Celebration

In light of one of my favorite bloggers, Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half, returning to the bloggosphere, I decided it's time to talk about my 9 months of hell. There is much to be said about a person's worst fear(s), but mine is nothing special. Above all, I am terrified of being trapped/held down/tied up. This isn't something I ever really thought I'd face, the likelihood of being kidnapped, tied up, and trapped in a small room are fairly minimal based on where I live, my job, and the company I keep. However, I did not anticipate all the possibilities that this may include. Being trapped within yourself is equally terrifying, especially when you realize the only person keeping you there is YOU.

In August of 2012 I quit my job at Chess-4-Life. I was on many medications, and in considerable pain. One day, during a particularly busy day, I fell asleep at work. We had a building full of kids, exactly enough adults to supervise, and no one could wake me up. I slept for 2 hours, waking up groggy and confused. My supervisor was livid. Not only had I fallen asleep on the job, I'd unintentionally endangered our students. Amazingly enough, they didn't fire me on the spot, they didn't even reprimand me, they just sent me home. The next day, I set up a meeting with my supervisor. I told him I wasn't reliable, I wasn't able to promise it wouldn't happen again, and most importantly, I couldn't guarantee I could protect our students. I had to quit, so they would have time to replace me before the school season started. He understood, he said he was sad to see me go, but glad I saw the danger without him needing to show me. I then went to our boss, the owner of Chess-4-Life, and told him the same. He had similar sentiments, and even went so far as to say I would always be welcome back. Truly an amazing company full of amazing people. Doing amazing things for kids and chess!

September was hard. I missed working, I wasn't in school, and I had no prospects of getting better. Hopelessness started to set in. Wade was at DigiPen most days for long hours, and I spent every day sleeping for hours on end.

October came, and I got accepted into Western Governors University. I was ecstatic, but as soon as I jumped into my studies, I found I was in too much pain to think. Previously, I had used studying and reading to distract me, but now I couldn't read a single sentence and comprehend it. It was like looking at a blank page or lines of gibberish. I tried for weeks, but to no avail. Eventually I just gave up and spent more time asleep on our couch.

I told Wade I didn't want to live anymore. I told him I was in too much pain, and that my friends and family would understand and be relieved that I wasn't in pain anymore, even if it meant losing me forever. Like assisted suicide for terminal patients. I was trapped within my body, which betrayed me at every turn. I didn't feel like myself anymore, I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. I quit looking at mirrors. The sound of my own voice annoyed me to no end. I resolved to speak as little as possible. I felt ugly and gross, I didn't want to shower or change clothes. I didn't care if people were coming over, I just hid in our room. If Wade drug me out of the house I wore many layers so no one would be able to see what I looked like. I shaved my head again because my psoriasis was so bad I couldn't take care of it. I wore stocking caps all the time. I looked like I was dying. I felt like I was obligated to off myself so no one would have to deal with me anymore. Wade wasn't having it. He made me promise that I wouldn't go through with it without first talking to my parents and siblings in person. I agreed. He offered to quit school, but I didn't want him to become as miserable as I was. Also, I figured there was no point in him delaying his degree when he'd need that environment and support even more after I was gone.

November came, and with it, my brother, Paul. I was coming back from another unsuccessful, seemingly pointless doctor appointment with a doctor I didn't like; when I opened our door, the dogs didn't come to greet me, they were hanging out in Paul's lap. On one hand, it was nice to see him, on the other hand, I was tired and didn't really feel like being sociable. Wade had alerted him to my plight, so he got on the next train he could to come see me. Usually, nothing is so terrible that I wouldn't be overjoyed to see him, but things were more terrible than I could have explained. I wasn't happy, but I wasn't sad either. I existed and nothing else. 3 days later, Paul went back home. It was as if he hadn't even come. I had slept through a good portion of his visit, and nothing he said seemed to really matter. He talked about naturopathy and getting off my medications, both of which I'd tried before. Nothing mattered. We went home for Thanksgiving, I slept. Everyone else played games, stayed up late, and had fun.

