It's Been A Year

Exactly one year ago, I left home and headed west. By this time (1:26 pm) I had made it to the entrance gate that leads to Antelope Island. 

I stopped there at the picnic table, put my feet up on the bench and slept for a bit. It would be the last time I felt the sun on my face, the last time I felt the wind in my hair, the last everything.

The cement was cool under my back, but that was ok. I would need my body temperature to be low so the shock of the water temperature wouldn't be unbearable. When I reached the water...

Instead of heading to the entrance gate and starting out along the causeway, I headed off into the lake bed. 

For the Great Salt Lake supposedly being this big lake, it was incredibly hard to find the water...

That's a good thing.

It's been a year. I recognize the trauma that my death -- a self-caused death -- would have caused my family and children. I have continued to fight my demons.

Yes, there are times when I still don't want to be here. There have been a couple of days I've wanted to take that long walk again. However, instead of acting on it, I call my psychiatrist, I call my friend who is a therapist. I let people know that I'm in a bad place. 

Communicating is one of the reasons I'm still here.

I have the best friends. I have a great support system in place. Even the people I work with are awesome. Ok, only one knows that I actually attempted to kill myself, but still. I love them.

Earlier this week I was determined to throw a party and celebrate that I've been alive and here and more "with it" than I have been previously. 

Today I woke up and it just isn't one of my better days. On top of that, I'd spent a lot of last night scrubbing down my kitchen. When I woke up, my kids had decided it was a great day to cook corn bread muffins. Crumbs everywhere, the sink full of dishes, and a very grumpy 9yo yelling and crying because her sister is always giving her the muffins with cracks or that crumble.

It's cornbread. There isn't a piece of cornbread anywhere that doesn't crumble. But she refuses to believe that they aren't like muffins.

In spite of the family drama, I am determined to at least make cookies and have something yummy to celebrate the good things. I have kids that I love. I have a house that I love. There is a perfect blue sky, snow on the mountains, and a clean scent in the air.

My daughter who is getting married in October has learned a new song on her Ukelelee (sp?) and it is adorable. 

My daughter who worked so hard to bring a new life into the world has given me the most precious little grandson in the world! 

I have these amazing children with their struggles and their triumphs. I love them so much. 

I truly have been blessed with good things. While there are times that I can't see that, when I honestly feel like I am a detriment to their lives instead of a good thing, today I can see the truth. I do matter to my children, and they do want me to participate in their lives, no matter what stage they are at.

I am a lucky person. I am grateful for the people who have helped me so much. I'm grateful that I've made it through this last year. Here's looking forward to surviving another. :)

A Curious Consequence

Nearly a year ago, I took a "Long Walk." That's what some of my friends requested I call my attempted suicide.

I walked close to 15 miles from my house toward the Salt Lake, determined to float in 40 degree water until I felt the sleep of the cold.

I wasn't dressed for the weather - on purpose. I walked as fast as I could to get there before anyone could catch me on the main roads. I knew no one would have a clue where to look for me, and I was right. As soon as I hit the lake bed, I crossed as far from the causeway as possible so I couldn't be seen from the road, and kept the same pace through the sand as I tried to find the water.

Of course, I never found it. When I finally reached the wet sticky mud of the actual shore, my shoes squelched through the stench as the lake itself receded from me. Finally I yelled at the heavens, feeling betrayed that what had felt like the right and only choice was being taken from me, and headed toward the causeway so I could walk home.  

I can't describe the distance. Even now I look back and wonder how in the world I did it. Sheer determination, I guess.

I didn't realize how much I hurt until the guy who drove me to the gates let me out of his truck so I could wait for my husband. Walking to the other side of the gate to stand under the light pole took sheer force of will. I was determined not to let that man or his wife see what kind of shape I was in.

When I got home, after sleeping and freezing for I don't know how long, wow. I had to have help walking. I couldn't support my own weight for the first couple of days. I limped around, my hips and legs bundles of misery as I tried to function. I can't remember how long it took for slowly crossing from my room to the kitchen to feel doable.

Walking. 

Walking sounds so simple, so every day. People run and walk 15 miles easy for marathons all the time. 

Before the walk, I loved to do cardio. Kickboxing, treadmill, fun upbeat video exercises like P90x and TaeBo, I would do it all. I had a gym membership and I LOVED going at any time of day. It was something I could do that was wonderful, freeing, and felt good. Stuff I could never do while pregnant.

Now it's stuff I cannot do anymore.

It's been 363 days, and walking the mile to work still hurts my feet. Sprinting from the girls shirts to the phone in the fitting room - what, 20 feet? - to answer the phone makes my groin muscles ache for 3-4 days.

I walk to work because it's good for me. The fresh air is great for my mental health, whether it's rainy, snowy, overwhelmingly hot, or perfect outside, the walk is *always* beneficial. Especially on my bad days.

So mentally, the walking is great.

