Life in the Land of Oz

Ok, I know it's like actually literally the opposite of the land of Oz since "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto;" but the land of Oz sounds so much cooler than Kansas, plus there's a Wizard of Oz museum here, plus I just love Wizard of Oz. So we're gonna go with it.

Well, I live here now. That's so weird to say and I still can't really believe it. It's strange because once upon a time, I moved out of the country on my own and it never really felt weird to say I lived in Honduras. I think it's got to do with everything being so similar and family being so close, relatively speaking. In Honduras, it was very clear that I was very far away and things were significantly different so I could tell I had made a big change right away. Here, not so much. It kinda still just feels like I'm here to visit my sister and I'll be heading back home soon. I suppose it will sink in more the longer I'm here.

So I don't know if you know this, but I haven't worked since mid December. The day I went to the hospital for my last inpatient stay, I decided my mental state just wasn't suitable for caring for tiny humans and I quit my job while I sat in the emergency room. It's been strange, because well, I like to work and work a lot; then one day I just couldn't anymore. I have hated being dependent on my family for everything since I suddenly lost my income, but they have been a huge huge help to me and never even questioned it. I don't know what I would have done without them standing behind me. They're just great. Anywho, back to the topic of work; I haven't been doing it lately. Before I moved, my therapist and I agreed that maybe I wasn't ready to go back to work yet. She suggested perhaps applying for disability just to get me by until my brain straightened back out. I kicked this idea around for a while and figured it was probably my best bet. I'm still not having enough good days to pretend to be ok for people. But fast forward to last weekend which was moving weekend and I was feeling great.

I got all settled in here and even felt good enough to go out and apply for a job on Monday. I was on top the world! I voluntarily got out of the house and made a move to get my butt back to work. But then I didn't hear back from the place I had applied. Bam, hit with rejection which really puts me in a bad way very very quickly. And the part of my brain that might come up with rational explanations for not getting a call is drowned out by the part that screams, "EVERYONE HATES YOU, YOU AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH FOR ANYTHING, JUST GIVE UP!" Then the darkness just hit me like a ton of bricks and took over my brain again. I applied for disability yesterday because, I'm really not sure I'm ready to go back to work. I think my therapist was right when she said that I've lost that mask that I have to wear when dealing with people. But guys, adulting will kick you right in the freaking shins every single time.

Basically, insurance and the market place are kind of a mess and I have to find new doctors ASAP. My therapist said she wasn't sure I'd be able to keep making myself live for long without someone to talk to. I can't say she's wrong about that either. So, I can't use my Missouri insurance here, but I also can't just like transfer my policy. And when I tell the marketplace that I haven't made any money in the past month and can't estimate income for the year they're like, "oh, you're too poor, we won't help you pay for insurance;" which is just like, nonsense. But long story short, I have to hope my Missouri doctors will just refill my prescriptions without making me come in or I have to drive home if they want to see me. And I'm hoping I can work out some sort of video chat sessions or something with my therapist. Ugh, it's such a mess. Because of this mess I decided it didn't matter if I was ready to return to work, I'm just going to have to make myself. At the risk of rejection (again) I called to check on my application. Turns out they had lost it, but the manager wanted to meet with me. So now I have a job and can straighten the insurance mess eventually. I still really don't think I'm ready to work again, but I just couldn't wait around for a decision about disability. We'll see how it goes I guess.

Wow, this is way longer than I expected. If you're still with me, thanks for letting me ramble. Getting thoughts out is really helpful for me, even if no one ever reads them.

My story is not over.

A few months ago I gave up.

I gave up on life.

I gave up on hope.

I gave up on myself.

That night I took all of my anxiety meds and went to bed. I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to be stopped. I didn’t write a note because I figured that having witnessed my downward spiral, people could put things together on their own. I knew exactly what I was doing and it was what I wanted. Without me, my family could move on. No one would have to spend time worrying about me. The doctors, medicines, therapy sessions, and hospitalizations would be no more. It would just be so much easier for everyone if I went away for good. I think it’s fairly obvious, since I’m telling you this, that my attempt to leave this hell behind didn’t work out.

