Lines Drawn and the Draft of a Safety Plan

Yesterday morning I woke up and wanted to immediately go back to bed. Reminiscent of mornings as a teenager (around the time of my diagnosis and at my lowest), I felt a strong pull toward my pillow and wanted to return to sleep as soon as physically possible. However, it turns out that it is much more difficult to ignore an energetic two year-old than it is your mom begging you to go to school. 

So I got up. 

I pulled on clothes so I could drive to daycare and then the train station. I don't think I said a real sentence until we were all packed into the car. 

I had known I was going to get right back into bed as soon as I got home. I was sure of it when my feet first left the edge of the bed and touched the floor. I was thinking about it on the drive; my body felt heavy and I was sure the only thing that could hold its weight was my mattress and bed-frame. 

I was right, of course. When I got back home I walked through the door, slid into my bed and under the blanket. I couldn't make my body small enough or my breathing slow enough. But then I was asleep. I was asleep for a long time. I think Shawn must have called me four times, every two hours, and each time I told him "Not yet, not now. Soon". 

Imagine a deep, downward curving line. Imagine plummeting, drowning, falling for a really long time while desperately searching for something to hold onto, something to halt your descent. 

That's not what yesterday was. 

Imagine instead a dash, something that looks like this "-". Sure, it's flat. But it's short, halted, directionless. Now, this may be an unpopular opinion, but I sure as hell would rather know I was going somewhere. Nine times out of ten I would choose that downward curving line over this dash, no question. 

Yesterday I did nothing, felt nothing; I barely existed and that didn't bother me at all. Everything I could have done felt like too much effort for too little reward. I didn't care. Ask anyone well acquainted with depression and they'll tell you that the not caring part is the most dangerous, because that's when it is easiest to give up and give in. 

I didn't care and I didn't see that changing anytime soon. Halted, remember? 

But then Shawn came home and whether he studied the safety plan on his train ride or he already knows it by heart I have no idea---he just poked and prodded at the dash a little bit. Extended it, gave it a little shape.

He held me for a little while. He put socks on my feet and helped me pick out shoes so that we could go on a walk with the dogs. When we got home and I collapsed on the ground because I was already so tired, he picked me up and put me in front of the kitchen sink. We cleaned the kitchen together, me doing the dishes and him cleaning the oven/stove. He kept me company while I took a bath, because I had wanted to be clean for the past two days but had been too tired to do it. 

And at the end of the night, when I looked back on what I had done, I felt something.

A little bit of hope.

For those that are curious, I want to share a little bit about my safety plan. I decided to divide my safety plan by the different states of my mental illness: anxiety (which is not part of my bipolar disorder but relevant to my particular experience), mania and depression. Under each of those emotional states I outlined three categories: 

1. signs (symptoms/behaviors that characterize the specific emotional state), 

2. options (or you could call this category coping strategies, things I do both before and during the emotional state to address it); 

3. and things that Shawn can do (ways he can help support me in coping/addressing the emotional state).

Under each category I listed four items, although I'm sure I could come up with more, to keep the safety plan specific and accessible. I didn't want Shawn to get bogged down with details that might make it more overwhelming to read or that create more questions than answers. 

At the very bottom, I made some notes about items I had included that I thought needed some extra context. For example, one of the ways I have included that Shawn can support me with my depression is to ask me about my medication. I realize that without context, it may appear as though I am requesting that Shawn ask me whether or not I have taken my meds. However, I am often frustrated by that question because it seems to imply that medication is the solution, that depression can be prevented if I take my medication as prescribed and challenges my commitment to my mental health. I have been committed to taking my medication for at least four years now and believe that it is an important part of my treatment plan. Instead, I suggest in my safety plan that Shawn ask me how I feel about my meds effectiveness and remind me that I can reach out to my psychiatrist to increase my dosage, if I feel it is necessary to do so. 

After drafting my safety plan (in a shared iphone note), I went through it in its entirety with Shawn, explaining it point by point and giving him an opportunity to ask questions. As we read over the draft together, Shawn added any notes to items he had asked for clarity around. 