Physically, not so much.  I can tell I'm converting some fat to muscle because I need to wear a belt with my pants now. (Whoo Hoo!)  But the pain that accompanies the wimpy exercise is something that confuses me.

It's not nearly as unbearable as the pain that accompanied my last three pregnancies, don't get me wrong. THAT pain made getting out of bed, getting up from chairs, walking, riding in a car, pretty much any kind of movement, make me cry. Oh it was excruciating torture.  

However, when *not* pregnant, my body was pretty much willing to do anything. 

Now, dangit, it feels like my body will never forgive me for what I put it through. 

By now I should have recovered from the exhaustion and the muscle strain. Yet after a few hours at work it's hard to walk after I get home, and yes, I have awesome shoes.

I don't understand. I assume it's an inconvenience for surviving. No, that's wrong. It's a side-effect of the attempted suicide. The surviving part includes this additional issue on a day-to-day basis. It's worth it for the survival part, though. 

I still walk to work. I still love my job. I endure the pain because it's common enough that it's background noise while I'm working. 

At home, it takes a few hours before my feet stop yelling at me, but I've gotten used to it.

I may never know the biological reason for the weirdness. I wish I could understand the science behind the muscle changes and my body not functioning even after twelve months. 

I feel like it wouldn't bother me so much if I knew the why I haven't healed as well as I thought I would. 

It's sad that the idea of hiking to Timpanogos Cave with my kids sounds too hard. So does visiting the zoo, the aviary, DisneyParkOfChoice, etc. My current reality is Let me stay home, please, please, please.

Consequences. Sometimes they make zero sense.

I'm Not Ashamed Of My Mental Illness

Let's be honest, it's not something to be proud of, either. It's not like someone with Diabetes or Muscular Dystrophy goes around saying, "Hey! Look at me! I have an illness! Look at me, look at me, I'm so cool!" I'm not saying that.

What I am saying is that having a mental illness makes me determined to be open, to talk about it, to discuss what I go through.

Well, ok, I process externally so I tend to type up most everything I'm feeling anyway. Once I hit the 'publish' button and send it out into the nether to be read or ignored, the thoughts are no longer bouncing around inside my head.

Talking about the onset of my BiPolar Type 2 / BiPolar Depression, Anxiety, Psyche Ward stay, visits with my psychiatrist, and suicide attempt, are ways for me to cope. So really, this blog and my posts aren't honestly for anyone else; it's to help me process.

So why do I make it public instead of private? Because communicating is sooooo helpful. I'm a little strange that way.

I have found that most others who struggle with the same thing or different variations of these illnesses feel that there isn't anyone who understands.

Do you know why they feel that way? Because people who have never had clinical depression or anxiety have NO IDEA what it is like. I know this, because I'd never, ever, ever had it, nor understood it until I went through post-partum depression after my son was born. Two years of post-partum. That sucked. It was wonderful when that was over!!

The year I turned 40, the mad chemist experimenting inside my brain decided to switch things up on a more permanent basis. This sudden onset was/is not a pleasant one. I say sudden because I was privileged to live most of my life of working and having babies with a normal, healthy, robust amount of energy. I have met and know several people who have struggled with depression their entire lives.

THEIR ENTIRE LIVES!!

I cannot even comprehend living with this, trying to manage this while working - sometimes two jobs - finishing my degrees, and having small children.

These folks do it silently, with few people who understand, listen, or help when needed. They struggle with adulting while dealing with the guilt of not being capable of basic things when it's a really bad day.

They are heroes in my eyes. Do you hear me? HEROES!!!

I fell apart after a year and needed to be hospitalized. I was trying to claw the skin off my face because the pain was the only thing connecting me to reality. After another year, I really did attempt suicide. Coping with the onset of anxiety along with the depression was simply too much. TWO YEARS.  Two years, and I couldn't handle it. Still am attempting to manage it.

So these folks who've lived with it for their whole lives? HEROES. I'm not even kidding.

Some are absolutely ashamed to talk about their mental health or their hospitalizations. Some simply cannot admit that there is an issue because they feel like they should be able to control it.

--- This one was me. I spent a good six or seven months convinced it was some sort of early menopause. My doctor ran just about every blood test possible, checking my hormone levels, my thyroid, the levels of vitamins and minerals in my system, etc. I was convinced that I could talk myself out of it or fix it with every naturepathic or homeopathic strategy I knew.

Nope. Depression. After three or four months of therapy and some low doses of temporary meds, diagnosed with BiPolar depression. No more temporary meds for me. Mood stabilizers AND anti-depressants with some Xanex on the side became necessary. In spite of every alternative health trick I knew. Wahoo. Boy, that went over well with my family. NOT. ---

I need you to realize that some cannot talk about it openly because of private personal reasons. And others simply don't feel safe discussing it with anyone.

This one right there? This is horrible and awful and sooo lonely. Understandable, though, because of the prevalent attitude. You know, the one saying that people who are depressed are using it as an excuse to be lazy. Should just cheer themselves up and get over it. Or claiming anxiety to get out of doing something they just didn't want to do.

