I'm lying to you.

Ever since I've been back in the world of the internet machine, I've been sharing things with all of you.

I shared pictures of my artwork.

I showed you the quotes that I posted at my house to try to keep some positive vibes around.

I posted pictures from family weekend.

I shared posts from To Write Love on Her Arms.

I told you that you're all making me feel very loved.

The only thing is...I'm lying to you, or at least I feel like I'm lying to you.

I'm doing that thing that we all do on social media, I'm sharing only the good stuff. I'm painting the picture that I want you to see.

In that picture I'm happy and better and everything is fine.

In that picture I never think about the fact that I think the world would be a better place without me. In that picture I don't feel alone. 

In that picture I don't feel like I'm a burden to everyone.

In that picture it's not dark as night.

In that picture smiling is not a chore.

In that picture I'm not anxious as all get out in normal situations.

In that picture it doesn't take 20 pills a day just to keep me functioning.

But that picture isn't the real one. That picture is the goal, but it's not my life right now. There are very few happy little trees in my world right now. My world right now is pretty dark. It's not as dark as it was, thankfully, but it's still pretty dark. I still fell most days like I am a burden to everyone, especially my family. It doesn't matter what anyone tells me or shows me, I feel like I'm such a burden. Much of the time I still feel as though the world would be a better place without me in it. It's been quite some time since I've felt like actually taking myself out of the world; I'm incredibly thankful for that. I'm learning lots of things to help with those thoughts, as well. I'm working to reframe my irrational thoughts into more rational ones. I'm working on using coping skills to pull myself out of the terrible thoughts so that I don't get stuck in them and just sit around and ruminate. That doesn't always work, but it's something. One thing that's been really bothering me as of late is my anxiety. It has gotten to where most of the groups that I'm supposed to go to freak me the fuck out. Luckily, I'm able to employ my coping skills such as coloring or playing with my fidget spinner when I'm having a tough time. I'm working and I'm learning and that's what matters right now. 

So I do feel like I'm lying to you by only sharing all of the good things, but honestly speaking, who really wants to know about the bad?

Fighting for my Life

Not that anyone really gives a shit, but I've been totally out of communication for about 2 months now and I thought I'd tell the world why.

You see, about 2 months ago my therapist and I came to the realization that I simply wasn't stable, which was completely true. I wasn't doing anything at all besides working; my depression had reached the point that I wouldn't get out of bed even to shower or eat. There was a constant thought in my brain that I shouldn't be alive anymore. I lost the ability to trust myself to keep myself safe from myself and my terrible thoughts. I was urged to go to the emergency room and see about getting checked into the psych ward. Seeing how wonky my brain is and how bad my suicidal ideation was, I was admitted.I spent about 2 weeks there, had some ECT (electric shock therapy) treatments, got some new meds, and was sent home.

The thing is that they never should have let me go home. I was home for one day and decided that it was time for me to be done on this earth. Long story short, my mom found me the next morning, passed out, and I was taken by ambulance back to the hospital. I woke up in the emergency room to my parents on either side of me, looking sadder than I've ever seen before. I spent another 2 weeks in the hospital. I got some more ECT treatments, had some more therapy, and was again sent on my way, being diagnosed with Major Depression, PTSD, and Borderline Personality Disorder.

I was discharged to a long term treatment facility that would hopefully help me learn coping skills and things so I could learn to be home alone again.  So I'm in southern California at a treatment center and have been for a month. My treatment team says I'll be here for AT LEAST 90 days, likely more. I can see why, because I'm still having trouble wanting to live. I'm scared to death of eventually going home because I don't trust myself to be alone with the terrible things that my brain comes up with. But I'm trying to learn what I need to in order to be able to trust myself again.

I'm trying so hard to fight my mother fucker of a brain. I'm trying so hard to do this for my family. I'm still not at a place where I see the point in getting better for myself, but I can fight for the people I love. I fight for those 2 little boys that deserve to have their aunt around to see them grow up. I fight for my mom who has always worked her ass off to give me the world. I fight for my dad who loves me so well and is always there when I need him. I fight for my big sister who would fight anyone and anything for me. I fight for my step-dad who came into my life and loves me like his own, no questions asked. I fight because it's not fair to put them through the pain of just seeing me deal with these illnesses and it would be even more unfair to put them through the pain of losing a daughter/ sister/ aunt. I fight for them and I try so hard to remember that on my really bad days.