To be clear, this safety plan is to help address an emotional state in its early stages and to monitor it throughout. The hope is that these strategies will prevent me from experiencing a "mental health crisis". Throughout this plan, the first item listed under ways for Shawn to support me is to check that I am safe. This means that I don't have a plan to harm myself or others. I have not reached this point in a very long time and don't expect that with my current treatment plan I will, but I think it is one of the most important questions a loved one can ask me when I am in any of these three emotional states. If my answer is no, I need them to know how to help me.

The details of this part of my plan are still in the works. They are more complex and will take time.  

I am still learning how to let my partner support me, it's a lot harder than you'd think. But I feel good about the work Shawn and I have done so far. 

Last night, I saw the result of that work. And this morning I woke up feeling something.

Here and Back Again

I'm not sure where to begin this time, although I guess I never really am. I want to say I'm back here, back on the blog, back to depression. Usually my return to writing is a good indicator of my current emotional state. Something I'm struggling with though, is the feeling that the place I'm currently in appears to be familiar and brand-spanking new at the same time.

I'm depressed; I cried it out, I've leaned into it (after some kicking and screaming--wouldn't say embraced, exactly), I'm calling it what it is. I'm depressed and yet I feel like a different person. My beast wants to pull out all of the old stops but none of it is sticking. I didn't see it coming this time and I definitely shamed myself for missing the signs (you'd think that over a decade of experience with depression would be good for something) but I'm starting to think that I wouldn't recognize it at first if my beast had smacked me across the face with it. It's depression alright, but it's a whole new shape and color. And a whole new me has risen to meet it. 

I am living in a new place.

I am in a new relationship.

I am helping to raise my partner's son. 

I am unemployed and anxiously awaiting the start of grad school.

I am also depressed.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't hoped to leave my beast on the other side of the country, to set him on fire so that after graduating from undergrad, bringing closure to relationships and grieving the loss of my grandmother, I could arrive in Rhode Island born anew. And I'd be lying if I said that I know how to navigate the introductions: my beast to my new little family and my beast to myself. 

But I've started. 

I named this (depression) on Saturday. 

On Sunday I went for a hike with my partner and our dogs and I felt my brain settle in my skull, my heart and lungs cling to my rib-cage, my muscles to my flesh. I was anchored in my body and it felt different.

I called my psychiatrist on Monday (like I said I would) and we made the decision to increase my medication for the time being.

Later (still Monday) I wrote a safety plan for myself and my partner. I described worst case scenarios, took responsibility, and asked for help. I extended myself farther than I thought myself capable of, sitting in vulnerability longer than I prepared myself for and waited for rejection that didn't come. Then, before I could catch my breath I rose to meet parenting and an inconsolable two year-old at his bedroom door. I held him in his vulnerability, ran my fingers through his hair, sang to him. This too, felt different.

Today is Tuesday. And you could say I'm back here. But what does that really mean anyway? 

Crazy Talk

I'm here, again. I feel like that's almost the only thing I need to say. Maybe I could install some sort of check-in button for this blog so you'll know when I've logged on. That way anytime I come back here you can bet-your-bottom-dollar that I've hit, well, rock bottom. But maybe I shouldn't try to meld all of my depressive episodes into one huge lump of evidence that I'm just a sad person. Maybe they really are distinct in important ways. Maybe coming back here isn't a sign I've failed, yet again, to be happy. I will say though, that the evidence seems stacked against that point of view.

I don't know how to say this in a way that doesn't sound crazy, so I'm just going to say it.
I think I'm going to die soon.
Told you.

Before you jump to all sorts of conclusions: No I do not plan on taking my own life.
Let me try to explain, okay?