*frustrated sigh*

I am one of the very few willing to talk openly about my experiences, my honest thoughts, or the massive grumpy days I have. Currently I have been in a horrible mood for nearly two weeks. Everyone frustrates me, I feel like they're all jerks and inconsiderate. Most of that is me, I know, but it's how I'm feeling.

Logic part of my brain says "don't interact with people right now. At least not the ones you love. Just hug them tight and keep your mouth shut. You get paid to be nice to people at work, so the pretend happy face works there. Wish you could keep pretending at home."

Illogical part of my brain says, "Who cares. Everyone can just go to hell. I want to move and live by myself out in the boonies where I don't have to see anyone, hear anyone, or have anyone getting into my stuff, move it around, break it, or whatever else is making me feel picked on."

Am I ashamed of these thoughts? Well, if I were, I wouldn't be typing them up here. Do I wish I could turn them off? oh yeah.

What I *can* do about these feelings that I cannot control is try to interrupt the tape. I kiss on of my kids' neck up and down until they giggle like mad. Or hug them tight for several minutes. I read out loud. I do anything I can to distract myself and concentrate on anything BUT the thoughts and feelings.

You who don't know Depression don't have a clue how hard it is to have to continue to interrupt these stupid stupid destructive thoughts that run in a loop.

Depression LIES, but it is oh so believable.

I need you to understand this. Those of us who struggle with Depression have our super awful bad days. It's such a fight to get out of bed. And some days that's the only battle we win. If our sinks are full of dishes, the floors not swept or vacuumed, it doesn't mean we don't care about living in a yucky environment. Oh, trust me, we care very much.

A depressive's messy house means one of two things: 1 - There are a bunch of kids living there and it's laughable to even think of summoning the energy to reinforce daily chores.

2 - Looking at the mess and seeing all that needs to be done is overwhelming. Knowing where to start is simply impossible and makes us cry. Summoning the energy to pick up a pair of socks and carry it to the laundry basket is hopeless.We feel guilty and horrible because any normal human being should be able to do something so simple. So we sit and stare at those socks and wish we could do it, wondering what the hell is wrong with us that we can't even do that simple little thing.

And anxiety? It's the weight of an elephant sitting on your chest, the pain of drawing in a breath, panic caused by ... ?? something?? People? some thought? Noise? What the heck triggered this?? And then can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe, curling up, shaking, then sobbing uncontrollably for AN HOUR!!

Ok? YOU PEOPLE WHO HAVE NEVER EVER EVER IN YOUR LIFE EXPERIENCED THIS?? Shut up about us folks with these types of mental illness being lazy. Just stop it. Right now.

This is real. I struggle with this.

I am not ashamed of the symptoms of this illness because they're real. Are you ashamed for having a runny nose when you have a cold? Or a raspy voice when you have a bronchial infection? I'm not proud of my symptoms; oh, they are so very frustrating.

Trust me, I'll tell you up front if I'm being lazy about cleaning, or just can't do it. Believe it or not, I DO recognize the difference. One involves the inability to summon motivation and energy. The other is simply not wanting to do it.

When I don't want to do work I hear my grandmother's or my mother's voice telling me "Sometimes you just have to do what you don't want to do."

Being incapable of doing the work means having to tell those voices to shut the hell up, because ranting at myself won't help me feel any better. It certainly won't make the weight of the world go away or prevent the fog of darkness from jumbling my thoughts so I can't concentrate.

Do you understand? This is my reality.

I have received so many messages, emails, phone calls, and visits from people who just wanted to talk about their struggles. Who couldn't believe that I'd talk openly - in church, for crying out loud, or on Facebook - about my constant fight. One woman was having such issues with anxiety that going to church was hard for her. Her husband didn't understand at all, and she was so worried that she was the only one suffering. She cried on the phone as we talked about it because she was so relieved that someone understood.

You guys. It is sad and heartbreaking that people don't feel safe discussing this issue. That we are considered weak. Trust me, we're not. As often as I've complained that I *feel* weak, I'm smart enough to know that because I'm still here, still fighting, and still attempting to be the best mom I can be, that I'm NOT weak.

And hey, dr. laura? I am so very, very angry at you for convincing my mother that my illness is made-up by big pharma to sell more drugs. Thanks for that. Means a lot. (Nope, not capitalizing your name.)

An Hour And Two Xanex Later

(note: some hard truths about teenage kid here. You don't get to give her lectures if you know her. this is about me, not about making her life harder than it already is.)

I have been in a pretty steady decline for a few weeks. Last Friday I very badly wanted to walk that long walk and go for a late-night swim in the Great Salt Lake. (Note, it was about 30 degrees at the time).

I was a good girl and went home. Texted a couple of friends and told them I was having real struggles. Spent a lot of this week venting and trying to work through my thoughts with a very good friend.

