Blah, blah, wedding, blah

Simple. That's all I want. Simple. Leave me alone.

Mr. GameBoy and I are getting married in a little over 2 weeks. I have done everything in my power to make this a simple and stress-free day. And yet, everyone else seems to have the ability to make it twice as difficult as it should be.

At this point... leave me the hell alone. I don't care. I'm going to slap the next person that asks me to make another wedding decision.

At first, we were going to have a regular simple wedding in the church. The more I thought about it the more nauseous I became, thinking about all of the criticizing eyes watching me exchange my personal vows of commitment with my future spouse. I just couldn't do it. There was no way. It was too stressful. So, we decided on a private ceremony with our immediate families. That's when people got pissed off... why would we invite only a few people and not them? They didn't get it.

Drama drama drama. I'm fed up. So no one is freaking invited. Just us.

All of our loved ones are invited to the reception after the private ceremony. And yet, our mothers are criticizing us about people we haven't invited.... extended family members, their coworkers, church members, the mailman, his fourth cousin twice removed.

I want a simple white dress with a shrug... it doesn't have to be an elaborate gown, just simple. My mother is making it, and has known for a year. Yet, it has not been started. When I asked about it I got fussed out and told that her "best work is done last minute under pressure." LOL, I just want to make sure I won't be getting married in jeans. Should I not be worried?

Wedding favors... wedding favors?!? This is a simple wedding, cheap. I can't afford wedding favors. It's my wedding day. Not yours. You don't get a present.

What type of cake? What kind of flowers? What should we wear? What color? Should I have the table cloths pressed? Jewelry? Hair? Makeup? Shoes? Dress? Candles? Sand? Pictures? Guest book? Invitations?

LEAVE ME ALONE!

Be glad that I am throwing a party for all of you to celebrate with us. So celebrate our marriage, don't turn it into a shenanigans. I don't care what you wear. I don't care what you bring. Just come and be happy, dammit!

Ask me one more question and see if I show up.

I might be crazy, but I aint no liar.

I should've known better. When you are in the mental ward at a hospital, sarcasm is very much under-appreciated. After spending 12 hours a day with crazy people, you may think the nurses would have some sort of humor, right? Well... no... humor leads to plastic spoon restrictions.

All I wanted was some mascara. My eyes were baggy from lack of sleep that occurs when an orderly does room checks every 15 minutes throughout the night. I had been crying because Mr. GameBoy packed me 13 pairs of socks, and only 3 pairs of underwear... I mean, seriously?!?

They had given me the basic hygiene necessities--toothbrush, toothpaste, deoderant, an awful bottle of "body and hair wash", and a comb. I approached the nurse's station seeking out my mascara. Nurse Lauren said, "It's in your locker. We are going to keep it locked up so you don't hurt yourself with it."

And here's where I went wrong. I'm pissed, first of all. My eyes are puffy, my hair is in a shamble, unshowered, my lips cracked. I just wanted some damned mascara to at least make me look less like a corpse. My mind is reeling. Of all the things that I had in my possession to hurt myself with, and you're going to take my mascara... bendable, soft bristles, no metal or glass on it...

So I replied, "Isn't the comb that y'all gave me much more dangerous than a tube of mascara?"

Her eyes widened and she whipped past me in the direction of my room. I followed in shock. When I reached my room she was frantically tearing my drawers open, until she found the culprit--my comb.

I protested to her, her charge nurse, the next shift of nurses, my doctor, and some more nurses, all to no avail. I was told that they spoke about it in their morning report meeting, and that I wouldn't be allowed to have it back. I was now on suicide watch.

Fast-forward to that night when we were given ice cream as an evening snack. The male technician handing out the little cups and plastic spoons, approached me and asked me if I was Miss CrazyPants. I said yes. He said, "Make sure you return your spoon to me when you're done." I looked around. Everyone else had their spoons. They could throw them in the trash can. I had been singled out.

I protested and told him he was mistaken, and that I was perfectly fine with throwing it away like everyone else. While he went to check out my story, I rushed to my room with tears streaming down my face, and gulped down the ice cream before they could stop me. I hid the spoon.

Over the course of the next couple of days I would steal plastic spoons and hide them... hell, maybe I am crazy, but what else could I do? I hoarded all the spoons I could get my hands on. Of course they noticed my missing utensils sometimes, but they never found my hiding spot... it was a good one.

