, there is a way out if I cannot keep trying. I have it within my power to decide enough is enough. There is relief in knowing I am never completely without choices.

I Am So Tired of Trying to Get Better.

(All photos by Aqua, November, 2008) These first two are the strangest mushrooms I have ever seen. At first glance I thought it was dog poop plopped on top of a stick, until I looked at it from ground level at the side (don't ask WHY I would do that if I thought it was poo!!!). When I looked at it from "mushroom level" it looked like something out of "Lord of the Rings"


I wanted to go into my appointment today and focus on all the things I DID do this week. I wanted to try to shift my appointments away from my morose and markedly anxious and depressed mood. Last week Dr. X. said we do not have to talk about my symptoms, or my depression in our sessions. We could have appointments where we just discuss other things and have a conversation about whatever I want.

At first that seemed weird. Why would I see a psychiatrist and not talk about my psychiatric problems. As the week wore on I began to think maybe that would be a good idea. Maybe if I focus on the things I enjoy, rather than the thing I least enjoy I would eventually forget I'm depressed (hey....I seem to forget everything else!).

I tried really hard this week to find pleasure in simple things. The most enjoyable moments were spent with my puppy, in the forest taking pictures of mushrooms.

Mushrooms? You may be REALLY worried for my mental health now,.but I cannot get over the diversity of these little things. I also cannot believe I never noticed all this variety of fungi sitting right in front of me my whole life. It is strange how when you start to look for something it is as though a magician has placed it everywhere in front of you .

Perhaps I should begin looking for, and recording, enjoyable moments. Maybe they would become as prolific and diverse as all the mushrooms I have been finding. Maybe eventually the damp, dark forest that is my mind would eventually create joy as abundantly and easily as the real forest breeds mushrooms.

Maybe each enjoyable moment would create a path in my brain, and finally all those paths would become happiness, or at the very least, the absence of depression.

Probably not. More and more and more and more and more etc. I sense this depression is never going away. I sense my Mom was right: I need to accept my depression and move on WITH it. Maybe some of us just never get better. Maybe some of us are destined to be depressed with only fleeting moments of feeling okay, or experiencing joy, insight, or happiness. Can I accept that as a life worth living?

Some may say I should feel blessed that at least I have moments of levity. Some people do not even get those moments.

I don't feel that way. Those ethereal moments almost feed my depression. I say this because the joy makes the sadness even more evident and profound. Every time the joy, the laughter, or the connection I feel with someone, or something, ends I feel even more depressed. Those short experiences of a lift in mood seem to be there only to show me what I am missing. While photographing these mushrooms I felt a sense that they had more of a meaningful and purposeful existence than me.

I am sorry that some people have no moments of joy, but I am losing patience with having no mood stability. I want the old me back, the working me, the proud me, the ideas me, the fun loving me, the free me, the gregarious and mischevious and loveable me. That said, I am pretty certain the old me is gone and this is the new me. If that is the case, I really would like would like this life to end ASAP. I'm not cut out for this anymore.

The Value of a Powerful Therapeutic Alliance

I am falling deeper and deeper into depression; again. I feel so helpless as I feel myself falling farther and farther down. I went to my appointment with Dr. X yesterday, and all the way there I kept thinking: "I have had enough, I cannot take this anymore. I am quiting everything: medication, therapy, and if that doesn't work, life.

I sit down in my chair, across from Dr. X. and I feel an intense shame come across me. It is as though I feel not worthy to be in his company, to take up so much of his time, to have him see me for so long. I feel that same shame right now. How can I get so much help, and such good help, and still remain unwell?

I sit facing Dr. X. and I feel certain I must be exhausting to him. I must frustrate him so much. I cannot imagine how he manages to meet with me week after week, after week. How, after seeing me crash, seeing me unable to manage simple tasks, seeing me fail over and over again, how can he not be intensely frustrated, or in my mind even worse; how can he not have given up hope for my ever becoming well?

I manage to ask him if I frustrate him. He explains frustration is not the right word; sadness, a sadness that you would feel for a friend, or family member who remains chronically sick, that is closer to how he feels.

I feel touched by his saying that. No one except my Mom, when she was alive, has ever said that to me before. No one says they are saddened by my struggle to become well. My family mostly tries to make me believe that everyone has depressed days, shifting moods, anxiety, etc. That depression is normal. This makes me feel completely misunderstood. I am certain this state of mind is not "normal". They assure me I am strong and need to step out of this hole I am stuck in. Either that or they say "get a job", as thought that will fix me.

Even my Mom used to say I needed to accept my illness, get a job and I would become better. My husband says I am sick because I focus too much on my depression, am in therapy, and take antidepressants.

People without this illness have no concept of what it is like to struggle, and then often to even lose the ability to struggle. Life is hellish, empty, frightening, worthless, hopeless. I wake up everyday hoping today is the day, but most often I realize and know it will never end. It has been part of me for too long.

Sometimes I wake and think: " Today is the day this MDE will end". I have glimpses of joy, moments of laughter throughout the day, but after the moment ends it feels as thought the moment is mocking me; laughing at me, not with me, showing me a moment in time that will only ever be that: a moment, a split second of freedom, an infinitesimally small break in the darkness.

I sat in my appointment yesterday, ashamed of who I have become, wanting so badly for Dr. X. to know who I have the potential to be. In the moments we talk I believe he may know my real self. He may understand I am a better person than the one I have become. Actually he sounds like he accepts both of me: the sad one and the bright and joyful one. In fact, it appears he sees us as neither one or the other. It seems he sees the real me through the sadness. During the time I sit in that chair, across from Dr. X, I feel that the sad and joyful me are seen as one and the same.