The months after that were mostly spent alone, curled up in my bed, trying to avoid the world. I wanted desperately for people to show me that they cared. Saying it is one thing, proving it is another story entirely. Words meant nothing to me. My brain and heart couldn’t seem to get on the same page. I could be told over and over how loved I am, but I could never seem to believe it. In my head, I am the worst person to walk this Earth. I am a burden that people just pretend to want around. For many years, I have felt like I play second fiddle, if you will, because there is always someone or something that is more important than me. Living like that caused me to fall further and further into the darkness of my illnesses. My mind constantly told me how unloved, unwanted, not cared for, and just plain forgettable I was. I had no idea how to make it stop.

Then 5 weeks ago, I had an especially bad night. I wanted to give up again. But this time, I ended up looking through my paperwork from my first hospital stay. The papers said to call the psych evaluation nurse. So I called the nurse…I told her the truth about how I wasn’t safe at home by myself and I was seriously considering giving up for real.  The nurse told me to get to the emergency room ASAP, but not to drive myself. It was the middle of the night and I had no one to call to take me. Next thing I knew, 2 police officers were at my front door and the nurse was calling me back to make sure they’d gotten to me. Then came the paramedics and the great fun of explaining that I had taken an overdose of sleeping pills

I was taken by ambulance to the emergency room where I spent the rest of my night sitting alone and waiting. I was admitted to the Marian Center and I must say I was glad that they kept me. The hospital is a safe place. People are always checking on you and keeping tabs on you to make sure you’re ok. When you’ve felt for so long that you don’t have control over your own brain and it tends to wander into darkness, you live in near constant fear. At least I do when it gets bad. I’m scared of my own mind. I saw a new psychiatrist while I was there and he added even MORE meds (I hate taking so many meds each day). I also started my ECT treatments while I was there. I truly believe that my stay at the hospital saved my life, not to say that I always feel like I want it saved. I still have my days when all I want to do is give up.

There are days that I feel like nothing is ever going to change. Days that I hate myself for being sick and becoming a different version of me. There are days that I fall and can’t do anything. There are days I feel forgotten. I didn’t ask for this and I hate what it turns me into. I hate how much it has taken from me. I hate that I push away the people that I love and end up alone. Oh well, what’s done is done and I’m desperately trying to pick up all of the pieces of my life and put them back together.

The strangest snow day there ever was.

Thursday morning around 5 am, I found myself standing on my mom’s porch, in the snow; wearing pajamas, chacos, and a light fleece jacket. I remember my mom coming to the door and starting to freak out. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what she was so worried about; all I had done was show up at her house for breakfast as I do almost every single day. Sure, this time I had walked through the snow wearing sandals. And yeah, I was still wearing my pajamas and my jacket was nowhere near warm enough, but so what? Once I got inside, my mom kept asking where all I’d been and how long I’d been outside and what did I think I was doing. Unfortunately, I couldn’t answer those questions. I did have a few to ask myself though, “Where is Casey? She was with me…” and “What about Blondie? She should be here, too.”

“Jacque…what are you talking about? Casey is in Kansas and Blondie is in Joplin…you came here alone…”

 

“Oh wait,” I quickly said, “I meant Karman, I know she’s here, I can see her red hair peeking up over the couch and she was just at my house for hours before I decided to come here.”

“Jacque,” my mom said slowly, "I haven’t seen Karman in months, she didn’t come here with you…”

At this point, I was beginning to think things were a bit odd. After all, I distinctly remembered walking out of my house all together. I remember passing certain houses. I remember that when we arrived, my mom was standing by a big tree in her yard talking to her neighbor. It didn’t matter to me that there haven’t been neighbors there for probably a year, I KNEW I saw them. For the next couple of hours, I sat very still and confused as my mom kept trying to get straighter answers out of me. The thing was, I just couldn’t remember things, I tried so hard and all I could remember was the fact that I’d kept running into things in my house while Karman and I had been there chatting.