I got on good with one of the nurses, and she finally told me that Nurse Lauren had reported that I threatened to stab myself with my eye pencil. That's funny... I'm a ginger.... I look ridiculous if I use an eye pencil... I don't even own one and I certainly didn't bring one. But, apparently it didn't matter that the nurse had lied... I was crazy, and that meant I couldn't be trusted.

Here's the thing that baffles me. There are so many opportunities to hurt myself in creative ways. What about the spoons that the other patient's threw away? Couldn't I grab one out of the trashcan? How about the loose screw in that chair? How about my fingernails? What about the underwire in my bra? The sharp edge of the light vent? The pen in the common room? Breaking the small trashcan in my room into sharp pieces? The only thing they managed to do was piss me off and depress me more. But I chose not to hurt myself even though I could and I was mad... didn't want to give them the satisfaction of being right.

I learned my lesson... don't be a smart ass with people that have the power to lock you up and throw away the key... because they just may.

Crazy Girl...

I'm always telling Mr. GameBoy that I'm freaking crazy and he should get out before we get married. He then tells me I'm crazy because he's madly in love with me and he couldn't live without me and BoogerFace. I never believe him.

So, I went to the hospital for a few days to calm down a bit after a crazy spell. I got back yesterday.

This is the video Mr. GameBoy sent me today :)




This has got to be the most hilarious and romantic thing I have seen in a while! I said the same thing to him a few days ago.... Get me out of here!

DBT App... Let's give this a try

One thing I like to do to entertain my mind is browsing on Pinterest. It occurred to me that there may be BPD boards out there. Today I found a Pin for a DBT app. What a great idea! At my fingertips I could have skills that may help me get through a difficult time. And since my therapist told me that an opening for Dialectical Behavioral Therapy will not be available in their office until September... well, let's just say it left me feeling not very hopeful about getting through the next 4 months. Now, I'm not one that likes to spend money, so I wasn't sure that I could find a free app for DBT. Much to my surprise, there was one, DBT911. It does not have whole lessons, more of a short overview of the skills--a quick-list of simple things from each skill. It also has a random skill generator. This is brilliant. It will give you things to do to take your mind off of the current situation.

Some suggestions:
"List four things you see, three things you hear, and two things you feel the touch of."
"Go to the woods and scream out loud."
"Have a bath or take a shower."
"Saw down a board and smell the sawdust."
"Pick out a nice box and fill it with beautiful things or items with a special meaning to you."
"Start a pillow fight with someone else or the wall."

It gives me a sense of security that I have some help, even if it's just an app on my phone.

Hypothyroidism and Mental Health

When something is not right with your body, don't let someone tell you that you're wrong.

 It was October, and I had wound up in the ER. There was something wrong. My panic attacks had been coming more frequently, usually daily. It got to the point where I knew I couldn't take it anymore.

So, although I was strongly against it and knew that they wouldn't be able to help me, I went to the ER in desperation at the encouragement of my family. As I spent hours in the waiting room with the dozens of others seeking midnight help, I couldn't help but feel trapped by my decision to come. And when I finally did get seen by the physician I felt stupid for coming. I could feel their disapproval boring through me. I had come to the EMERGENCY room for some anxiety. Why did I even come?

They did lab work, urinalysis, blood tests, and they gave me some Vallium to help calm me down. The biggest shock came when they returned only to tell me that my thyroid levels were abnormal. I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism that night, and they told me to present to my primary care physician to regulate and follow my thyroid issues.

Here's the thing about the thyroid. It releases hormones that regulate many other areas of the body. Issues that arise related to mental health are anxiety, depression, stress, and mood swings. I was put on a thyroid medication. They also prescribed an anti-depressant for the anxiety panic disorder I had developed.

I went from being unmedicated and gripping erratically to my sanity, to being medicated and completely inconsolable. I have grown incredibly worse these past few months...depressed, anxious, hardly able to leave the house, self mutilating, contemplating suicide, having increased intensity of panic attacks. I quit my job that I have had for over three years. I started a new job and left that after only 5 weeks. I couldn't be around people. I hated myself and couldn't even stand my own presence. It got to the point that even knowing that there were other people in the world would overwhelm me. I cried hysterically balled up in the fetal position for no reason. I felt empty and alone. I wanted no one around, but I was so lonely I could die. I'd been hospitalized 6 times in 3 months. The medications only made things worse. They changed them. It got worse, so they were changed again. And again. No matter what they put me on, my emotions only became more uncontrollable and sporadic.

Why was I worse? What was wrong with me?

