Irony

The irony of the concern people expressed at my last post was that I had to be healthy enough to write the post to begin with. While I was going through ECT, I was scared shitless that my brain was going to be permanently fried. When I was inpatient in the hospital, I didn't call anyone. I was too ashamed. Even if I had, who would have answered their phone? I don't blame anyone. I keep my phone on vibrate and even if I had left a message, there was no phone number to call me back. I was stuck in a place that purposefully isolates people from the stresses of the outside world. KGII tried to sneak in my check book so I could pay some bills and was stopped at the door. I can't really say how many bills didn't get paid while I was in the hospital. My Dad and KGII tried to cover most of them, but it's incredibly hard to cover the job of the primary bill payer, especially when most of the physical copies of the bills were sitting on my desk at work.


Like most depressed people, I'm in the stage where I'm isolating myself from others. I think about the reason I started this blog to begin with back in 2005. I wanted an easy way to update people on the progress and details of my pregnancy with Zac. In essence, I didn't want to have individual conversations with people where I relayed the same information. In so many ways, I'm still doing that. I'm hiding behind my writing because I want to avoid individual conversations that are too painful, too embarassing, and too uncomfortable (for both parties) to have. So I write and I publish.


There are reasons that most of my friends don't live in the same city that I do. Even the friends that live in the same place that I do, think about how long it has been since you've seen me. Even better, think how long it has been since we've talked on the phone and had an actual conversation that didn't involve text messages. I excel at isolating myself. Really, it's an art form. I realized a long time ago that if you don't reach out to people, they stop reaching out to you. Again, I don't blame people. I know that people that care about me would reach out to me if it occurred to them or if they had the time, but who has the time? Life is busy and complex. Sometimes it's just too much trouble to reach out to a friend in crisis and tell them that they matter; that you want to get together with them, even though they struggle to get out of bed.


When I don't hear from people, it's an easy mental step to say I don't matter. From there, the next step is that no one would miss me if I was gone. That's not to say that I'm actively suicidal right now. I'm not. My family, my parents, my children, and KGII keep me from harming myself. I've been in enough therapy to know how royally fucked up kids of sucidal parents are. Trust me, that's something kids never really recover from. Well there is that reason and although I'm an overachiever in many areas of my life, I'm exceptionally bad at hurting myself. Part of me wants to live. It's that part that keeps me from coming up with the right combination of drugs or physical pain to actually be successful at killing myself. Besides, do you have any idea how angry people get when you try and hurt yourself and fail? People take it as a personal afront to their friendship, to their place in your life. I know that if I were to die there would be beautiful eulogies to my life about how smart I was and how much I made people laugh. I know it would be considered a preventable tragedy and people would say that depression took another vibrant soul from this Earth. But sometimes depressed people need to hear that they would be missed. They need to hear that they matter. They need to know that their isolation won't be tolerated because their friends and family have reached out to them enough to spur them into overcoming their social anxiety or apathy. For now it's enough to know that people are reading my writing.


What I remember most from my ECT sessions was fear. Seven times I had to walk into an OR and feel the prick of an IV being started on the back of my hand. Seven times I felt the gel against my temples and the rubber band being strapped down against my head. I always struggled against the mask that would go over my mouth and nose, the one that would ultimately put me under, into sedation. I knew when I woke up I wouldn't know where I was. I could figure it out because some things are obvious. My thought pattern usually went something like: "I have an IV and I'm in a hospital bed. There is a nurse offering me apple juice. I must be in a hospital. I want my Dad. Where is my Dad? Oh, there he is. He's telling me that I'm ok and he loves me. I can move my arms and legs, I must be ok. Why can't I remember anything? Why don't I know what year it is or what hospital I'm in? They are telling me I can get dressed and go home now. I don't remember where I live. I have to be driven everywhere. Why am I doing this?"


How could I describe that to people? Is it any wonder that I hid, that I continue to hide? I'm only talking about it now because the memories of being in the OR come to me when I'm not expecting them. I'm talking about it because it's hard to be in a constant state of 20 questions in my head. Like, "I know I've talked to this person before, but I can't remember what they said or what I said. Maybe if I ask enough general questions I'll remember something. I know their name is familiar to me. Did I take notes of our last conversation? Please tell me I took some notes. No, fuck it, I'll tell them I have problems with my short term memory and maybe they will repeat themselves. Oh, I've already told them that the last time I couldn't remember what we talked about and now they are looking at me like I'm crazy. Awesome. Guess I should take notes this time."