It's been nine months since I've been able to write anything on this blog. This is how time can pass for the bipolar during distress. There's not doubt that the last 9 months have been the most distressing continuously of my life.
In January I had another nervous breakdown and bought a one way ticket to Hawaii. I just left. I needed to be away from any kind of stress at all or i didn't know what would happen to me. While I was there I realized over time that I was the happiest I had been in my entire life. It was actually a very sad feeling.
My migraines didn't improve and my doctor's at Stanford wanted me to come and spend more time in the hospital. I saw my whole future ahead of me, living in an unhappy marriage, getting tortured at the hospital constantly that would cost so much that it would keep my marriage unhappy, having migraines for the next 40 years. I realized I couldn't do it. At this point I couldn't even manage the smallest amounts of stress, like doing the laundry, but my psychiatrist didn't think sending me to the hospital would help.
It was a beautiful day, I felt beautiful and had an adventure and I knew nothing would be better than that day. It was the perfect day to die, so I tried to kill myself. Next time I'll make sure my roomie isn't a paramedic/firefighter because the next thing I know I'm being stuffed in the car and taken to the hospital. Another failure.
Two weeks later a dear friend died by her own hand. It was a terrible loss but I understood and felt more at peace knowing no one had hurt her, but it didn't mean my grieving still hasn't ended and that I don't have complex feelings about it. Perhaps another post for that.
I stayed in Hawaii until May but eventually you have to come home, I suppose. In the last 4 months I haven't gotten out of bed unless I have an appointment or traveling. I ate potato flakes for two weeks at one point. You'd think I'd have lost some weight but I'm not that lucky. I've spent all my energy hiding all of this but I felt stronger than ever about my belief that I should get to decide when I die. I've spent the summer seeing as many people that I love as I could.
I also applied for the Hemlock society, which turned me down. Apparently those assholes have never had a migraine for 25 days. I began to feel more open about telling my friends because it probably connects to so much of what's happening in my life now.
My husband and I have agreed that it's best for both of us to get divorced. I certainly have not turned out to be a good wife, friend or supporter and I stopped trying because I really just had to focus on me. I could handle my mental health but not that and health issues, and I don't think he could either. Another failure.
Even though I was alone most of the time because of his job, I feel somehow lost in a vacuum. I don't think we could make it work but it doesn't mean I'm not grieving. I feel like I'm grieving everything. On the one hand I could do whatever I want but on the other hand I'm really married to Stanford and the 2 doctors here that keep saving my life.
Which leads me to today. I haven't been doing well. I can't stop crying. My poor psychiatrist is at a loss because I admitted to having suicidal thoughts, which means she's supposed to put me in the hospital. She's feeling a bit torn. I'm going to her office at 4pm. If you don't hear from me for a while it means they've admitted me but I'm ok and I'm safe.
I appreciate all of you and thank you for always listening