I got dropped back off at my house and tucked into my bed to warm up. Apparently, I didn’t do much sleeping though as my mom tells me she later returned to find me standing in my room talking to one of my teddy bears. I had tried to change my clothes, but couldn’t even handle that as I stood there in shorts, one sock, and my fleece jacket with no shirt under it. This gap of time when I was home alone is the hardest part to remember. Perhaps the being out in the cold had made me slightly more aware of things while I was outside walking. Who knows?

I certainly don’t know. I bet I do know one thing though, I bet at this point you’re thinking, “Man, this girl must have been seriously fucked up that night.” The thing is I wasn’t. I was stone cold sober. And I suppose that’s what really makes this deal a bit creepy for me. It would make more sense if I had been impaired. Like in Perks of Being a Wallflower when Charlie is given acid and he ends up standing in the driveway shoveling a perfect circle in the snow. But as I said, he was tripping so it made sense for him to think a tree turned into a dragon and for him to just fall asleep in the snow. My experience makes for less sense. After reading various things on the internet about this type of scenario (and after my mom called my nurses from the psych hospital to get their advice/ opinions) I believe I suffered what is known as a psychotic break. The basic premise being that sometimes things just get so bad in the brain that it shuts off for a little while; and you end up hallucinating.

This has never happened to me before and, man, I hope it never does again. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced. On that note, I suppose I can update on my brain in general again. On December 15, I was again admitted to the Marian Center because my treatment team and I all deemed me a danger to myself. I started an additional medication there which brings me up to 3 psych meds every day. Fun times. I also started my ECT treatments while I was in the hospital. They were pretty uneventful and all I can really remember from those days is being put to sleep the waking up later in my room. Unfortunately, I can’t say I’ve seen much of a change from the ECT treatments. Still, I haven’t given up hope that they may kick in later like medication is supposed to work.

Thank you all very much for your words of support and encouragement as I continue to try and battle through these long days and nights. You are far more helpful and uplifting than you can ever know. Also, please know that I don’t write about these things for attention. I write about these things because they should be perfectly normal to discuss, just like any other illness. I write about these things because I want someone else to see that it’s ok to reach out for help.

Reports from the battle in my brain.

A year ago, I was excited to come home and take a proper shower again. The idea of hot water and a vast array of soaps and shampoos available to me was seriously something that I looked forward to as I packed my bags to leave Honduras. A few days ago, I was happy simply because I finally had the motivation to take a real shower and not just jump in fast enough to make sure my hair doesn't turn into a grease ball. You see, ordinarily I love showering. I love being clean. I LOVE the smell of soap. But lately, showering seems like so much work and so pointless. It's strange the things that depression takes from you, like the motivation to simply shower.

So I guess you're probably clever enough to understand that I'm still not feeling well at all. I've been pretty quiet about this since after I got out of the hospital, but lately I have felt that perhaps writing things out would be therapeutic...so here I am. I had hope when I left the hospital. There was suddenly a light because my medicine had finally been adjusted by an expert and maybe, just maybe, that would give my brain the opportunity to level itself out. I held onto that bit of hope for the recommended 6 weeks that they tell you to give the medication to do its thing. Time passed and that hope began to fade. 6 weeks went by and there was no change. There came a night that was so dark that I literally gave up on everything, I was so upset to wake up the next morning. For weeks after that I struggled with processing this and coming to terms with the fact that I had failed even at giving up on life. I'm still trying to come to terms with it, really. But I just kept on living after that.

Then one morning I woke up and I felt great! I woke up the next day and it happened again; I was so happy to see a change. I thought things were finally turning around. After a week and a half of feeling great, things went down hill again. Now I feel like I'm back at square -5 and still falling all the time. One thing that never fails to upset me is seeing and knowing other people that get better. It certainly makes me feel like a terrible person, but I can't help but hate it when someone else tells me that medication helped them almost immediately. Here I am on huge doses and still surrounded by a cloud of depression.