Saw my psychiatrist today. I had my husband come in and give him an outside perspective, I felt it was needed.

My meds have been upped. I have been challenged to identify all the stressors in my life that are making me feel overwhelmed and out of control. Also to be honest about the self-imposed expectations that I can't live up to, face them, and let them go.

A lot of that includes delegating to my kids.

The worst part of this decline is that my anxiety is back to full blast.

Tonight when my kids wouldn't quiet down when I asked them, when my teenager wouldn't stop arguing with me or demanding that I defend every opinion or statement I made, when I couldn't find the right words to help my 8 yr old with her stupid (yes, STUPID) division homework, I lost it.

I rocked in my bed and sobbed for an entire hour. Couldn't stop. Texted my 20yr old daughter and told her to call her teenage sister and make her stop fighting with her siblings. Get them to calm down, shut up, and play together. They were quiet for like 5 minutes. Then began yelling at each other to shut up.

I know kids need to rough-house. I know they have a right to play. And they needed to take it down to the basement where I couldn't hear them.

Sob, sob, sob.

MP3 player on. Turned up LOUD. Gonna be deaf in a few years, but I don't care. It shut out the noise. That helped. still couldn't stop sobbing.

I swear it felt like it took forever for the xanex to work.

My 11 yr old brought me a chocolate chip cookie. Chocolate is always good.

Then she got the brush and started smoothly brushing my scalp. then did a scalp massage. Fifteen minutes after that (an entire hour of sobbing. I cannot even believe this.) I stopped sniffling and could breath.

Not gonna lie, I still feel like there is an elephant sitting on my chest. I still feel like any little thing will set it off. Have my earphones in still, even though the little ones have gone to bed. Asked my kids to please clean up their craft mess in the living room because if I looked at it I would start crying again. In fact, almost started again just asking them to take care of it.

My 11yo explained the math homework to her little sister. The 7yo pulled out his Lego's and sat and played quietly. The teenager made dinner for the little ones. The mom breathed in and out.

and right now? Right now I don't want to talk to my teen who is still awake. I completely understand that 15yo's are gonna be the way they're gonna be. I was one, once. I'm not going to deal with it anymore today. I just can't. If that makes me a bad mom for being frustrated with it, then so be it. It's simply the way it is today.

I have communicated with the kids that my mental state is bad right now. They have seen that there are very real consequences, whether they understand them or not, when they don't listen to me when I tell them that I cannot handle their behavior and they need to move it or stop it.

the little ones were all a-hug. all worried. The big kid just said, "Hi" when I finally came out of my room, able to handle the open spaces of the house again. Hi. In that obstinant way that only a 15 yr old can.

*sigh*

I love my kids. I am so proud of them. But wow, the teenage days are a very real pain.

I'm not going to feel guilty for being angry at the attitude.

My mental health is what it is, like it or not. I am fighting. I am trying to cope and fix it and improve. If I wasn't, I wouldn't have gone to the doctor. I wouldn't be communicating with friends and saying, hey, I'm having issues.

I wouldn't be here if I wasn't fighting. I'd be done and gone.

I can't do that, though. Much as I really, really, really want to escape the pain and the hard right now. Oh it's so hard. But my kids need me. They need their foundation to stick around so they don't have permanent trauma the rest of their lives. Right now knowing that is what's keeping me communicating and trying. Eventually when I get to a better place I'll have a better attitude about being needed. Right now, I honestly resent it. that's the horrible, honest truth.

So. anxiety attacks, depression so bad that suicide is on my mind a lot right now, and a family full of young children who are loud, rambunctious, and energetic. Not exactly an easy combination. What God was thinking, sending my six children, I don't know. But it is what it is.

I can do this, dammit. I can delegate a lot of the hard, I can find some order. I can find some joy. Even if it's small, it's still do-able.

Right now? Right now after that xanex and crying jag, the with this dumb weight still on my lungs, I am going to go lose myself in World of Warcraft for a few hours. Because I can. Because the house is finally calm and quiet and safe. Because I need to shut my brain off so it can unscramble.

Anxiety is no fun, folks. It's real. If you don't understand it, don't judge it. It's not like it's controllable. The beginning signs are there and steps can be taken to ward it off, but sometimes it just happens anyway.

Text Games

When one of my daughters went off to college, we started playing a text game. I texted her a line of lyrics to a song, and she'd text me back another line of lyrics using one of the words in my text.

It was a fun game. We had over 200 texts just in music lyrics. And if we got stuck, people around us were always happy to play, too.

Music is this thing we have in our house. A single word will often cause one or more of us to break into random song before continuing the interrupted conversation.

I loved this game. It kept us connected over the long distance.

--
This particular child of mine speaks the love language of "Time Spent." None of us knew this until her senior year in college, but she knew she needed time. So while I was existing through post-partum depression, she would come home from wherever she was and insist on my attention to braid her hair. and once she had my attention for that, she'd sit on the step and talk about her day.