Last week I went to the ER again. I was afraid for my life. When I went into a panic, I would lose control of reasonable thoughts. I knew that I was no longer safe at home, and I wanted them to help by admitted me to the inpatient hospital again. I told the physician my thoughts, and yet she refused to have me admitted because I "wasn't suicidal." It wasn't enough that I wanted to hurt myself when I was panicking. She wouldn't admit me because I was calm when she examined me and because I hadn't done anything yet. She told me to take my medications and to make an appointment with my therapist. The health care system definitely has some flaws I would say...

When she left I freaked out. I hid behind the hospital bed on the floor sobbing and shaking, despite the protests of my "babysitter" that made sure I didn't hurt myself. Why did I still have to have someone watching me if the physician thought that I was safe?!? Ha!

The nurse approached my bed an hour or so later with the discharge papers. I liked him. He had been pissed at how the physician had treated me. He was outspoken. Although I'm sure he wasn't supposed to say these next things to me, it made the whole visit to the ER worth every penny. He said that I had hypothyroidism, and that when you have that and mental illness the medications can be frequently prescribed in error. He explained that the thyroid regulates hormones and, therefore, many parts of the body. When the thyroid is messed up, it screws up other body systems. When you throw in antidepressants in a person with thyroid problems, it frequently has negative effects. But physicians typically ignore this. He proceeded to rant about the physicians. My primary care physician is in charge of my hypothyroidism, and ignores the mental illnesses. My psychiatrist treats my mental illnesses, and ignores my medical issues. The problem? When you have hypothyroidism and try to treat mental illnesses with medication, it can throw off the whole body.

This man was brilliant!

After that long night in the hospital I came home and began researching. Antidepressants are the enemy to hypothyroidism treatment. It explained why the medications had only increased my anxiety and depression, no matter how many different meds they tried. None of them worked! I also looked up my mood regulation medication... it too was not supposed to be prescribed to patients that had hypothyroidism. I looked up my anxiety medication and it too was not good. I couldn't believe it! After months of searching I had finally found hope!

I do not suggest you go against the orders of your doctors. I'm only telling my personal experience.

The primary care physician will not listen to my protests of inadequate maintenance of my thyroid. My psychiatrist thinks I'm being unreasonable for wanting to discontinue my medications. But I have to trust myself. I know that my situation is only becoming worse and I know that if this continues I may do something stupid. I needed a more specialized opinion. I have made an appointment with an endocrinologist to do more extensive study of my thyroid. It is also my hope that following closely with the endocrinologist will shed some light on possible options that can be discussed with my psychiatrist on how to treat my mental issues without interfering with my thyroid.

 Hope above hope I will get some much needed help and information from this specialist.

If you have thyroid issues, be sure to do extensive research before starting new medications. It is truly shocking how many medications can interfere (including birth control! *Gasp*).

There's no such thing??? Really...

I'm now in my mid-twenties and have only been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder within the past year. According to the DSM criteria, one cannot be diagnosed BPD until "early adulthood". Here's my beef with that: I have had this disorder since a child. I have been misdiagnosed for over 12 years. It makes me wonder if all these years of anguish, multiple hospitalizations, and inadequate medications were in vain.

As I reflect back, I can remember having signs as early as 11 years old. There had been a trauma in my life when I was a child. I started self-mutilating at 11, using pieces of glass from the bedroom window I had broken in anger. I was sneaking out at night with my older sister to party with her friends. I was stealing everything I could get my hands on.

When I was first sent to an inpatient mental health facility, I was 13, and they diagnosed me with Manic Depression (now commonly known as Bipolar Disorder). After 3 hospitalizations within 4 months, I learned a few things. Firstly, medications didn't help. Secondly, I can't tell anyone the meds don't work because they will think I'm ignorant and/or a stubborn brat. And thirdly, I learned how to be "normal". I learned the art of faking it. This is the way I'm supposed to act. I shall act this way. I wanted everyone to be proud of me, not disappointed.

One of the main symptoms of BPD is the fear of actual or perceived abandonment. It took me a while to understand and see that in myself. I'm erratically afraid of rejection and disapproval. I can't disappoint people, make them angry, or sad. I can't stand myself if I do. I loathe myself when I hurt others or gain their disapproval. And, because of that, I "got better" so to speak.

Why didn't medications help? I was diagnosed incorrectly. Frequently it is hard for physicians to differentiate between the symptoms of Bipolar and Borderline. And I can only assume that they wouldn't have treated me as Borderline yet because I wasn't an adult. Bipolar can be treated with different combinations of medications. BPD is primarily treated through therapy. It cannot be cured with a medication. It's very hard for me to be able to picture an end result when the strength has to come from within me, not by a magical fix. It will take a lot of work.