I feel as though I have lost most of what makes me me. The neat freak in me has apparently gone to sleep as my house remains unclean and my dishes pile up in the sink. The independent part of me has come to rely on my mother to bring me groceries as going shopping alone causes me huge amounts of anxiety. I've quit doing anything besides going to work and sleeping. Oh, once a week I manage to drag myself to the therapist for an hour but that is only out of obligation, not because I feel like it does any good. Watching movies, doing puzzles, reading, coloring, spending time with people, etc. have all become things that feel like monumental amounts of effort that I simply cannot muster. A full day of work tires me out to the point that 12 hours of sleep never even seems like enough anymore. But there's one little glimmering ray of terrifying hope on the horizon and that is ECT.

On December 19, I will begin Electroconvulsive therapy as basically a last ditch effort to make my brain work right again. ECT is the process of sending an electric shock through your brain and inducing a short seizure. This is done several times over a span of 2 weeks. The idea is basically the same as turning a computer off and back on again. It's uncertain exactly how it works, but this therapy is said to be effective in about 80% of people versus the roughly 40% that medication helps. It is terrifying, to be certain. I am scared  out of my mind. Even though it's much safer than the old versions of shock therapy, it seems like there's so much that can go wrong when playing around directly with your brain. But as I have told my family, my brain and the thoughts that it produces are far scarier to me than even the idea of lost memory or any other unfavorable outcome. For now, I will hold into this last little bit of hope and maybe, just maybe, I will get to actually start 2017 fresh and not in this deep dark hole which I have lived in for so long now.

I kept living.

About 2 and a half weeks ago, a big thing happened in my life; I was hospitalized for a week. I know your first reaction is to be really worried and quickly ask what happened and if I’m ok. I also know that when I tell you why, your reaction will likely not be one of concern. You probably won’t know how to react. Most likely the only thing you will come up with to say is something along the lines of, “ok…are you better now” and when I tell you that I’m not better now, you won’t know what to say and it’ll just be weird for both of us. So I don’t really talk about it and only a few people know. But I want to talk about it, I want to scream and shout and ask question. I want to have deep conversations about very real things and not freak people out. I want to feel like I’m not alone in the world. I want the stigma that keeps me quiet and makes things weird to disappear. I want people to talk about things freely and not be ashamed of what they’re going through. I want to talk, so that’s what I’m going to do.

You may not know much of my story, so I’ll back up a bit for you…last April things just kind of changed. My brain began telling me all sorts of terrible things. Unfortunately, those terrible things were an unbroken stream and I started believing the lies that my brain came up with. I began self harming to cope with hearing all of the terrible things all the time. It was a tough time, but I had something to look forward to; I was moving to Honduras in August to live my dream of teaching in a foreign country. There were days that I questioned the choice to move forward with Honduras. I was terrified that I would be stuck in the lies of my mind and that it would be tougher to face them when I was all alone and so far from everything that is familiar. Other days I thought it would be better for me; perhaps the change of pace and scenery would actually be what cured me. Long story short; Honduras was amazing, but it did not make me feel better. I got worse and worse until I decided that I needed professional help. As it turns out, Honduras essentially doesn’t have mental health care. When I got to the point that I couldn’t see myself living until the end of the school year, I decided to move home early. I made the move back in December and had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for the beginning of January.