Midnight conversations. We've had them for years, from Jr. High until now. To this day she'll call around 11:30pm or later, needing her late night conversation.  It's no longer every day. Sometimes it's not even every week. But it is a connection that *she* started years ago, when she refused to let me fade into the background of non-life when I didn't know how to cope.
--

Today she messaged me and let me know that her roommate is now playing the lyric game with a relative.

I grinned, but was also sad. I joked back that we were trend-setters.

However -- We haven't played the lyric game since April First.

In fact, after my suicide attempt, she wouldn't even speak to me for three weeks.

This is the child who called Rob that night and told him where to go looking for me after she'd calmed down enough to think. This is the child who patiently and not-so-patiently tried to pull me out of bed on bad days.

This is the child who said, "Mom! You were supposed to go get a tattoo! Not try to end everything! You were supposed to call me and we would go get your butterfly!"

So today, while grinning at the fact that we started a fad, I cried a little. She doesn't like to remember why we stopped in the first place. In fact, I think this is the first time she's willingly talked about the text game since April.

There are consequences you cannot control when you make a choice. I made a choice, and broke part of my connection to a child. It may never fully repair.

As this is one of the more visible/tangible connections I have with my children, I am also aware of the broken connections that are not so easy for me to feel/see. Connections I have to make an conscious effort to find and work on.

Mental Illness affects everyone, not just the one with who has it. I am fairly sure that my children and husband must have a much harder time going through life than I do, now that my brain chemistry has decided to play mad scientist.

Religion, Rebellion and Anger

I am a deeply religious person. I have quite a few friends who feel that it's an outdated superstition, an organized political 'lead the unthinking sheep to follow whatever I say' kind of thing, or just a horrible idea altogether. And that's okay. Whatever works for them and brings them peace is awesome. My faith and my religion work for me. Today, for some strange, stupid reason I feel like talking about it.

This is seriously one of my most tender, vulnerable spots, and I have no idea WHY I am talking about it here. A place the entire world can see it, mock it, ridicule it, or whatever. But here it is nonetheless. Call it a crazy chemical bi-polar compulsion? I don't know how else to understand why I am sitting here typing this up on Blogger.

I don't normally talk about this kind of thing, but today... Today I've been two days without my medication. I forgot to fill it Wednesday before my insurance stopped. And I forgot to fill it Friday, the day I ran out, then Saturday because I was distracted by walking home in the rain, and then Sunday - well, today I didn't forget, it was just Sunday and my pharmacy is closed. I refuse to go to Walgreens; they always screw up, they're rude, and I much prefer my pharmacy where they know me by name, are friendly, go to bat for my kids when there are insurance screw-ups, and they take the time to treat me like a human.

... I digress.

I'm super distractable today.

Anyway.

Because it's been two days without my anti-depressant, today was a bad day. A sobby, unstable, doggy-paddle like mad to keep my head above water day. A day that I couldn't wake up fully in between very vivid nightmares until I HAD to go to work. And even then I was/am dizzy and distracted and... well... attempting very hard via Xanex and mood stabilizer to appear normal to the world.

Again, ANYWAY...

On the way to work, I had a conversation with God. I don't know if I was feeling guilty? I don't know a lot of things today, but I know this:

I know He loves me. I know he understands and knows what I am going through. I know that He hasn't forgotten me. I know He has a hand in everything going on in my life, putting people in place to support me when I can't deal on my own, cheering me on when I succeed, and loving me anyway when I am rebellious.

And oh am I rebellious some days.

And I am angry.  So angry that on some days - like today -  I want to turn in my temple recommend and scream and rail and say I HATE YOU!!! I HATE THIS! MAKE IT STOP ALREADY!

I do not like being mentally ill. I do not like not being in control of my emotions. I do not like that I have to take a xanex to handle little kids screaming in the store.

I am angry that I have to remind myself to breathe over one simple little mistake - regardless of what it is. Forgetting to sign a permission slip. Forgetting to have my son read. Not seeing a customer at the fitting room in time for me to count their clothes on their way out.  (It's an anti-theft policy and I am far from perfect some days)

I'm especially angry right now that He didn't let me come home in April.

the Semi-Colon

I sent someone a sketch of my current semi-colon tat idea. She mentioned that someone she knew was going to get one 'because they're cool,' which offended her. It kind of offends me, too, to be honest.

Sure it's showing support for mental illness. However, "Because it's cool" doesn't sound like understanding the whole reason behind the semi-colon. It feels like the bandwagon is taking something deeply personal and making it a commonplace cliche.

But I'm old and practicallyyelling "GET OFF MY LAWN" to all the young folk.

Besides, just because it means something to me, doesn't mean that someone else can't love the look and want one. It **really** shouldn't bother me how other people treat symbols. It's a punctuation mark, for crying out loud.

Maybe it's because April is not so far in the past, and that experience is still somewhat fresh? Maybe because I want people to understand. I want them to realize the importance and the very real struggle that depression, et al, present to those of us who struggle with it.