When I turned twenty-five years old, I was shocked that I had survived that long. I had never before then imagined that I would live that long. Mostly because my mental illness was so successfully kicking my ass that I didn't feel up to the task of fighting back and I was pretty sure that I would eventually give up.
I turn twenty-seven in a month and I'm still alive but it almost feels like by complete accident. Like death had an appointment with me but double-booked or something and is just now too embarrassed to admit he made a mistake. A lot of my life has changed drastically in the last few months, I know that needs to be acknowledged too. My life circumstances would probably make anyone feel a little disoriented and dizzy.
But I'm not dizzy right now, I'm telling you that I'm operating on borrowed time and I think it's so that I can prove what I'm worth. I don't know when the deadline is or what it'll be that finally gets death off my back but I know that it's soon and I'm fighting harder than I ever have before. This time I don't think I'm going to give up and take my own life. This time I have a feeling that if I give up it will be taken from me.

Yeah, it still sounds crazy. I get it. What's new.

I want to continue writing here. The nature of my illness, the shift I experience in mood and energy, often makes it unrealistic for me to take on long-term projects. Even with medication and therapy my motivation and creativity are unreliable at best. For that reason, the only way one can discern the passing of time when reading through my posts, is by following the cyclical nature of my illness. I've often wished that my writing could be more consistent and many times I've tried to write because I've felt that I should. It is an unfortunate part of my experience with this illness, that I am most creative at the same time that I am the most volatile. Sometimes I feel numb and it is too difficult to articulate myself. Other times it seems there is nothing to report. I return to this blog though, time and time again, when I feel myself losing ground---this is my lifeline.

And that's why this is important. 

That is why I keep this blog; even on my worst days when I'm convinced everything I've ever touched is garbage. Or even when I know I won't have anything to say for months.

Sometimes I read older posts and I grieve for the creativity I'm certain I've lost forever and the way I was once able to express myself. Later, when I am thrown for a loop by a new cycle of mania-depression, I am reminded of the price I pay.

I know in reality my creative strengths do not disappear during my more stable periods and I also know my perception of my abilities in different emotional states may be more than a little skewed. However, I don't think I can put into words the depth of the inherent tie I believe my creativity has to my illness. They aren't one and the same, but maybe branches from the same tree (I warned you that I couldn't put it into words). My creativity knows my illness well and vice versa.  

It's taken me hours to write this. My brain feels foggy and I have caught myself staring into space more than a dozen times. And it seems that the only conclusion I've come to at this point is that I'm going to keep doing what I've been doing...?? 

Maybe this will be where all of my creativity comes to die or maybe this blog will be used in some eye-opening study of manic-depressive illness one day, who knows. 

I'm back for a while, I guess.

I haven't been to work in six days. Four snow days and a weekend.
I haven't seen my students.
I haven't eaten well, sometimes not at all. I don't shop like it's the end of the world, excuse me.
I haven't left my house more than couple of times. Mostly it's because I haven't had anywhere to go, but a little bit because walking on the ice freaks me out after my most recent interaction with it and the resulting injury.
I have been asleep more often than I have been awake. Or at least it feels that way.
I have been entirely unproductive, unless you count beating Spyro, the video game with a little purple dragon? Turns out he's a real jerk.
I have been sad. I don't know why.
I have been wishing I had my surgery already, because that would at least make sense. That would explain why I am this way.

But really, I'm just emotionally broken.

I have my appointment with the surgeon tomorrow, bright (but irl dark) and early. No news is good news, but I know there'll be news. I've known that for a while. I have been struggling to accept that no matter what the dude says tomorrow, I have a surgery in my future. It is time, it is happening.
Are you prepared to read a couple of months worth of existential dread?
If not, have you read my other stuff? Do you even know where you are right now?

Stay tuned.

2017 #newyearnewknee

Well, I'm back. It had to happen some time, right?

New year, new me? HA. #newyearnewknee
Let me explain.

