I don't know what to post about

I have my good days and bad days.
My days are better when I have friends around.
I am not doing chores, still.
I want to quit my job.
I keep imagining dying. I can't stop.
I had a panic attack this morning.
I hate myself and this life I am living.
Will quitting make me feel better?
How can I get motivated to do chores again?
I am gaining weight, why can I not stop myself from eating?
Why can I not find the motivation to exorcise?
Why does my heart hurt everyday?
Why am I still crying everyday?
Am I all better yet?

The Dear Hunter "Things That Hide Away"

"Things That Hide Away"



Waking up I felt that hesitation

Like I wasn't meant to wake up at all

Letting out a soft, cynical sigh

My God, it's just the answer

To the question I can't find



Marching on, it's one foot then the other

Better than one foot then none at all

Biting off way more than I can chew

Like I sometimes do

I never know just when and where to stop



Why are we here, why do we die?

Maybe we're just never meant to know why

Why are we here, why do we die?

Why, why, why?



Why are we here, why do we die?

Maybe we're just never meant to know why

Why are we here, why do we die?

Why, why, why?

10:22PM

I keep switching from being terrified to die, to thinking that is the only way out.

My brain makes everyone around me someone to fear

Last night my husband got frustrated at the dog.

He crawled into bed and was mad that the dog wouldn't move or something like that.

I was already laying down. Hearing his frustration triggered something in me. I was now afraid of him.

The fear isn't rational. I know it isn't rational. I kept telling myself it is not rational. But my brain kept playing possibilities in my head. He is going to kill you. He has a gun and since your back is turned, he will shoot you without you knowing. Maybe he is going to start hitting you or choking you. I got so uncomfortable by the thoughts, without saying a word, I went to the couch with a cover and pillow.

He came out to get me. I was already silently crying, as soon as I saw his silhouette. I feared him being near me. What happened next?

He gently told me to come back to bed.

He tucked me in and kissed me.

He offered to sleep on the couch and let me stay in the bed alone.

He apologized for being upset over the dog.

None of those actions scream violence. None of those actions say I should be afraid of him. But my brain couldn't stop picturing him doing unspeakable things to me. I tried to mentally fight it. I made him stay in bed with me, but the fear was still there. I didn't feel safe. My brain was going over every possibly scenario of him snapping and taking it out on me. 

I got up once more. To shut the door to our bedroom. I tried to tell myself that maybe I was just nervous someone would enter our room and that's what I was really afraid of. We never sleep with the bedroom door closed, until I have moments like this. Then the door needs to be shut. It offers me just a small amount of peace to get me to sleep. It worked. I eventually slept.

My husband is not violent. He is gentle. He is sweet. He loves me and cares about me in ways I've never experienced. He literally was ready to take a bullet for me. No one cares about me more than he does. So why is this fear here? Why does this trauma effect my perception of the one person who would never hurt me? 

I hate my brain.

My letter

It was one of the first steps to my therapy: writing this letter. I've written it so many times, and many early drafts were incoherent and consumed by survivor's guilt.

After meeting with our FBI Victim's specialist on Thursday, she informed me the family is not ready to receive letters... Probably never will be. I have accepted that. I am posting the last and final draft of my letter here.

I hope it doesn't seem cold. I truly felt this was the best way to get my feelings out, give her condolences, and not remind her too much of that day. This took me 3 months and 5 drafts to write.

5/17/2017

I'm still trying... Just letting you know.

Stay on your medicine

I am sorry to report... Although I've been doing well with my main medication, I've unfortunately I've been slacking with my Prazosin. Prazosin helped me sleep through the night by taking away my nightmares or by not allowing me to really remember them. I know it sounds too good to be true but it worked.

I've been off the pill for maybe a week. Shame on me. The nightmares have gradually come back and it climaxed today. Slowly my dreams started getting worse - something bad, but not horrible, would happen. Today I woke up from an attack dream. Stuck in a shooting situation waiting to be shot.