My first doctor’s appointment was terrifying for me. I was so nervous to talk to a complete stranger about my depression and how I thought maybe medication could help me. Luckily, my doctor is one of the kindest people I have ever met and she was extremely caring about everything I was going through. She went through a series of questions with me to find out how bad things were. A score of less than 9 is considered normal and I scored a 21. So basically, things were very bad. I was prescribed my first antidepressant which I stayed on for a month. That first medicine did absolutely nothing for me so my doctor decided to change it up. The second medicine seemed to help a little bit. During this time I was also visiting with my second counselor since I’d been home; I didn’t feel comfortable with the first one and waited months to get in with a different one at Mercy. This second counselor suggested upping my meds to see if they could help even more. I liked the idea of feeling even better, so I talked to my doctor about it. Unfortunately, I ended up having horrible panic attacks on the high dose of my second medication. I also had to cancel a few therapy appointments due to work. When I received a letter from Mercy saying that my therapist had the option to drop me for cancelling, I decided to look outside of Mercy for a therapist. Luckily, I found one who could get me in on a regular basis and was much closer to home and my day job so it was easier to make the appointments. I started seeing my new counselor and taking a new medication that didn’t give me panic attacks.

I was on my new medicine for a while and becoming very frustrated with not feeling better. During this time, I was doing some research on mental illness and came across something called borderline personality disorder. I really thought the symptoms described me, as did some of the people who know me best. I discussed this possibility with my doctor who added a medication that might help boost my antidepressants if I did, in fact, have BPD. This new medication is classed as an anti-psychotic which still kind of bothers me, but I suppose it’s really just a name and doesn’t mean all that much. After 3 weeks on this anti-psychotic, I sent a very honest check in message to my doctor before it was time to refill the prescription. An unfortunate truth that I had to share with her was that there are times that I am suicidal and I am very afraid that one day I will have trouble seeing the truth beyond the lies of my brain. I got a call from my doctor that night, she said she wanted me to try inpatient care because we had tried so hard to make me feel better and nothing was working. (I forgot to tell you that she had referred me to a psychiatrist earlier and Mercy Springfield was booking for next May, Joplin got me in sooner but still not until the end of November) My doctor felt that the way things were going; I might not make it until the end of November. She told me to go to the emergency room ASAP and let them do a psychological evaluation and hopefully admit me. I was terrified, but told her I would think about it. I asked my therapist what she thought and also got a call from her. My therapist wouldn’t get off the phone with me until I agreed to go straight to the hospital after work. The rest of my night is sort of a blur, but my mom and I sat in the emergency room all night until she eventually had to leave to take care of my nephews. Around 6 am, the psych nurse came and talked to me. Shortly after, she returned to tell me my doctor had placed a call to the on call psychiatrist to get me admitted. They decided to keep me at the Marian Center (Mercy’s psych ward).

I was absolutely terrified and shell shocked as 2 nurses and a security guard escorted me from the ER to the Marian Center. I started to feel slightly more at ease as I became acclimated with my surroundings. One of the staff members, who I would come to trust wholly, told me that they would keep me safe while I was there. I immediately felt somewhat better because when self harm is your coping mechanism, you always feel as though you’re in danger from yourself. I must admit that it was nice to know that I was constantly being watched and checked in on. What I found at the Marian Center was community that I can’t have anywhere else. I was surrounded by people that, like me, suffered with mental illness. Everyone was so real. There was no pretense. When things felt terrible, we talked about it. People were real about everything were dealing with. No one was trying to hide. Smiles and laughter were always genuine. Not a single person told me to smile or think more positively or accused me of doing things for attention. That week was something that I absolutely needed, in fact; I think I left too soon. My meds had been tripled by the time I went home and were to be upped even more in a week. I’m now on medicine that is quadruple the dose I used to take and a couple other medications to assist. Right now, I don’t feel any better, but maybe one day soon I will. Unfortunately, antidepressants take about a month to take hold and the waiting period is absolute hell. For now, I have a small sliver of hope because there is still time for this medicine to do what it is supposed to do. Mostly, I still feel the same. It’s a lot of being very tired and feeling all alone in the world. It’s a lot for hopelessness and hurt, but despite all of that; I will keep living.

On coming home.