Right before winter break, literally the night before, I dislocated my knee. This has happened before and in the very moment I was falling, I was pretty sure it would happen again.
But the length of time it has taken to heal, the confirmation by a doctor and my upcoming appointment with a surgeon makes me unsure.
I've been in straight up denial. And maybe, the surgeon will tell me everyone, my knee included, has been lying to me and I'm totally fine. But the energy it has taken to keep up that charade I could be using to prepare myself for two months of recovery.
A couple of days ago, I cried for the first time about it. It hit me about as hard as I hit the ground a few weeks before that. I may have to suspend my term of service with AmeriCorps. I have never said "bye for now" before, but my dad's common expression may be the only thing that makes leaving my newfound community, made up of brilliant coworkers and resilient students for a while, less devastating.
For the last week I've seen my ceilings cave in on me, when my eyes are closed and I'm trying to fall asleep. My breath catches when a door closes. My body feels stiff in way that no amount of stretching can cure. I don't even have the nail in the coffin, a surgery date, and I feel trapped. I am dreading this extended pause in my life. I see it quietly approaching and I'm terrified.
My loved ones have suggested I make a list of things I can do during this period of time but I have writer's block, something I've never experienced before with list making. I've been avoiding even sitting down with pen and paper.
Often I question myself and my life's purpose. But something I know is that this isn't me. This isn't where I belong or what I'm supposed to be doing. This is a nightmare, this is something I have always feared. I will in reality be incapable of taking care of myself. I won't be enough.
These are things the beast tells me as he pulls me down and keeps me there. These are thoughts that bury me. They keep me under for days, sometimes weeks or months. But in those times, I know it's not something I'm asking for or choosing.
This time I really will have brought it on myself. The beast knows it, I know it. I see him waiting and he is pleased.
The place I live, "the cabin", the little house attached to the big house that is often my sanctuary, it will disappear into the wilderness of my backyard. I will be alone, with only the beast for company. This isn't negative thinking or a wildly irrational fear, this is my life. This has happened before, only the circumstances and four walls are different.
I know this. I know this so well, it is written all over my skin, it's the color of my bed sheets, the sound of rain hitting the cabin's roof. It will be here soon and I would be a fool to try to stop it.

I always return to this place with a bang, don't I?

I can't wait for summer. Have I said that yet? You could probably guess.
WELL I AM.

It's been warm the past few days. The sun does miraculous things for my mood, sometimes. It would have more of an impact if I weren't still stuck under the cloud of work I have to do before the term is over. The cloud of procrastination and possible failure.

Even now, I don't really have anything to say. I would just rather write a bunch of bullshit here, than write any of a number of papers I have due.

So here we go, no shame in my game:

I love the summertime. It's become associated with some of my best memories, my best days. I'm so happy in the summer. I'm so much more of who I feel I am. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's that I'm not in school. Maybe it's a combination of those things. I don't know.

I think I'm going to have to finish up some of my incompletes this summer though, so I won't be entirely free. But maybe it'll give me at least some structure so I won't become bored and restless. Even with the sun out, I have to have some sort of purpose.

Either way, Robert and I have been looking for a puppy I can train as my emotional support animal. So a little baby dog will give me purpose this summer. I want to make sure I train the puppy well when it's young so it can do the job. I'm so excited to have another source of support, an animal that's trained to be just mine.  Dogs are capable of doing so much, I can train the pup to:

-be a physical barrier in social situations that give me anxiety
-wake me up in the morning
-be aware of my moods and comfort me during panic attacks

Hell, I could train a dog to go fetch my meds and glass of water. Dogs are so smart and capable of all sorts of things. I know I'm going to have do a lot of work to take care of myself and a dog isn't a cure-all, but it might surprise me the impact it could have on my mental health and well-being.

I need to stay in the present. I need to focus on schoolwork and getting through the week and a half I have left of the term. But all I can think about is summer, change and possibility.

Anyone want to write a paper for me? Bueller?

Ravings of a Madwoman

It's after 4am and I haven't fallen asleep yet. Something tells me I won't. I've been reading through old posts, something I do from time to time. It still surprises me how much I can learn about myself by looking back. I have no way of knowing whether or not my blog has impacted anyone else. Especially considering that no one seems to be interested in talking about anything I write here, with me. But it's probably most important that it has given some meaning to my life. If I have ever considered the possibility that I'm not actually bipolar, this blog is a hard slap to my face. The cyclical nature of my illness is undeniable in my writing. Almost all of the time I'm fluctuating between extremes. Days of euphoria and productivity, followed by dread, grief and self-loathing. I don't know if I've made any progress in managing these episodes but I'm learning. Maybe that's my purpose for now, to put pieces together, store information for later. Maybe these insights will prove to be helpful when I most need them. Who knows.