I will start taking my medicine, all of them, again today.

I am disappointed in myself but I think I'm more disappointed that my nightmares will never stop being about the shooting. It will always return to that. I will never escape my ghost.

Melancholy

Years ago I went to see a movie with my best friend at the time. It was Lars Van Trier's Melancholia. I remember watching it, and being uncomfortable but, as a film studies student, loving all the beauty that went into the film making. I recognized the themes and the depths of those themes. I recognized all the editing techniques and camera movements that helped convey those themes.

Now I live it.

The movie is currently available on Netflix. The style and direction is not for everyone, but it is a very important film because it shows depression in a way the world never sees. Depression is just "sadness" to many people. Something to over come and get over on your own. No one can fathom how it takes over both mind and body in a debilitating way.

Now I know it.

There is a sequence at the beginning setting up what to expect from the rest of the film by using visual metaphors for depression. The first half of the film shows the spiral of depression the main character, Justine, experiences while all the characters around her are oblivious and full of happiness and life. The second half is the characters dealing with an external problem causing chaos and despair around them. As soon as the act starts, we are faced with a scene where Clair - Justine's sister - is helping her out of bed and into a bath. You can feel the weight of Justine's body as she cannot control it. As she has to be pulled out of bed. As she has to be forced in the tub. She then has to be brought to a table to eat and her body hangs as she tries so hard to eat the food in front of her. She then weeps.

This is who I am.

I haven't seen the film in years. In fact, probably only one more time on DVD a year or two after seeing it in theaters. But that first scene in the second half keeps popping in my brain. It's because this is who I am now. I am becoming Justine. I feel like this body isn't my own. That the weight of this thing around my soul is too heavy to lift, or my will is too weak to try. It takes me so long to get out of bed. It takes me so long to get off the couch. I cannot do anything. While I am at work, I cannot seem to bring myself to do anything. That continues at home as well. The chores are still not being done. Remember the dishes? Remember how I said I would try? Mentally I am trying to pull myself up. Out of bed or off of the couch. I am mentally trying so hard to get up and do something, but I am stuck. My body is too heavy to move.

Yesterday a friend came over and brought dinner. I couldn't lift myself off of the couch to greet her. I stayed, laid, under the covers, crying, for the first 10 minutes she arrived. Eventually I started to sit up, slowly, but I didn't leave the couch the entire time she was there.

This is what I am.

There is a light inside me. It's small, and dim, but it's still there. The light is what was me, not this heavy case around me that is gluing me to the ground. The real Jessica is buried deep within. Sometimes I see a flicker of her when I look at myself in the mirror. Sometimes she comes out during a fun song that makes her sing. Sometimes the people around her can bring her out and let her shine. But the leaden body swallows it in moments. I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, smiled as I saw a glimmer of myself, then watched as my smile slowly faded again. The literally definition of Happiness fleeting.

I am still here.
I am still here.
I AM STILL HERE!

This is the only thing that keeps me going. Even as I write this out, I am slumped over my desk because the weight is incommodious. I am smiling to those around me, but I just cannot will myself to do anything. But I am still here. I got up in the morning. I made it to work. I am still here. I will do it again tomorrow. And then again the next day. And again. And again. Again.

Here is a short case study on the film Melancholia and depression in film below:

Prolonged Exposure

Lately I've been practicing Prolonged Exposure Therapy. It's exactly what it sounds like: Exposing yourself to re-experience the traumatic event over and over until it's effect gets lesser and lesser. It's what veterans practice to cope with their PTSD and my psychiatrist believes it will help me.

It started with me writing about it. After I wrote about it, it took me weeks, maybe even a full month, before I could go back and read what I wrote. I then wrote about it again in more detail. I still have trouble reading it, but reading it helps me remember, and to never forget. 

Then I had to read it aloud. It caused a major emotional reaction from me reading it to my psychiatrist. It then caused me a very stressful, emotional week after reading it aloud. Then slowly I started talking about it. Answering questions people had, telling my friends in person or via Skype about my experience. Just slowly exposing myself, and accepting, what had happened. 

