My Own Elephant

PSYCHOphancy: So, apparently there’s an elephant in the room.

That post was like hearing my own voice in so many ways.

There are things I sometimes simply don’t or can’t put words to. Things in my head that I don’t let fall out because once they are out there they are REAL. They are scary and dark and I have fought the darkness of The Black Hole my entire life.

Last night I was dreaming about being in a psyche ward. It wasn’t like the one in Texas, but a longer-term care facility of some kind. I woke up filled with the same heavy that The Black Hole brings… heavy in my chest, my limbs, my head. I slept way later than I should have and could have stayed in bed longer had my grown-up voice not ordered me to do otherwise. It’s been creeping in on me all month, but I keep pushing it away and getting up. Today I plan to clean the bathroom and revisit the recipes for the treats I’m making for discussion group this weekend. That’s all I can do when I feel it coming- act normal until I start to feel normal again.

In Texas, I hadn’t found the strength to fight it. In Texas, in 2005 I found myself sobbing on the floor of the hallway in a crappy, roach-infested heap the ExH and I had just rented. He was away at school, My Kiddo was still in Colorado and my only friend in the same time zone was a former neighbor from Germany who lived an hour away and worked 12 hour shifts at a local prison. I’ve never exactly been suicidal, but the truth is that while most people look for reasons to live, I’ve always needed reasons not to kill myself.

In that moment, the last reason I could find was my precious Husky who was laying with me on the floor, comforting me when nothing else would. I thought how awful it would be for him to be alone with my body so long he would eventually have to eat me. Morbid, right?

I picked myself up and drove to a Dr.’s office where I showed them my journal. At the Dr.'s request, I then agreed to drive myself across the street and check in to the psyche facility.

For three days I was there, drugged into a psychedelic stupor. My most vivid memory was of the night they gave me something that made me hallucinate that I had giant Mickey Mouse hands. I was still aware enough to know I was tripping, just like in my early 20’s when I would drop acid and watch Teletubbies. I calmly walked out to the nurse, told her of the side-effect of that evening’s meds then was escorted back to my room and tucked into bed like a child.

It didn’t get better for years after that stay. I did the therapy thing but had a therapist that I was able to derail into what ever conversation I wanted to have on any day. One session was spent just discussion the housing market in the area as we were looking at buying a place. He was the same therapist that recommended I buy a puppy training manual and use it as a guide for “training” my husband into better behavior. No joke!

It wasn’t for another year or so that I was put on Prozac by the Gynecologist who later agreed to the hysterectomy I’d needed for years. That seemed to work, but at that point in life things were so messy that there was no medication strong enough to keep my crazies at bay. When ExH and I decided we were getting divorced at last, I lost my health insurance and access to meds.

Fast forward past the years of struggle with a boyfriend and his baby… fast forward through the food banks and the poverty. Fast forward through the jobs in a psyche facility, then a rehab center and into the call center gig where I was rapidly promoted into a place where I could afford our little apartment, all the bills, and real groceries. Fast forward to life now.

I have an amazing husband, and a comfortable life. The Anxiety Monster rears its head less and less for me these days, but it hasn’t left my world. It attacks My Mr. in the same situations it used to attack me. The Happy Campers don’t work as well or as quickly for him as they did for me, and he doesn’t like how my Xanax makes him feel. I don’t blame him. I reserve the Xanax for major things like the dentist and the mall.

We talk about everything, even when it hurts. We are enmeshed in each other in a way that is a tremendous comfort, but also in a way that means one of us has to be aware of the crazy ball and keep it in check or we could end up spiraling down together. We are cut of the same cloth and all that it comes with.

All of those things make it necessary for us to have outside people, and at the same time, those are the things that make it so hard to find outside people.

I’m not giving up. Today I have a bathroom to clean. Tomorrow I have to pull myself out of bed early enough to eat breakfast then go skating. The little blue-haired ladies can shake their head and give me the stink eye all day long. They don’t know how bad the pain is or how hard it is for me to just stay upright when I start to see stars and sweat profusely. And fuck them for not seeing that no matter the struggle, I refuse to lay down and die.

Fuck them all!