Lately I've been thinking I would really like to make writing my life. I don't know yet in what capacity and it may be most realistic to believe that my writing will be confined to this blog. But I would really love to do it. To make something of it, and beautiful things with it. I could do that, right? I think part of this sudden urge is because I've been feeling really hopeless about school. I mean, I've felt this way about school many times before. I've even considered that maybe school just isn't for me, that it's not in my life path. But I think the desire to center my life around writing is based in a passion for self-expression, a sense of urgency to decrease stigma and to tirelessly advocate for others who experience mental illness. This, at the core of my being, is what I believe I'm here to do. And I think I should be able to do that, to focus on that. But I'll probably need to work in a capacity that society deems acceptable. Because otherwise, my crazy ass is worth nothing.

This is probably entirely unintelligible and the ranting of manic zombie but I thought I'd say something before I plunge back into studying and the final countdown. Stick around, good stuff is on the way. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

BBL

Locked in

The beast has got me locked in a grip so unbelievably tight
I can't seem to shake him off.
In truth, he's been latched on for months and
I just haven't wanted to admit it to myself.
Or maybe I didn't see him
for what he was,
is.

And then I started seeing my psychiatrist
again.
She added a little dose of lithium to my psychopharmaceutical medley
and I had a renewed sense of hope.
A good few days where I thought I had found a door,
the beast's weak spot,
a way out.

But now I'm here
and it's hard to put words together
Nothing feels real
and I'm living for everyone else
but myself.

I'm trying to do everything
they all want me to
but it's hard
and it's still not enough
to release me from the beast's
cold
hard
claws.

It feels like there's nothing left
for me to be.

This is all I am. Just this.

25

The universe and I aren't on speaking terms right now.

She's keeping me here without any explanation or without the tools to figure it out myself.
I guess I'm really angry and don't want to be here.

My twenty-fifth birthday was incredibly emotional. I've put off writing about it for a while now, probably because I wanted to chalk it up to social anxiety and one too many mimosas.
Turns out it was a "gift" from the universe, although she arrived unannounced and without an invitation.

I organized brunch to celebrate my birthday because I wanted an opportunity to see a lot of my friends without having a party at my house that I'd have to clean up afterward or at some cringey bar that would cost me money to drink alcohol that I didn't really like, for a hangover I certainly would regret. Even though I was unable to make a majority of the phone calls to places around town, with the help of Katie and my mom I found a cafe that was nice enough to seat a 15+ group of people on a Sunday morning during their peak business hours. The guys at the cafe were wonderful and when I think about how much work they did to make my birthday great, I still feel a tenderness. They even asked my mom if there was music I would like to listen to and they put it on the system so that we could hear it from the patio. She chose a band that I grew up listening to and in many ways kept me alive. There was one song in particular by this band, that resonated with me and was the cry for help I was unable to articulate.

The baristas, in cahoots with the universe, put that song on blast. I recognized it immediately and gave my mom a look I hoped she would understand. She did and I began to cry.
This song I listened to everyday and was the first song I asked to listen to in the car when I was discharged from the hospital. I still remember sitting in the car with the song ringing in my ears and pounding in my chest. It sounded like freedom and life renewed.

Now over ten years later, among friends and breakfast bagels, I cried for that 14 year-old girl. That young girl who never would have guessed, hell was CONVINCED that she wouldn't be around that long. There were days that girl didn't want to live to see that day, because everyday was filled with pain. Every new day was another twenty-four hours of suffering.
And I cried later when we came back to the house and had mimosas.
And I cried next to the fire, singing to my anthem.
And I cried in private. Then I slept.

I'm still unsure of what do now, or where to go from here. The universe has given me more time, more than I know what to do with or even want. I guess if there were a time to "seize the day", it would be now and for however many days she keeps me here. I'm supposed to be grateful or something, right? Now I have to "live life to the fullest" and make something of myself. She's forced my fucking hand.