It worked for a bit, but I was still suffering from the most traumatic experience of the whole ordeal. The hardest part for me to write about, to think about, to say aloud... was the man next to me who died. Who took the last bullet, which was the only reason I am still here typing. Even now, I've slowed my typing and keep pausing after every word because that's the most traumatic experience for me. Not that my life was in danger, which was traumatic, but more traumatizing than that was how I feel and experience what happened to the man next to me. I have to move on or I will not make it through this entry.

After doing those assignments, we started the visualization process. Thinking about the airport and going into the baggage claim area. Thinking about the sounds, what I might see, what it might smell. Just immersing myself, mentally, into the event. And then what it would be like knowing that was an isolated incident: an ordinary average baggage claim area.

Now I am on the third step: Going to the airport. I've recently started my drive-by sessions. Eventually, I will have to park there and sit at the airport. Maybe stand outside or around it. Maybe go into a different part of the airport... But the goal is to make it to the baggage claim area. And do it again. And again. Until I can do it without it triggering me into a panic. Into a crying fit. Into a flashback... Until I can stand there and feel mostly normal.

Yesterday was my second attempt at a drive by. My first attempt, I was alone, went on my lunch break, and drove past the arrival area once and the departure area one. It took less than 10 minutes to do so. It made me slightly panicked (about a 3/10 on the anxiety scale). Yesterday, however, a friend drove me. And it was worse!!

This is my experience from yesterday:

My friend picked me up and we took off to the airport together. I felt my anxiety rise to about a 3/10 again on the anxiety scale, so the first time around I was about what I expected. She was good at distracting me and engaging me in conversations about ANYTHING else. But then we went around again... and my chest began to tighten. I saw so many people, vulnerable people, just standing there with their bags. The baggage claim area right in the window, the carousel bring bags around. My anxiety level raised to about a 4 or 5. 

I thought that was it. We could leave now. I wanted to leave so badly. But then we I saw the sign directing us back to arriving flights. I started clutching my chest. The pain was extreme. I started to tear up, I started to breathe more heavily. I wasn't in control of the car. I couldn't stop from going to that area again. I had no control. I felt trapped in a never ending loop. That we were going to keep going back over and over again, and then I would wake up and realize I am still on the floor at the airport. It was nerve wrecking.

What we did was almost a blur for me now. I know we also drove past departing flights, but I just can't remember if we alternated or what we did. I just know I had the biggest effect going to the arrival flights area.

Eventually, she dropped me back off at my car. I felt okay. She gave me a big long hug. I started to drive home, trying to make myself see my accomplishment for the day. I saw the carousal. I saw the bags. I remembered the event. I cried on the drive home. I cried at home. Erich held me until it was over.

Love, Friendship, and Family

I have to remind myself that I have to also post the positive stuff too. This weekend was full of positive stuff. Let me just say, I really needed a reminder of the good in my life. The love and friendship and family I have surrounding me. I really needed that this weekend.

I am so lucky to have so many supportive and understanding people in my life. To hug me when I need it. To stand next to me, ready to comfort me, as I head into an uncomfortable situation. To constantly check up on me in person, and from afar. To remind me of how far I have come, and telling me to be proud of myself, especially when I only seem to focus on the negatives.

Why me? Why am I so lucky to have so many great people in my life? How did I end up so lucky to surround myself with positive people who care about me? To remind me to have fun. To help me forget that I am in a crowd of people. To help me to remember to take time and look back and see that there is progress!

I am grateful for the love I have in other people. I am lucky to have this support system. I want to be able to repay them all some day.

If you are reading this, I love you. Because even reading this to try and understand me better, is a way to support me. Support comes in many different forms. I feel like I've experienced them all over the weekend. It pulled me out of the darkness I kept writing about. It made me laugh and smile and have fun. It made me open up to my mother and my husband about what was truly going on inside. It made me be vulnerable around my friends and family.

