Avoiding Avoidance Tactics

After politely being declined funding and support to further my graduate degree from the university, wouldn’t you know it’s not exactly great for mental health problems? Actually that shouldn’t be a question mark. Easy fact: massive failure is enough stress to make even the most resilient person depressed.

I’m not exactly falling back into old missteps, but it did become very hard to leave my bed and do anything besides zone out to the soundtrack of six seasons of the Good Wife all with the occasional spurt of suicidal thoughts. So with the insistence of my psychiatrist, we upped my anti-depressant dosage. The results have been the most wild reaction that I’ve had in over a year to meds. I’ve gotten some nice insomnia (expected), loss of appetite (better than nausea?), hot flashes (my newest sleeping habit is covering myself in frozen peas) and paranoia about leaving the house (my personal favorite that I like to label as flavorful safety measures). Yet I’ve never had problems with dissociation during medicine increases or decreases.

I’ve felt a plethora of types of dissociation that are too long to go into now. But this- this is unbelievable. It’s like I can feel everything start to leave my body so I start screaming and trying to grab a disembodied hand. I plead to stay. I try to reason with it. I repeat the address and every fact that surrounds me. And true to over counseled patient form, I even managed to spill out the mantra that these are painful emotions but I cannot leave- dissociation is a coping mechanism and not a useful one.

It terrifies the living shit out of me. There aren’t enough rose colored glasses in existence to make the shrieking tears something that isn’t worrisome. If my therapist sees it as psychosis she’ll refer me to another therapist. I need to tell some one because the silence just amplifies feeling like I’m crazy.

I’m doing everything I can to not ever feel by nerves float away from myself again.

Arts and Crafts for Sad People

I’ve been here before. Not on this sofa or tip toeing around paper mache and styrofoam- but I’ve done this before, trying to invoke some rush of productive hypomania to push away the feeling of loneliness. Who else wakes up on a Saturday morning to drive across town to go to Home Depot to buy six dollars worth of rocks to build a lightbulb terrarium? No matter what Pinterest or Etsy or Instagram sells you, no sane woman does arts and crafts without having a very thinly veiled pit of depression. The more time I spent sitting on the floor waiting for the craft paint to dry, the more I felt silly putty over saturated with newspaper ink slowly losing all elastic properties and ┬ásticking into all the fibers in the carpet.

There’s more than twelve chores I could easily hop up and hum into productivity to shake off this slump. My current activity of binging A Girlfriends guide to Divorce fits into no one’s cutesy self care regime. I have to be at least ten years too young to find any of these women relatable but here I am moving four and a half muscles to smile at Lisa Eldestein. There’s probably a half an hour long window before the sun sets that I might be able to salvage the last half of this day for work.

Even my grey Garfield has gotten up to try and drink paint water. Might as well try and clean up.