So yeah, you could say she and I aren't getting along.
----------------------------------------------------------------

I'm supposed to feel better
this nightmare is supposed to end
I am holding on,
I am holding on,
I am holding on,

I am holding on

One, Two, Three

I'm awake
I'm showered
I'm drinking coffee

Just this, is hard.
Just these three things, took hours.

I'm sitting in my backyard, the sun is out. I can feel the breeze, so I must be alive, right?
I just saw a butterfly, so I have to be real, yeah?

This isn't life, what I'm doing. This isn't living.
This is barely surviving.
I'm not even doing this shit on purpose, it's just happening to me.
I'm putting in zero percent at this point, and yet I've been waking up everyday.

I'm not fighting or struggling, but for whatever reason my beast won't fucking just take me already. Maybe it's just not fun for him this way, no challenge. But I'm giving in, I'm doing what he has wanted all along.
I'm here, I'm ready.
Take me, please take me.

I sound like the whiniest shit bag of a human but I don't fucking care.

Ready to Call it

I've been avoiding you again, I'm sorry.
The anxiety hasn't stopped and I'm avoiding everything. I feel like I'm borderline existing, although I've been trying to avoid that as well.
Sleep has been difficult; I'm awake until my body can no longer function, then I sleep. I often wake up late in the afternoon and fall asleep again shortly after.
So I guess those are my two states of being currently: anxious and asleep.

For two hours yesterday I felt connected to my body and able to form coherent words. I gave a presentation with a partner that neither of us had prepared for. We managed to engage the class in discussion for much longer than expected, the professor eventually gave us full reign for the entire class period. I was offering insight, I was making jokes, smiling and laughing.
My first class of the day was cancelled so I spent about an hour of the time I would normally be in that first class, studying for my upcoming class. So I guess I had three hours of productivity.

After that I spent my evening with two ladies that make me want to do better, be better. It was really nice to spend time with friends that allow me to be just as I am. There was a shadow of self-hate and shame that cast itself over the evening though. I didn't get any studying done, which had been the plan for our time together.

So far today I've:
Missed a therapy appointment that was desperately needed
Slept late, to wake up and fall back asleep again
Fucked around on my computer in this cafe for the last forty-five minutes

At what point can I just call it? When is it a good time to give up? This is it, this is all I will ever have.

Someone end this, end me. Because I'm too cowardly to do it myself.
I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm not supposed to have lasted this long.
Yeah, I'm angry. Yeah I'm pissed that I'm still here, still doing this.
Why have you all let me drag this out? Why hasn't anyone given me a reality check, "Isabel what purpose do you have here, exactly? How much space are you taking up?"
Do me a favor. Please.

Hey blog, long time no see.  I'm sorry I haven't been around more. Turns out I'm a shitty friend.

I don't know what to say for myself that doesn't sound like an excuse. "I'm sorry, I've just been going through really rough time/
I think I'm depressed/
I've been too anxious to leave my house/
due to disability related issues I won't make it to class today."

"." That's the only part that matters. The period, the end of excuses. I'm starting to do all of the things I begin to do halfway through the term and I'm wondering yet again, if I'm just too lazy or disinterested in school. Or maybe I get bored easily, or I'm a quitter.
I'm not trying hard enough.
I'm not trying.

Today I woke up and I was overwhelmed by anxiety. And you know what I've realized? Anxiety doesn't always come quickly, cutting air from my lungs to the point of suffocation. Sometimes it's a heavy feeling in my throat that makes it difficult to swallow. An invisible weight on my shoulders that I'm unable to shake off. Or uncontrollably staring into space so that I might forget that time is passing, that time is running out.

It's longer than a panic attack, it lingers and is sometimes unshakeable for an entire day. It started this morning and is still happening. I've sent emails to my professors and that's only made me more anxious. I don't want to check my email but all I can think about is their faces as they read the messages: disbelieving, maybe even disgusted

I don't know. I don't. I have no idea.
Do you?

P.S. I turned 25 a while ago and I have a lot of feelings about it and I'll probably write about it soon. Maybe.