I was told a few weeks ago, that the "new normal" doesn't have to be a bad thing. It's just another thing. The new normal can be full of positives. I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become. I need to remember to keep pushing forward.

I got my peer support application. Hopefully my new normal includes helping other people out there like me. Wish me luck.

Anxiety, Panic Disorder, and living with Depression

I will start out with an apology. This entry will be a bit dry. No creative words. No fun sentence structures. No pictures or videos. Just words describing what it's like living with panic disorder.

I've been overwhelmingly depressed lately. To the point where I've become a couch potato. I come home from work, and go straight to either bed or the couch, and stay at either spot the rest of the day. As a result, chores have been left undone and my house is becoming a mess. I know this. I am bothered by this. But I cannot will myself to move and do anything. 

So what's the difference from everyday anxiety and living with panic disorder? Anxiety could manifest as "Oh, I got to do the laundry and dishes and feed the animals and oh gosh! There are bills to pay and I am feeling so overwhelmed." It might trigger you to be jittery, or maybe you cry a little. Maybe you do have a panic attack. But the point is, you still are able to pick yourself up and complete your tasks. You feel better after you let out a good cry. You move on.

So here is what panic disorder is like for me, using an example from 2 days ago. I come home. I notice that the place needs to be vacuumed. I notice that the dishes are well overdue. I notice so many things that are just an absolute mess. They all bug me, but I have no fight left in me. So I head to the couch and sit. Erich sits with me and explains that he can't keep doing all the chores himself, that he needs me to do the dishes after dinner. I smile and so "I can do that! I just need some motivation."

After dinner is completed, which I took my sweet time doing, I stall and avoid doing the dishes as long as I can. Erich notices and comes to get me. I ask him to pull up a chair and sit in the kitchen while I do the dishes. That I need him there because I feel anxious about it. He agrees. 

The first dish I grab is one of our smallest cups in our cupboard. It's less than an 8oz cup. It's already mostly clean. I think Erich just used the small cup for a sip of water to take one of his pills. I grab it and the tears start flowing immediately. I take the soapy sponge and slowly start cleaning it. My heart is pained. I don't know how else to put it. It hurts. It aches. It pounds. I start my panic attack. I try to push through it though. As I am having a panic attack, I am leaning against the sink, to keep me supported and standing, and finishing up that glass. I rinse it and rest it to the side. Still mid-panic, I reach for the next glass. I sob harder. Tears are pouring, my chest is pounding. I slowly start to clean the next glass. 

Erich comes up from behind to try and stop me. He hug me tight as I cry harder and harder. I keep trying to finish cleaning the glass, but Erich tells me to stop. I think if I can just push through the first few, my panic symptoms would go away and my anxiety would subside. I tell him I want to finish, but I am unsure if he can understand the words leaving my mouth. He starts asking: What is it? Is it the noise - glass clinking, squeaky noises, water running? I shake my head. Is it being forced to do something - to do this chore, he asks? I shake my head. I try, through heavy breaths and a shaky voice, to explain that it's just how I feel. How my heart feels. How my soul feels. Everything feels crushed. Nothing is causing this anxiety - nothing that I am consciously aware of. I am unsure if I explained it to him or not. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe he just took my cues of wanting to continue as a sign to sit back down.

He sat and watched. I stood, supported by the edge of the sink, and pressed on. The panic and crying didn't stop. I don't even think I can use the word cry. A cry is from sadness. This was a more painful sound I was making. Acid tears that were pouring. If there are words for what it sounds like for your soul to die, that was the sound I was making. 

Doing the dishes, I believe maybe less than 10 dishes total, took almost 45 minutes. I couldn't catch my breath the whole time. The tears didn't stop flowing, the whole time. My howls of grief and pain didn't stop. Erich helped. As best as he could. He occasionally stood to rub my back. He handed me dishes. He tried to get me to stop a few times too. I just truly thought that it was something I could beat. That if I kept pushing through it, I could get over my anxiety and then become gleeful as I finished up the dishes. But that wasn't the case. Even after I rested the last glass to the side, I pressed my face into Erich's chest and sobbed. My heart aches just remembering all of this.