I am not two people. It is not fake for me to be joyful for a few hours and barely able to move the rest of the day. Dr. X even says it is not a facade when I laugh gleefully at my puppy running and jumping for a Frisbee, and moments later feel sad. My sadness, and fatigue, and amotivation, my wanting to sleep all day are all symptoms. We will continue to work to address these. He seems confident that wellness is a possibility, that I will not be stuck in this hell forever, that we can, at the very least, help me lengthen and intensify the good moments.

I feel myself laugh when I think of my dog. He is bringing so much joy, and at least some fresh air and exercise into my life. He drags me out of bed, deserves a walk and play time. I am fully responsible for his care. Which at times seems overwhelming, but also is a responsibility that protects me and gives me energy.

Dr. X and I begin to talk about how we, as Dr. and patient, interact. He begins asking me questions I do not know how to answer. He asks me how my interaction with him differs from my interaction with a friend. I try to express how a friendship is a two way relationship and we have a one way relationship. I feel distanced from him by that separation; the him and me.. The game we play has rules and strict boundaries. The playing field looks different to each of us. We are playing entirely different games and I do not completely understand the rules. I only know there are strict boundaries that I need to guard.

I feel intensely uncomfortable asking him questions. I feel like it is not my place to question. That is how I was brought up. Call people Dr. Sir, or Cst.,Cpl, Sgt, Staff, or Inspector. They ask the questions. You answer them. I try to ask him questions like he seems to want, but I feel awkward and nosy. He insists I keep asking. I'm thinking it is a type of behavioural therapy. He wants me to see and believe he is a person like any other, that he cares about me, that I can ask him anything.

All I keep thinking is he must think I am a complete loser. I bet doctors make fun of people like me. Sit in their offices and laugh about how bizarre people like me are. Over coffee, having conversations that begin with: "You would not believe the patient I had today...". I feel scared people do not like me, make fun of me, are secretly talking about me behind my back.

At the same time I feel so disrespectful of Dr. X. for even thinking he might be like this. How rude. How unthoughtful am I to think this man, a man who has always been there for me, who is consistently caring and goes out of his way to help me, how can I even think he would be like that? I feel like I have hurt his feelings for even suggesting this might be possible.

I cannot, however stop worrying that he will give up on me, or that he is exhausted by me, or simply cannot take it anymore. It is always what happens. I wear people out. They leave me. I even used to ask my Mom, every time I spoke with her, if she loved me. As though her actions never screamed those words loud and clear. They always did, but something inside me felt I was unlovable.

My husband and I have been together 16 years and everyday I think he wants to leave. Everyday I ask him: 'Do you love me"? and everyday he answers yes, but I cannot believe anyone would love me, or care deeply and honestly for me. Not really.

This is what I need to work on in therapy. I need to learn to believe I am likable and worthy of people caring about me, and for me. This is where a powerful therapeutic alliance is intensely important. If I can work through my conflicting feelings about Dr. X., maybe I can reflect the behaviours and beliefs I learn onto the rest of the relationships in my life. Even if I am scared, what I do know, is that Dr. X is the safest person with whom I can to practice and relearn better personal and social skills.

Helpless and Hopeless

(aqua, study in charcoal of a poppy/2005)

That helpless/hopeless feeling is setting in again. That sense that I am falling deeper and deeper into depression again and no matter what I do, or how much I struggle I remain intensely fatigued, depressed, apathetic, dissociative/depersonalized, confused, isolating and unable to sleep.

I want to hide out, in bed, in my back room with the curtains closed. I am so angry at myself for being this way. When my thoughts turn to angry depression I begin visualizing about ways and places and times to hang myself, suffocate myself...die. I feel like my life will never get back on track.

It takes all my energy to get going in the morning, even to take the dog for a short walk, or to write this post, and those are things I usually like to do. Everything seems like a chore: a dreaded chore. The real chores, housework, cooking etc. ,simply are not getting done and it is making me feel intensely guilty for not contributing to the running of our household, and my husband increasingly hostile towards my "laziness".

On top of feeling helpless/hopeless I had that same feeling of dread I had last week as I headed to teach my Youth Art Class Monday night. I tried to sleep all day in preparation for it, but just lay there awake wishing I didn't have to go. At 2: 00ish I dragged myself out of bed and went to class. When it began I felt myself becoming more social than I expected. At the same time I also felt it was harder than usual to do.

When I woke up Tuesday morning I wanted so badly to not go teach my drawing class that morning. I felt I just couldn't do it anymore. I feel overwhelmed with two classes and a puppy to look after. However, I pushed myself, because I committed to teach the class.

On my way to class, despite my exhaustion, apathy, and depression; I also felt an intense sense of ennui. That made me begin to thinking maybe I need to do more, not less, stimulating, "scheduled/regular", work like things everyday. Maybe my husband is right. Maybe I should get back to work.

If I am at home all I feel I can do is lay down,sleep, or watch t.v. If I am doing something work like at least, for a while, I get a sense of accomplishment, and my mood lifts while involved and distracted.

The problem is I cannot even manage to do what I want and/or need to do: like keep my house clean, cook, grocery shop, do household chores and even paint like I want to. How do I work more when I can't manage the little I do now?

I feel extremely frustrated by my lack of stability, by my not working, and by my not contributing. These all feed my bad mood and anger. I know that. I know I need to do more, but how?