I’m almost a week out from when I went from panic attacks and wrestling the tonnage of my self-doubt to bat-shit crazy suicidal self-harming banshee.
How time flies.
My mum keeps asking me how I am, am I feeling ‘better’. This morning I just had to tell her that no I wasn’t better but I was OK and that this wasn’t a quick fix and it was going to take a while for me to be better.
Many of her generation struggle with the whole mental health topic despite hearing all the research and news stories and stories about their kids and their friends kids who actually can say, ‘hmmm, maybe it isn’t that normal to imagine topping myself as one of the solutions to getting through today” and seek help to stop or at least narrow their choice of coping options to less life-ending ones. My parents tend to get it now after seeing me hit rock bottom and claw back up again but even so, just asking me if I’m ‘better’ makes my head explode.
At the moment I am functioning. I’m putting one foot in front of the other and savouring the fact I am not edgy, that I don’t have a pit in my stomach, that I’m not crying more than 5 times a day, that I am not imagining driving our chef’s knife down through my hands and pinning them to our breadboard (hello weird Jesus complex anyone? It’s my very own foodistÂ crucifixion) and that I’m not imagining how blissful it would feel as I fell from Narrabeen headland.
I guess if we’re looking at it on that scale then fuck feeling better, I’M CURED!
Dr M gave me a script and permission to be taking 5mg of diazepam three times a day. That plus a bipolar drug at night which is excellent at lifting mood and helping sleep. Then microscopically introducing Zoloft. I’m up to a whole half a tablet! I haven’t needed that fell-a-horse dosage of diazepam – in fact I’ve only been taking one in the morning with the zoloft and it’s pretty much been enough. Last night was bad and I realised that maybe I could take the medicine my doctor told me to.
Let’s just file this post under ‘progress’.