Anxiety is real.

Panic disorder is real.

Depression is real.

Mental illness is real.

And it hurts all it touches.

Erich can't do this alone. That's what he said. He cannot take care of me, take care of our animals, take care of the house, and take care of himself. He cannot do it alone. That's why I pushed myself. That's why I tried so hard. Do you want to know how the story ends? The next day, after work, I came home and went to the couch. That's how the story ends. Nothing changes. I am still depressed. I am still too anxious to move. The pain is still present. There was no lesson​ in this. There is no point to any of this. I am a burden. I am useless. Erich needs help and support I can no longer provide for him. And there isn't anything I can do to change that.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month

Credit for pictures goes to Shawn Coss and you can buy from this series at Any Means Necessary.

So I am going to do this differently. I discovered this series recently and related to so many of the pictures. So I am going to showcase a few of the pictures and tell you how they relate to my mental health.

This is one that I didn't go into much detail about, yet. But for a while - at the airport - I truly believed I was dead. I thought that I was dead and I was merely a ghost. It's a weird feeling, thinking you've actually were the one shot. That there was no way to survive that mess alive. But somehow I did. 

When I first got home, I didn't leave the house for almost two weeks. The only time I left was for my Psychiatrist appointments. Even after that two weeks I hated going outside, or to places/stores/restaurants/back yard or anywhere outside the comfort of my home.

EVERYTHING Made me anxious. Noises especially. I was almost immobilized by my anxiety. I just kept thinking that at any moment, when I let my guard down, that would be the moment I would die. The anxiety of death, of something bad happening to me or Erich, or of leaving the house and being out in public was powerful.

With anxiety, I was also terrified to be around other people. Socializing or being out in public made my anxiety spike. The only person I was comfortable with was my Husband. Eventually other people coming around to take care of me, helped ease this anxiety. With baby steps, I am now able to be out in public spaces.

When having a dissociate episode, Acute Stress or Post-Traumatic, I felt like a stranger in my own body. I felt like everything around me was fake and that I couldn't see the true reality in front of me. I still don't know if I have fully explained this feeling, although I've written about it several times. It's unreal, thinking you are not real.

Ah... Insomnia. Something I've been battling with off and on these last few months. Eyes wide, scared of the darkness, scared of the nightmares, wanting nothing but rest... If you read my previous post you know it was something I was suffering from to the point of being a danger on the road. It's miserable.

 This one is pretty self explanatory. When I get anxious, I start to panic. Then I have panic attacks. I am averaging between 1-3 panic attacks a day. The BusPar helps keep them at bay, but sometimes an attack can be triggered by nothing at all.

Everyone, meet my ghost. This is the image I relate to the most. Feeling chained to him. Have him being in control over me. The emptiness I feel inside. How it's bigger than me. Monstrous. This is the epitome of how I feel living with PTSD.

Last... Depression. This is how I've been feeling lately. This is how I feel now. This is the drowning feeling I've been talking about...

No official diagnosis for many of these things. I know I am depressed, have panic disorder and anxiety, and PTSD, but the other things - like Cotard Delusion and agoraphobia didn't last, and I guess that's also why I don't talk about them as much as my present diagnosis. But I understand how it felt living with those temporarily. I feel like a nutcase sometimes. Like I truly don't know what's in my head - which illness is controlling my thoughts. All I can do is try to keep pushing forward. I am going to keep trying as long as I can.

I encourage you all, to look through his full set of pictures on his Facebook page. This was an inktober challenge, so there are 31 mental illnesses that he drew and showcased.

Drowning

These last few days I have been drowning in a deep sadness. It feels like I am drowning. I feel it, inside my chest. Just a deep emptiness. It hurts so bad. I need help.