A semi-colon to me, right now, says "You're not done yet. You're not done yet. Keep going, you're still writing your sentence." I look at it, and it changes the "I can't do this anymore. I'm done. I just can't." to "Keep going; one more step; one more day; one more line in your book of life."

It's one of my many life-lines on the inevitable down days.

The Semi-Colon fad? It's not just a fad for me.

I have talked about tattoos before, and I know some think it's a great idea, some don't -- or don't even understand why I'd consider it. Some just don't care what I do, because my body, right?

I'd like to explain how I'm feeling. I love butterflies because they represent freedom, which is a very big deal when I feel caged inside my own head. After my long walk in April, a tattoo became something that I felt I needed to do, because even though I can no longer control my mind all the time, I can control my dreams.

 I don't know how many of you have heard or seen the semi-colon movement, a blog post that went viral about a semi-colon tattoo to represent surviving a suicide attempt. I want to let you know that I am not jumping on a band wagon just because other people are doing it. I have never been one to follow a crowd. In fact, I usually will do the opposite just to prove that I can think on my own. 

However, I personally identify with the semi-colon because of my choice in April. And I want to share some of the ideas I'm toying with for when a tattoo won't be a financial luxury I can't afford, but something that I am doing for myself. When it won't be a choice between catching up on some bills or putting ink on my skin. I mean, really, that's just a duh choice, right?

Something simple yet beautiful, something that expresses me. Something small and in a place easily covered for work, yet something I can see when I need to. Because there are times I *need* to see it.

It's ok if you don't understand. It's ok if you disagree. I just wanted to explain where I am emotionally and mentally on this, and why, even though I do not like pain at all, I am willing to do it.

The original quote from the original blog post. When I can find the link I will share it.  

I've always love ink splotches. I love this semi-colon. Not sure how I'd work in a butterfly, but it would be kind of awesome, don't you think? Well, I think so.

Love this butterfly and the simplicity and grace

Ok, how can I NOT love this butterfly??  It's amazing

Oh, I love the splotches and inky here. 

This needs to be a tattoo for me as well. NEEDS to be. Sometimes I need to be reminded that I write my story. Ok, I don't want the words. Just the book turning to wings.

Conversations with Shoes

Crocks:

Crocks: Yo, hon! You wanna do some yard work?

Me: Ok, sure. Let's get something done.

Crocks: Listen, sweety, don't hide me in the closet. I'll be right here when you need me. Looks have nothing on comfort, hon.

Me: Awesome. I'll grab ya when I need ya.

Hiking Shoes:

Boots: Heeeey, you are doing yardwork? You know you want me.
Me: I know. But, laces. That means effort.
Boots: I'll protect your tootsies from all the gunk out there. I'm good at it. I'm great for more than just hikes, you know.
Me: I know. And I love you. But laces.

Sandals: I knew you'd pick me; let's do this.
Me: Awesome. Your velcro is my favorite. Let's get that yard mowed.
Sandals: Whoo! That was fun, what now?
Me: A shower. My feet are grass stained. This is why I have boots...

Boots: I told you so!

Slippers: 

Me: My toes are warm and comfy!!
Slippers: Don't wear us outside in the snow! You have other shoes with which you can drive, walk to the garbage, get the mail, or pick up a child from school!
Me: But that would mean taking you off, and my toes are warm and comfy!
Slippers: You're really going to wear us to Ihop? In the rain? for the Girl Scout Pajama breakfast?
Me: Yes. And my toes are warm and comfy!
Slippers: We're not going to be beautiful for long, you know that.
Me: Yes. But my toes will be warm and comfy.

Dress Shoes:

Dress Boots: Girl, you lookin' FINE. MMM HHMMMMM. Smexaaaay.

Pumps: Do wear the pearls; it is better to be overdressed than under. And please ignore the boots. They simply don't know better. Besides, have you seen their heel? Can't be trusted.

Exercise Shoes:

White Nike: come on, come on, come ON! Let's go, let's go, let's GO GO GO!
Me: Yeah, but laces. I'd rather do aerobics barefoot.
White Nike: You love the support, you know it. Remember all those great workouts we've had together? Let's go, let's go, let's go!
Me: Nuh-uh. Laces. Maybe next time.



Gray Nike: It's Gym Time!

Me: I miss the gym. I loved the gym. I can't even look at you, now.

Gray Nike: Come on! I'm comfortable and supportive and fit in the gym machines perfectly.

Me: You're not comfortable anymore. You covered my feet in blisters. My entire feet were bruised and sore for nearly a week because of you.

Gray Nike: I wasn't designed for a suicide attempt, I was designed for running and exercise. Come on, you want to be healthy, right? That walk was a good start, let's go for a walk again.

Me: Shut up. You still smell like lake mud. I can't wear you. I can barely stand knowing you're still in my closet.

Gray Nike: I am what I am.

Me: I want to throw you away. I want you to never have existed. I want you to be clean and sparkly and smell like sweat and feet and gym.