So that's where I've been and why I've been so quiet.
Also, if anyone wants to be super cool, I love snail mail! Letters and care packages are my favorite! My address is:
Sovereign Health
Atten: Jacque Graham MH
1211 Puerta Del Sol Suite 200
San Clemente, CA 92673

Message in a Bottle.

I'm going to tell you a story. This story might surprise some of you. This story might disappoint some of you because it might change how you look at me. However you react to this story, it's ok. I've made my peace with it. I suppose if I disappoint you, you'll make your peace with it eventually, too. At least I hope you do.

Once upon a time, I was in an immense amount of pain. I still am, but we'll get to that later. I don't know if you've ever felt terrible all the time. And I mean all the time. Day and night. Even when you're with people you love. Even when you're laughing. Even when you're doing things you ordinarily love. It's like a night that never ends, a tunnel that goes on forever, a weight that is always on your shoulders, a fog that never lifts. It is utter hopelessness. It is depression. I have severe major depressive disorder and battled against it without any help for more than a year before I ever sought help.

When you're in pain like that for that long, all you want is for it to end. You want to feel better. Heck, you just want to feel anything. You spend days on end chained to your bed, sobbing, trying to remember what it's like to be part of the real world, trying to think of ways to do anything but what you're doing. Sometimes the only thing you can think of that will make you feel different comes in a bottle. So you drain as many bottles you can find. Perhaps the answer is somewhere near the bottom of one? Not that one. Maybe the next one? And you keep trying. But that bottles never seem to hold the right answer. They make you feel a bit lighter though, make the fake laughter come a little easier.

And feeling even a little bit lighter is nice. So you try to figure out how to stay lighter all the time. What good is it to only feel ok when you're home alone at night? So you get yourself there during the day, too. You put things that have the opposite effect of coffee into your travel coffee cups. As far as you know, nobody suspects a thing. You take stupid risks, opening cans while you drive, sipping from them as you're driving down the road. Work isn't off limits anymore. Heck, work is where you need to be the most 'on' for people. You have to appear happy and you don't know how to make it through a whole shift pretending if you don't have help.

You know it's a problem. You're hiding things. You're lying. You're making sure to throw bottles in the dumpster so no one sees your trash can overflowing with them. But you try to play it off like it's not a big deal, like they can't tell. In a way, you want someone to ask, you want help. You want someone to step in and make you stop destroying yourself. Every time your best friend asks why she has to drive to dinner, you want her to look you in the eye and tell you she knows you're lying. You want her to tell you that you need help. You want someone to be the one to tell you they love you too much watch you go down the road you're going. But no one seems to notice. There's a point when you want to see how blatant you can be about things before someone says something.

Then one day, it happens. That best friend of yours has not been blind. She has not been ignoring you. She just didn't know what to do, didn't know how to help. But finally, she speaks up. She tells you how dangerously you're living. She gives you the facts about how what you're doing is more hurtful than helpful. She begs you to stop. But you still don't know what to do. At this point, it's become habitual. It's just a normal part of your day and you don't feel normal without it. But she tells you that you're not in it alone. She tells you she's there for you; she'll hold your hand no matter how hard it gets. And she does. And you send text after text, day after day about how hard it is, how much your brain is screaming at you to make it feel lighter again. But she sticks by you and answers every message, helps you stay distracted, reminds you that you're never alone. And you make it through, slowly, but successfully.

You stop hiding things. The bottles disappear. You stop craving what you know is terrible. The darkness doesn't go away, but you learn to live in it without your crutch. Even after several months, you still sometimes get the urge to feel that lightness, to embrace that easy laughter, but you fight it. You know you would only regret it and feel like a failure if you were to give in. So you stand in that dark tunnel, feeling your way along walls that seem to never end. You can't see even the tiniest sliver of light ahead. But at least you're no longer stumbling through that tunnel; you're standing upright and strong. Nothing outside of your brain is controlling and you're no longer ashamed of everyday choices.

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.