Promises

I was really agitated all day yesterday. I didn't notice it until last night, after picking a fight with Robert. Oops.

I wanted so badly to leave my house, to get out and do something.
I was bored and tired of sitting in my house watching the same bad TV shows on Netflix (Cheers as of late, don't judge me).
I wanted to do something fun, something interesting.
I wanted to get out of my head and spend time with someone else. I was tired of having my beast as my only company.

It was Robert's first day off and he wanted to do whatever he wanted, which happened to be nothing. After a few minutes of rethinking, I was able to get past that and decided that his plans weren't going to hold me back. I reached out to a few people, my mom included. She agreed to pick me up on her way home from work. I was glad to be getting out of the house and to spend some time with her, because as of late the majority of our communication has been over the phone. She works a lot and I haven't been leaving my house. But then my relief ended quickly, when we got to her house and everyone was doing what they each wanted to do, nothing. I was in the same place, just different. I was having a hard time sitting still and started pacing back and forth.

I was hungrier than ever and so impatient. And then the fighting.
It wasn't the worst one Robert and I have had. It doesn't even make it on the list of bad fights we've had. It was just stupid and unnecessary. Robert saw that from the beginning but I went all in.
And of course I lost, we both did. Because no one ever really wins a fight.

I'm really caught up in it, aren't I?

Day before yesterday I was talking to my mom about the option to be hospitalized. There are benefits to that choice; I would have access to immediate care, my meds could be adjusted and I'd have a psychiatrist and therapist to see. But I really don't want to do that.
I don't want to let fourteen year-old Isabel down. Teenage Isabel that coming out of the psych ward after hurting herself, promised that she would never go back there. Ever.
Adult Isabel knows better, that choosing to receive medical attention isn't a sign of failure and if needed could be the best thing I do for my whole self. I don't think it's come to the point that I need hospitalization, but I have to keep it in mind for now. I have to keep it on the table as long as I'm caught up in this.
A promise is a promise, though. And it is one I'd like to keep, if I can.

But I've also promised to tell my mom when I'm feeling unsafe. If I've made a plan to harm myself, to whatever severity or end, I have to let her know. So far, I've kept that one too.
Sometimes it feels like I can only choose one of these. Like I can only keep a promise to my mom or to myself. Who would I choose, if faced with that decision? I honestly don't know.

I'm withdrawing from all of my classes. I'm walking away from everything I've been doing, hoping to do better for myself. I'm starting at square one, from the beginning, all over again.

You'd think I would know how to do this. But I feel just as clueless as the first time.
There are some good things, about starting again. Right?
Right.

Cross your fingers for me.

I've changed all of my classes from grading A-F to pass/no pass. This should take some of the pressure off because I won't be worried about the percentages or grades on assignments and as long as I pass, I'll receive credit without it affecting my GPA. But even after doing that, I need to write emails to my professors and I've been putting it off for the last two days. Email is usually a relatively safe way for me to communicate with people, because I don't have to face them in person and I don't have to hear their voices over the phone. Right now though, I feel as anxious about pressing send as I would if I were standing right in front of them. I'm so prepared for rejection, anytime I ask anything from my professors, even though I have a pretty good track record. I don't know what's going to happen here, I don't know what I'm so scared about. Usually when I send an email I'm making a specific request: an extension, an excused absence, the submission of a late assignment etc. I think maybe I'm so nervous because this time I have nothing specific I want to ask for. I just want to talk to each of them about how the rest of this term is going to look, how I'm going to make it through and pass. That's a big question and I know they most likely don't feel like that's their responsibility. And there's some truth to that, I'm an adult, it's my education etc. etc. etc. But they're teachers, right? They want their students to learn and succeed? I know not all of them do, or at least deep down are apathetic. I'm just hoping the ones I have this term are invested in me as a student.

Here goes nothin'.

UPDATE: I sent the emails. I'm holding my breath.

I got 88% on an assignment, lower than I thought I would receive. She's a hard grader but I still expected better.

Why do I even try.

There was a time when I couldn't imagine living for 24 years. Maybe it wasn't meant to be.