Gray Nike: So take me to the gym.

Me: I can't get rid of you. You are as much a part of me as my feet are.

Gray Nike: I'm just a shoe.

Me: You were there. I almost made the walk barefoot, you know. That was part of my original plan. But there you were, part of my workout habit, so on you went. You kept my feet from being ripped apart by the asphalt, gravel, thorns and lake detritus. You absorbed the lake mud. You protected my feet.

Gray Nike: That is what I am designed for.

Me: How can I hate you and love you all at the same time?

Gray Nike I am just a shoe.

Me: You are a constant reminder.

Gray Nike: I am a tool.

Me: You are the worst of me. You are part of me that tried to end everything. Yet you are still here, still whole, and largely unaffected except for the traces of mud.

Gray Nike: I am complicated.

Me: You survived that night with me. You survived the cold, the wind, the dark, the conversations with God. You are as much a survivor as I am. Yet I can't ever wear you again.

Gray Nike: So donate me. I'm sure there's someone else who could benefit from my design and purpose.

Me: How can I get rid of you? I can't do that. You represent my strength of will - my complete and utter stubbornness to get to the lake in the first place. And then the determination to get home when God said no. You are a testament to the ability to fight for what I feel is right, even if what I feel is right is completely wrong. You are a testament to my commitment to do something, even when it's hard.

Gray Nike: Walking was hard that night.

Me: It still is.

Gray Nike: But you kept going.

Me: And so did you. Your soles aren't coming off. The spring in the cushion is still there. You are still a very viable and good shoe.

Gray Nike: So use me.

Me: I already did. I think you met and fulfilled the measure of your creation. I cannot even think of putting you on again. I will re-tread those steps, those miles, those thoughts. I can't do it. But I will keep you. Because while you make me sad, and embarrassed and I wish I could throw you away, I still need you as proof that I survived. That I'm not dreaming the rest of this life.

Gray Nike: An athlete and her shoes.

Me: A warrior and her weapons.

Gray Nike: Together we will survive.

Me: Maybe, but you're still living in the back of the closet until I can come to terms with this.

Consequences

Consequences are something we don't get to pick when we make a choice. I made a choice a month ago, April 1st, to take a long walk of doom. Granted, my brain said "this is the right choice, I need to do this" but it was still a choice. And so now I live with consequences.

*  My family is afraid to leave me home alone. It doesn't matter that my house was full of kids when I left, they are afraid to leave me home alone. I either have to have someone chatting with me via text, have someone with me, or someone online talking to me and keeping tabs on me if everyone else is going out.   -- it gets annoying really fast, but I understand why.

* When I leave the house, I have to call and let my husband know where I am going. And I can't forget my phone or my purse.  -- again, understandable, and again annoying.

* I walked close to 15 miles that day through a dried up lake bed made of soft sand. In 40 degree weather. I pushed myself past the point of exhaustion and still kept going. I was dehydrated and had hypothermia.  The consequence of this: A month later and I'm still recovering. My stamina is super short. I get exhausted after doing menial tasks. I've been trying to mow my lawn, and I can't do more than 10 or 15 minutes before I am covered in sweat, breathing so heavily I think I might pass out, and want to cry because I'm so tired.

Humbling

I saw my psychiatrist today. I spent a good part of the session answering questions like, "Define 'not functioning'" "Are you still having suicidal thoughts?" "Explain how you don't fit" "How's your anxiety?"

Obviously there were a lot more questions like that. And quite a lot of waaaah, poor me in there. He listened, he took notes, his voice was moderate and kind. And then he asked, "What can I do to help you?"

I shrugged and said, "I don't know if you can."

It was obvious that he then made up his mind. He began typing in his computer and said, "Ok, we are going to switch your medications. Hopefully we can reconnect you to your creativity again. But--" And here he turned and looked at me, quite seriously.  "You made an extremely poor choice that would have long lasting incredibly negative effects on your children, your family and friends. You need to find more effective coping skills to deal with frustration and stress. You NEED to get back into therapy. Find a way. You're extremely determined when you want to be, so you can make this happen. It needs to happen for your thought process to get back into alignment so you can see the difference between your choices."

Sometimes I need to be smacked upside the head with a wallop of reality. I had prayed and prayed that my doctor would be helped to know how to help me, and I needed to hear that.

And now, hours later, now I feel the shame. The "what in the world was I thinking???" has kicked in. The realization that my sweet, sweet children would have been traumatized and hurt - Would have been? no, HAVE been - putting it mildly. Scarred forever. What kind of mother does that to a child?

Well, obviously this mother. This mother who is struggling to control her thoughts, her feelings, and everything. I guess I just have to come to terms with the fact that I am not the one in control here. I have to have a little more faith than I have had.

It's extremely embarrassing and humiliating to see how wrong I was. At the time it felt like the only right decision. Tonight I don't even want to admit that it happened, but the whole world knows.