10 days. That's all the time that now stands between me and everything that is familiar. 10 days until I'm greeted by my family at the airport. 10 days until I get to sleep in my nice, big, fluffy bed again. 10 days until I can eat all of the foods that I've been missing. 10 days until I get to watch movies with my best friend again. 10 days until I'm home.

But that means only 10 days until I walk away from my dream. Only 10 days until I give in to this terrible thing I've been fighting. And while it's true that it has already been ruling my life for so long, I feel like this is me finally admitting that I'm no longer in control; the mess in my brain is.

In case you were wondering, that's not a fun thing to admit.

I am not coming home simply to celebrate the holidays with my loved ones, that would have me much more excited about what waits for me on the other end of my journey. The timing just happens to coincide with Christmas. I think this makes things a bit tricky. There's family to see, things to do, places to go. I want to want to do all of that. I want to be excited for that. I wish I was coming home to celebrate the beauty that is this season.

The reality is that I am coming home broken and weary. All I want when I get back is to crawl into my bed, curl up under my cozy blankets, and stay there forever. That's not meant as a hyperbole, either. I just want to sleep and never have to face the world. In fact, some days all I can do is sleep. I get out of bed each morning only because I would feel even worse if I left everyone to cover my classes for the day.

I've finally been able to shake the guilt of leaving but only because the school already has a replacement lined up. But I'm still greatly conflicted about all of this. I feel like it ultimately it wasn't my choice at all. I never would have chosen to walk away from all of this. But I also would never have chosen to try and keep fighting for my life here when I felt I was bound to eventually lose. So I'm doing  what I have to do to at least give myself a fighting chance here.

Ultimately, what I'm trying to get at here is the fact that I need time. Part of me cannot wait to see your lovely faces, to be wrapped in the warm embraces of my loved ones, and to share stories of the past 4 months with you. A bigger part of me is terrified. I am overwhelmed by the mere thought of suddenly being surrounded by so many people, of suddenly having to appear ok for all of those people. It's hard work to put on that smile and pretend that it's all alright. Not that I necessarily think I have to do that all of the time, but I'm sure you are uninterested in seeing me when I'm in my bed that I haven't left for 2 days and my face is tear streaked and I don't even have the energy to feed myself. But that's my reality more often than not. So please don't think it's anything personal if I don't see you right away when I get back or if I'm not up to doing something with you.

Thank you all again for your love and support, it means the world to me.

Keep Climbing

Lately, I have made a point of going out for a walk each day after school. I don’t mean a casual stroll, either. You see, Copán is built on hills. Not gently rolling hills, either. These hills are huge and steep. But I set out every day and make a path around town that has me climbing all of the biggest hills around. I usually get about half way up the hill before I start cussing myself for doing such a thing. My legs start to burn. My lungs start to protest. I want to stop. But every time I want to stop, I remember the days when I used to run.

I remember the lessons I learned from my cross country coaching friend, Rachel, about running hills.

“NEVER stop on a hill, it’s harder to get going again.”

“Make it to the top, your rest will come on the way back down.”

“Don’t look at the top of the hill. Head down, focus on the step right in front of you. The top will be there before you know it.”

“Slow down if you must, but DO NOT STOP.”

What I’ve realized is that I love how these lessons relate to life as a whole. We’re all going to have to climb hills in our lives. Some are bigger than others. Some hills seem like they will never end. Sometimes we just want to stop climbing because it is so hard. I’m there right now.

I’ve been there for quite some time. The hill I’m climbing seems like Mt. Everest most days because I’m looking at the top of the hill. Not a day goes by that I don’t want to quit. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish for just a quick break. But that’s not how life works, it keeps rolling. Take a break and it may pass you by. So I know I can’t stop. But I can slow down when I need to, as long as I never stop moving. I’ll reach the top eventually and there will be rest.

If you are where I am, let me encourage you to keep climbing. Don’t look at the top of the hill. Put your head down and make the step that is right in front of you. Never quit making those steps. Slow down if you must, but keep moving forward. You will find rest one day.

Keep climbing.