I woke up late. Usually I don't wake up at all, so I guess that's a point in the right direction. But I'm sitting showered and ready to go on my couch, going nowhere.
I'm stuck.
All I keep thinking about is arriving late to class, trying to find a seat in the back as to remain unnoticed but the seats are all full and then everyone turns around because I'm making noise and they're staring
staring
staring
staring.

They all know.

They haven't seen me in a while. They wonder where I've been, "what other life does this girl live?"
They think I don't care about school or that I'm stupid and that's why I'm falling behind.

I can't do it. I can't walk in there. I just can't.
So I'm still sitting on the couch, having missed the late, late, late bus.
Maybe if I can get there on time to sit in the back of the huge lecture hall my next class is in, I can make that one.
Maybe.

I'm such a baby.
The truth is I just don't want to.
I don't feel like it.
I don't like school.
I'm too lazy.
Right? That has to be it.
That's got to be the reason I'm stuck to this couch.

I don't know what I'm doing.
Or what I could be doing differently.
Or if, ultimately, it would matter.

I feel so small.
So light that I can be thrown around, lifted up to be thrown down again.

I don't know what to do.
I know the world won't end, but it still feels like it will.

It's beautiful outside but I haven't left my house, like really left my house, for four days and counting.

Nobody can help me and I certainly can't help myself.
I don't know what I'm doing...did I say that already?

Because I don't. I really don't.

As it turns out, I've got nothing to prove

It's difficult after I have a few good days, to dip so low again. Those good days are misleading and I think I will always be disappointed when they don't last. It's impossible sometimes to not be disappointed in myself, even when I haven't done anything different, even when it's completely out of my control.

I had a few good ones. I accomplished some things, finished some assignments just in time. But now I'm here, again. And there's a whole new week, with a whole new set of assignments I have yet to do.

Today I've had a few people in my life reach out and that always means so much to me. Especially when they know and understand. A friend of mine, that I haven't seen in years, asked me today how I am and when I said "Not good" she only had to ask "The beast?". That is incredibly validating and I'm so fortunate to have people like that in my life.
I know they would never want to be the cause of any of my pain, but it's still hard for me to avoid feeling like I've disappointed them. My dear friends want to know that I'm doing well and when I can't tell them what they so badly want to hear, it's hard not to feel the weight of that. It's hard not to feel like I should be doing better, not only for me, but for those that I care about.

I can't help feeling like I've brought this on myself. I don't know why I thought I should take 22 credits this term or why I thought two less credits would make any difference. I don't know why I feel like I have something to prove. And maybe to some people, I do. But if I'm honest with myself, I'm in the game to prove to myself, that I'm capable. I don't know why the past 24 years of life, of survival aren't enough proof of my strength and resilience. I'm not sure why I feel the need to put myself into the most challenging situations, situations that would be hard for anyone mental illness or no.

I'm sure I've come to a point similar to this before, but I realize now that I need to do some things in order to improve the quality of my life. I can't but also don't want to live this way.

I want to be able to get up in the morning.
I want to be able to leave my house.
I want to be able to enter into social situations, new ones, but any at all really.
I want to be able to sleep better at night.
I want to feel less like I want to die.

So I guess my work, beyond school, is cut out for me. It's a lot but I know what I need to do and I know of ways that I can do it.

I need to find a new psychiatrist, one that I feel is genuinely invested in my mental health.
I need to start seeing a therapist again, one that will help me to continue developing skills.
I need to adjust my meds so they can do their job.

I've also been thinking about the benefits of an emotional support animal. I've been doing some research and I think having a dog that has been trained to help me get out of bed in the morning, ride with me on the bus and minimize my anxiety might really help.
For those who have met my dog Penelope, she is great. The best little dog I could ever ask for. She is family and isn't going anywhere. But she doesn't have the training to fill this purpose.
Does anybody have information/resources for finding an emotional support animal? Anyone have experience with finding one/having one? Benefits/drawbacks? I could really use advice and guidance.

I need to stop working so hard to prove my worth and move forward as if I am the most worthy of stability, heath and well-being. This has got to be the beginning of something different.