Guilt can be unhealthy, but it can also be a spur to be better, to make something right. I don't know how to make right the fact that I scared everyone - that I gave up. I can only hope that by continuing to try to be better, by still being here, those who I hurt can eventually decide to forgive me. Maybe I can learn to forgive myself for being weak.

The consequences are very real. One of my children won't look at or talk to me. Another is afraid to go to school because she's worried I won't be here when she gets back. Another cries over everything and holds on so tight when she hugs me, willing me to still be her rock. And yet another is angry and doesn't understand why I'd do that to her.

Oh, there are probably more consequences that I'm not aware of or that haven't cropped up yet. Some that are less obvious than the blisters, the sore legs and muscles. More than the emotional pain I've caused everyone around me.

I won't say I don't deserve this. Of course I deserve it. I may get to make a choice, but I don't get to pick the end result.

I will say that I will attempt to make things right. I know I'm limited in what I can do and what I can give, but I will do what I can. I have to struggle with down days and I may not be able to do everything, but I CAN, for crying out loud, be here.

To be or not to be

Yesterday I hit my limit. I was done. -- well, to be honest, I still feel done, and am extremely angry that I'm still here.

I sent three texts. One to my daughter in Cedar City, one to my other daughter in Logan, and one to a friend of mine who never reads his texts. Just told them I loved them and that I was leaving. I didn't tell anyone else because I knew they'd stop me.

I left. I left the house, I left my phone, I left my kids, I left my purse. I left everything and started walking.

The clouds looked like wings, taunting me to fly away. As the sun set, they changed into a dragon, beckoning me forward. Pulling me.

I walked all the way to Antelope Island, wanting to go for a late night swim in the lake. That was my plan. None of the kids would find mom and have that memory. I could lay there and float and freeze.

Except I couldn't.

One of the biggest lakes on the planet, and I was walking through the dried up lake bed toward the island, and so help me, there was no lake. I could find mud, but no water.

So I cried and railed at God and hiked back to the road. By that time, I could feel how far I'd walked. I know people run that far or more, but I'm not one of the runners. I could feel it in my hips, every leg muscle, and especially my feet. Oh my feet hurt. But I plodded along on the road.

At one time I curled up on the side of the road just wanting to sleep. The gate was so far away. Probably a couple of miles. But I got up and pushed myself to get there. I mean, I had failed at leaving, I had failed at fighting my inner battles, I may as well go home and accept that life is what it is. And the temperature was dropping, the wind was blowing, and I could feel the cold seeping into my bones. Maybe I wouldn't make it home after all?

Cars passed. The moon was large and bright, so visibility was not a problem. More cars passed. I plodded along because an object in motion tends to stay in motion. Then a truck stopped.

"Are you ok?"

I could barely answer him. I didn't want to answer him, but I knew he was there for me. And yet I struggled to let him help me. His wife came over and they talked me into getting in the truck, then turned around and drove me to the gate. It was not a fast drive.

The guy insisted on calling my husband, and there I was, waiting for the ride home. I expected my husband to be so angry with me that he'd refuse to come get me. But no. He came, and he hugged me so hard.

Perhaps today isn't the day to be writing this. There isn't a happy ending yet. Everyone is glad I'm home and that I'm safe. I still find myself staring at the walls and wondering why I'm here.

My aunt says it's because my kids need me and I'm the only one who understands them. Some of the other comments I've seen or been sent have said it's because I'm loved and wanted. And it's true. I have a lot of friends who love me and like having me around.

Right now that all feels like obligations and it feels too hard.

Is my medication not working? Is that why I feel trapped in my head, trapped in my life, trapped in this body with no working talents?

I don't know. I really don't know. I know that I am so frustrated with everything, I'd rather burn in hell than live like this forever. Screaming kids, husband who doesn't understand -who tries, but just doesn't- a house I can't keep clean, and other obligations.

It's all too much. It's still all too much. Of course, I don't have a plan anymore. I don't have anywhere to go now where no one would think to look for me. And the only other options I can think of would hurt or traumatize someone else.

Yeah, hypocritical, I know, when my leaving and not being found traumatized my whole family and community of friends.

I made the choice. One must pay for one's choices. Part of my consequence is the extreme pain I have from the waist down. My feet are bruised, my toes are numb, and I can barely walk now without crying. I have several friends who are furious with me. Rightly so, and I expected that. I know I have family who will never understand.

I don't expect anyone to condone my actions. I made a choice. At this moment in time I don't regret it. I probably will another day.

This struggle is so hard. I'm so tired of fighting my emotions, of fighting the dark cloud, of trying to find the humor in every situation. I'm exhausted. Yet I'm still being pulled in every direction. Fix this, do that, "moooom, she looked at me."

yeah, this is all one -waaah, pity poor me- post. I should just suck it up and deal. But maybe, just maybe someone else will understand this blackness. Someone else will see this and say, "Yeah, me too. Hang in there, because yeah, it's hard."