The messed up thing? I'm broke. Oh, yes, I have private insurance. They all assume that since I'm insured I shouldn't have any problems at all going to DBT (dialectical behavior therapy) once a week. DBT is the number one recommended group therapy treatment for borderline personality disorder. When you take DBT, you usually have to go to the group therapy one day a week, as well as have a private therapy session with a counselor once a week. So, two co-pays a week, about 4 weeks in a month... that would be.... yes, 8 co-pays a month. My co-pay? $64. So, $64 x 8 = $512 a month. And then when you add in the psychiatrist appointment once a month, another $64, I'm looking at $576 a month.

I know what you're thinking... what about a sliding scale? Well, in order to qualify for their sliding scale fee, you have to be uninsured. Yes, uninsured. I don't qualify. When it comes to mental health a lot of times you are better off not having any insurance at all. If I didn't have insurance, I could probably squeeze out the fee based off of the sliding scale. It's much, much less than my co-pay per session.

In any case, I look back and wonder if I would be a functioning adult if treatment had been available to me at a younger age. I have had symptoms since I was a preteen, and they went untreated for more than a decade. I cut myself. I stole things. I acted on impulse. I was afraid of abandonment. I was promiscuous. I had significant emotional dynamics. I had childhood trauma. I drove recklessly. I would binge eat. I went through relationships like I did underwear. I often felt disconnected from my body--the world was a dream.

Maybe I could have prevented many years of scars. Maybe I wouldn't have been arrested a few times as a teen. Maybe I wouldn't have gone to juvenile detention when I broke probation. I wouldn't have been the "high school whore". I would have had more stable relationships. I wouldn't have had a baby at 18. That is one thing I wouldn't change... my son.

And this makes 1...

I often have to wonder how I got to this place. I sit here waiting, trying to let the time pass so that the impulse will pass as well.

Sometimes the urge is overpowering and I must give in. I just barely stopped myself from moving the tissue box where I knew my blade hid underneath. This time I succeeded.

As I sat back on my bed in the quiet of the house, I grew overwhelmed by both the world and the temptation. What can I do? How can I get past this?

And so, here is a blog about it. Having a journal is supposed to help sometimes... you can write all your deepest, darkest secrets... get it all out. In my case, I couldn't do it. It seemed selfish. There may be other people out there that are unable to cope, and they may be searching online for a solution like I am.

I have borderline personality disorder. I cut myself, and have years of scars marring my body. I rarely leave my house. I am overwhelmed, anxious, panicking, depressed, angry, hopeless, no one will help me, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. BUT, I will get through this. I have to. I'm also a mother. And there is nothing in this world that is stronger than my desire to be his mother.

It's not logical to believe that life will never get better. Personally, I have always believed that life always get better, eventually. You just have to get through the bad parts. I've never been suicidal. I had always held a firm belief that it wasn't the answer, and that things would improve.

I've been waiting for so long, it seems. I'm at the edge of losing hope.

Suicide is not neccessarily the desire to die, but more of an inability to cope in most situations. And if someone has so much pain that they are incapible of coping, and there is no other way out... well, I became that person, as much as I hate to admit it.

I didn't want to die. I wanted the pain to subside. I desperately wanted to sleep and not have this dreadful overwhelming pressure closing in around me. And I took one too many pills. I was desperate. I didn't see another way out.

The thing is... I had asked for help! In desperation I had gone to the ER, and they had turned me away saying I wasn't "suicidal" and I wasn't a harm to myself. I had tried to get in to see the doctor as an outpatient. It takes about a month to schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist or even a therapist. There's no in-between. I'm not sick enough to go to the hospital, but not well enough to be outside of it.

Mental health is a funny thing. It's not physically tangible. Others can't see it. You can't run a blood test to get a value of the severity. They can't listen to your heart and hear the sickness boiling inside. You can desperately need help, ask for it, and be turned away time and again. They don't believe you, can't take time out of their day, and can offer no alternatives. As a mentally unhealthy person, let me just say, crazy people can't wait!

The desperation I felt that there was no way that I would get better, that no one would help, that I couldn't even help myself... it consumed me. It led me to a bottle of pills that I thought would help. I took one, two, three, four, with no results. I kept taking them. I wanted the pain gone. I wanted to sleep.

I slept for 2 days. In the hospital. I guess I got my wish.