This is going to be a tough one to write. I hesitate to do so because it’s me being vulnerable, putting myself out there for God and everybody to see on Beyoncé’s internet.
Plus, it is literally physically difficult for me to write at the moment. Words are difficult to find, thoughts hard to string together. But I’m going to try, because some day, someone might stumble across this, see themselves in it, and realize that they are not alone, that they are not broken. Or someone else might find a way to better understand what their loved one is going through.
I am in a significant depressive episode right now. In the past month, I have become increasingly suicidal – going beyond the familiar fleeting desires for calm or nothingness and into intricate plans of exactly how to do it and when to be sure that I’ll be successful and that my children won’t find my body. I have lost interest in food. The idea that I’d have to go through the effort of digesting something is enough to put me off eating. I only eat enough to maintain my responsibilities to my family (can’t manage to get the kids up and off to school on time or pick them up and get them through the evening routine if I’m passed out due to low blood sugar). On the other hand, I’m massively anxious and irritable. Fear and anxiety coat my muscles and writhe under my skin like a living thing, dormant one moment, then springing to life the next, burning me and making my heart race.
I was in tears in my psychiatrist’s office the other day. I wanted to go back to the hospital, to change my medications in a controlled environment, but I can’t.
Because we’re moving. Which might be the very problem. If you know anything about bipolar disorder, major life changes – even positive ones – can be triggers for episodes. And moving is a major life change…