As December rolled in, I started a new medication and thought about suicide less. I was still hopeless. I was still in too much pain to work or study. I still slept all day. But I was convinced I wasn't depressed anymore. Christmas came, I locked myself in our room at my parents' house multiple times in order to have panic attacks. I couldn't handle being around certain people, and I couldn't hide it anymore. Everything enraged me, I spent much of the time curled up in bed. We went to Miami for New Years to visit Wade's family, it was worse. They saw right through my fake laughter and 5-day "jet-lag". I took pictures, I pretended to have fun, but mostly I got offended and stared at the ground. They called me out one night at dinner. Insisting that I'd keep Wade from having a life if I kept being depressed and mopey. We screamed and yelled. In public. At a nice restaurant. In a well-traveled part of Miami. My whole life story got shared, I was mortified. As angry as I was at being attacked, even at the time, I knew none of the people around me were intending to attack me. They all truly thought their actions were the only choice in that moment. They cared enough to get angry, and that meant something to me.

January was rough, I realized my doctors were not helping me. My rheumatologist, because she only wanted me to try more medications. My psychiatrist, because I had not been honest with him until Wade begged me to. And my dermatologist because he was severely out of date with new options. So, in light of this, I began seeking out another new batch of doctors. I kept my psychiatrist, he adjusted my medications, keeping in mind that I wanted low-doses and no side-effects. He's still one of my favorite doctors ever, he pushed for me to try EMDR therapy and I'll be forever grateful that he did. I found a new dermatologist who immediately diagnosed me with Psoriasis, and gave me a whole list of options. Then began my search for help with Fibromyalgia. I found it. 

It wasn't until April that I started to feel better. I realized slowly that I wasn't sleeping as much, I was having an easier time with being social, and I had stopped thinking about killing myself. I hadn't even been to the ER in a few months!

However, years of sweeping things under the carpet had led to my inability to be intimate, in any fashion, with anyone without hating it. I didn't even like to hug people anymore. Something I happen to kinda be known for as doing to every person I've ever met. I thought my mom was going to cry when I asked for a hug before she left my birthday party. This was the trigger. I realized people were no longer comfortable around me, they were on edge, because I had become a cactus. Prickly and unapproachable. I went to my therapist, beside myself that I'd become so pokey. I didn't want to deal with the past, I wanted to ignore it and wish it away. It was gone and unimportant in the large scale of things. So why was it still affecting me physically? I'd had enough. It was time to face the past head-on. I won't lie, it was rough. I went through a wide range of emotions and it took a few months and a good deal of time. Sometimes I'd come home in a wreck, able to do nothing but cry and sleep. Other days, I'd come home in a daze, introverted and uninterested in conversation of any kind. Wade wanted to know when I'd feel better. I didn't know if I'd ever feel better. I was starting to have anxiety attacks, caused by becoming worried that I'd never feel better, spiraling into an endless panic until I passed out from exhaustion. Things were getting worse again.

During the first week of May, I had a break-through. Like planets aligning, or walking out of a heavy fog, everything in my brain clicked. I was ok. For the first time since I reached adulthood, I began to feel like things were truly getting better. I went back to work, I wasn't angry or scared anymore, and my smile wasn't forced. 

Sometimes I still have bad days, and that might continue for awhile. I'm going to keep going to therapy, but less often. Hugs still feel a little weird, but more like I'm getting used to them, not that I don't like being touched. It's odd for me to re-learn intimacy cues, but it's fun too, like I got to start over and see the world differently. 

Seeing a healthy "me" within my grasp is exciting but it's also scary sometimes. I don't really remember what it's like to not feel crappy, so when I feel good, I over-do it usually. Thus making the next day a very sleepy one. I'll get used to it, I just have to remind myself to plan around the assumption that I'll feel good, instead of the opposite, like I have for so long. The road to recovery isn't quick. In fact, it's significantly slower than the arrival trip. Just because you did 60mph all the way to the breaking point, doesn't mean you get to do 60mph back. 15mph-20mph is more realistic I think... Slow and steady wins the race.