This one might be a little tough for me to write. I know that my diagnoses are considered lifelong, so a relapse is always possible, but… I’m never really expecting it.
A large portion of my more recent depressive episodes (like within the last two years or so) have been more closely related to my BPD than the bipolar aspect of my schizoaffective disorder. They’ve had triggers usually, and they’ve been sharp, sudden, explosive in a way. This latest one that’s hit is definitely more related to schizoaffective disorder. It came on in a more subtle way, and it gnaws at me slowly, eating away the life left inside.
It’s been about 19 months since I’ve felt this way. I know approximately how long it’s been because the reason it went away in the first place was my miracle drug–lithium. The only drug that has ever successfully stabilized my mood. 2022 was the best year of my life, simply because I actually felt emotionally “normal.” I felt sad sometimes, but I also felt happy sometimes, which was foreign to me. 2023 probably would have been better too without BPD and emotionally-charged events for me happening left and right, causing some severe depressions, and the hypomanic episode later in the year. I’ve been on a moderate dose of lithium since March or so of 2022, but now…
Lithium is a hard drug on the body. It particularly affects the kidneys. As I’ve mentioned before, I was diagnosed with CKD earlier this year, which is why my psychiatrist decided I shouldn’t be on lithium if we can help it. He lowered the dose to the minimum dose right when I got back home from Colorado. That’s around when it started to hit, slowly but surely.
I don’t really know how to put into words the way I feel, probably around 80% of the time, the last two weeks. I’m so tired. So drained. Around 7 or 8pm, I start feeling this overwhelming sense of dread because it’s almost time to take my medication and go to sleep, which means I’m that much closer to waking up again–and I really, really don’t want to wake up again. The thought of getting out of bed–for anything–brings on that same sense of dread. When I think about my obligations–anything from appointments; to dinner with the family; to taking the dogs out; to my stagnating YouTube channel; to the query letter I need to send out for my children’s books; to a concert I have tickets to in Seattle with my friend; to a trip to Greece and Italy I have planned next year–anything from within five minutes to within the next two weeks to within the next year… When I think about anything other than lying in bed with my eyes closed, I’m just overcome by this dense pit in my stomach and chest. It’s dark, it’s heavy, it’s cold–and so, so lonely.
I have support at least. I have my mom, who selflessly keeps trucking along to keep us both afloat. She supports me entirely, especially financially, despite her own struggles with life. I don’t think she fully understands, but she does fight depression herself, and I know she’s tired too, and I don’t help. But she somehow keeps fighting for us both, like the superhero she is. I typically don’t reach out to her first, when things get bad, since she already puts up with so much, but I know that no matter what, if I reach out to her, she’ll be there doing everything she possibly can to help me. The same goes for my brother and sister.
Equally as important, I have my best friend, who somehow always knows what to say, though he’s never struggled with a chronic illness in his life himself. He lives over 2000 miles away from me and we’ve only met twice in person over the course of about 13 years, and yet he has been there for me through so, so, so much. I don’t know where I’d be without him, honestly. He’s the reason I can count the number of times I’ve self-harmed in the last 7 years on one hand.
It’s been very important to me to have someone I can trust, someone who doesn’t have to be there but chooses to be, no matter what. Someone who has had a million chances to walk away, to judge me as not being worth the trouble. Other people have judged me as such.
During this last two weeks of relapse, I had a writers conference to go to. I had a great time at this same one last year, and I was looking forward to it this year. But by the time it came around, I didn’t even want to get out of bed for it. It was over the course of two days. By the end of the first one, I didn’t think I could handle another day. I wanted to go home. I wanted to curl up in my bed where I felt safe. Thinking about the 2-hour drive it would take to get home made me close to having a panic attack. This was to the point where my mom, back in Missoula, thought she might have to find a way up to Kalispell so she could drive us both back (I’d driven my car up there for the conference). I felt so… so… so… drained. I hadn’t–still haven’t–been sleeping well, so I was physically tired to top it off. We ultimately decided I should try to get to sleep early and see if I felt better in the morning. Which I did, luckily, and I was able to finish out the conference and drive myself back to Missoula. I even met an agent that I plan on querying.
The problem there is that I don’t have the query letter put together, and I haven’t had the energy or willpower to work on it. I need to pounce on this opportunity, and I just can’t get myself to write the query letter. I managed to record some gameplay for my YouTube channel today though, and I’m trying to ride that productive wave by finishing this post and maybe–just maybe–I can write the query letter and send it to her tomorrow morning.
I called my psychiatrist on Friday as well to let him know I’m not doing well. My mom’s worried, especially. So hopefully I’ll hear from him tomorrow, but I don’t know what he’s going to do at this point. With my CKD, he won’t want to up my lithium by much, especially not as a long-term solution. But we’ll see.
We will see.
Rory's Write Place 