Tomorrow is my first full day home alone since returning from the hospital and I am a nervous wreck. I am still far from well, and actually just had a meltdown tonight over picking up my boys from the sitter tomorrow. Although my moods are a bit more stable, tonight I feel like I am slipping downward again. I am fighting it and trying my DBT skills that I have learned in outpatient, but they really do nothing for me in the moment. Is anyone familiar with DBT? It is all new to me, and then the medications are new as well.
My melt down was precipitated today, when my husband called me to see if there was any possible way I could pick the kids up. Panic struck me immediately. I still don’t want to see anyone yet. My psychiatrist attributes that to my depression. I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t. I feel like a total loser, like a failure. Picking up my kids should be a simple task…BING, BANG, BOOM, DONE. But to me it seems monumental. I just can’t. I came home and crawled into bed, the bed I made so nicely this morning and fell asleep.
My husband came in to wake me up for dinner and what do you think happened? That nasty little voice in my brain started getting loud again.
“Lydia, you are so lame. What’s wrong with you? What kind of mother are you? Why can’t you just go get your kids? You are pathetic.”
The only thing I can come up with is that I don’t want to see people because I don’t want to answer questions. I don’t want pitiful eyes looking me over and saying, “So glad you are feeling better.” Or, “Look how skinny you are! You look fabulous! (Yea nothing like a deep state of depression to melt the pounds away.)” I just can’t deal with it. Honestly, it seems I just can’t deal with life.
I am not feeling better. I am currently not suicidal, but I am still not feeling better and it blows my mind that if someone puts some makeup on and does their hair, it is assumed they are good to go. Honestly, that’s how I got out of the hospital. It was feel better or off to a long term state psychiatric facility for me. They actually had a bed on hold for me at my state’s biggest psychiatric facility because my depression was not responding to anything. When the state screener came and told me she was committing me, I quickly remembered one time I wore make up and everyone thought I was miraculously cured, so guess what I did? I started pinching my cheeks like Scarlett O’Hara (as they had confiscated my blush compact during the tossing of my room) so they’d pink up and put eyeliner and mascara on every morning, to hear, “Oh you look like you are feeling better. You look so bright.”
BINGO, I found my way out. I wasn’t totally lying. I didn’t feel suicidal anymore and felt I was safe to return home, but honestly, I was not sure if I was ready to face reality. Forty-three days in a hospital gives you this odd comfort zone. The patients understood me and had no expectations and were my safety net as far as I was concerned. I didn’t have to talk to anyone from my world. I didn’t have to face anybody, and now I am home and continue to carry on the same way. That is not good.
I don’t know how to pull myself out of this fear. For some reason, I have no problem going to my out- patient program, but now they have cut me down to three days per week, so two days a week I am going to have to find something to preoccupy myself and avoid the bed. Any suggestions would be appreciated, as I am sure there are no burglar’s getting ready to break into my house and keep me busy!