Five, and counting
Yeah, she did it again. Thursday was attempt #5, though a mercifully foreshortened one.
She had had a bad day at work, was feeling generally down. Came home, did some work in the yard, and pulled a muscle in her back. So she came inside, laid down, started thinking about all the work she now couldn't get done. Started feeling helpless, useless, empty. Things escalated in her mind, as they do, to the point that she felt totally worthless. She took an Ativan to calm down...and another...and some aspirin...and a few Paxil that were left over from a previous prescription...and another Ativan...and a Benedryl...and some Pepcid...and another Ativan... During this time, she's also managed to drink 3 beers. Eventually, she got all her drugs out, and lined them up on the counter in little plastic cups, ready to just go down the line, taking whatever was next.
For whatever reason, she decided at some point to call her sister, K. Thank God she did. K was able to talk to her, convince her to put everything away. She got her to call a crisis center. She also called her therapist. Finally, she called me at work to let me know she had had an episode, but that she was alright now, and she didn't want me to be blind-sided when I got home. Naturally, I left work immediately, and got home to find a walking zombie, doing laundry. With all the stuff she had in her system, I was amazed she was even on her feet.
We talked for while about what had happened, but even on a good day getting details from her is like getting teeth from a chicken, so there was little chance this day of learning anything helpful. What I did learn was that it was all the classic issues; feeling alienated at work; feeling like she doesn't contribute to anything; emptiness; lack of direction... I got some sense of the desperation she was feeling when I asked her, of all the pills she had taken, why the Pepcid? Her answer really chilled me: "Because it was there".
With the help I've been getting from my therapist, D, I was able to keep myself from spiraling down into a panic. I forced a few deep breaths, got control of my emotions. I kept telling myself, "She's OK, now, that's what's important." We went to bed early that night, and by morning the drugs had worn off, and she was feeling a bit better, though now she also felt ashamed, embarrassed, guilty...
She had an appointment with H, and that seemed to help bring her back to center. About a week later, we had a co-session with H, and I kinda let loose how pissed-off the whole episode had made me. We had made a "contract" after her last hospitalization that the suicide option was off the table: she promised me that she wasn't going to go there again. I know that doesn't mean much for someone struggling with depression, that in the depths of the sickness they lose their ability to make rational decisions, but still, part of me wanted to believe that her promise to me would be strong enough motivation to keep her from the brink. I guess what really pissed me off the most wasn't that she went there, but that I was again reminded of how helpless I am to control this beast.
I need to see that this disease is beyond my control; that no matter what I do or say, this is bigger than me. As much as I want to "fix" it, I can't. I need to accept that it will take time, that there will be ups and downs. Probably the hardest part is that I need to believe in my heart that she really does want to get better, even when she gets as low as she was, and that she'll be strong enough to pull herself free. It a question of trust, and of faith. Until I understand and fully accept that, I'm just tilting at windmills.
She had had a bad day at work, was feeling generally down. Came home, did some work in the yard, and pulled a muscle in her back. So she came inside, laid down, started thinking about all the work she now couldn't get done. Started feeling helpless, useless, empty. Things escalated in her mind, as they do, to the point that she felt totally worthless. She took an Ativan to calm down...and another...and some aspirin...and a few Paxil that were left over from a previous prescription...and another Ativan...and a Benedryl...and some Pepcid...and another Ativan... During this time, she's also managed to drink 3 beers. Eventually, she got all her drugs out, and lined them up on the counter in little plastic cups, ready to just go down the line, taking whatever was next.
For whatever reason, she decided at some point to call her sister, K. Thank God she did. K was able to talk to her, convince her to put everything away. She got her to call a crisis center. She also called her therapist. Finally, she called me at work to let me know she had had an episode, but that she was alright now, and she didn't want me to be blind-sided when I got home. Naturally, I left work immediately, and got home to find a walking zombie, doing laundry. With all the stuff she had in her system, I was amazed she was even on her feet.
We talked for while about what had happened, but even on a good day getting details from her is like getting teeth from a chicken, so there was little chance this day of learning anything helpful. What I did learn was that it was all the classic issues; feeling alienated at work; feeling like she doesn't contribute to anything; emptiness; lack of direction... I got some sense of the desperation she was feeling when I asked her, of all the pills she had taken, why the Pepcid? Her answer really chilled me: "Because it was there".
With the help I've been getting from my therapist, D, I was able to keep myself from spiraling down into a panic. I forced a few deep breaths, got control of my emotions. I kept telling myself, "She's OK, now, that's what's important." We went to bed early that night, and by morning the drugs had worn off, and she was feeling a bit better, though now she also felt ashamed, embarrassed, guilty...
She had an appointment with H, and that seemed to help bring her back to center. About a week later, we had a co-session with H, and I kinda let loose how pissed-off the whole episode had made me. We had made a "contract" after her last hospitalization that the suicide option was off the table: she promised me that she wasn't going to go there again. I know that doesn't mean much for someone struggling with depression, that in the depths of the sickness they lose their ability to make rational decisions, but still, part of me wanted to believe that her promise to me would be strong enough motivation to keep her from the brink. I guess what really pissed me off the most wasn't that she went there, but that I was again reminded of how helpless I am to control this beast.
I need to see that this disease is beyond my control; that no matter what I do or say, this is bigger than me. As much as I want to "fix" it, I can't. I need to accept that it will take time, that there will be ups and downs. Probably the hardest part is that I need to believe in my heart that she really does want to get better, even when she gets as low as she was, and that she'll be strong enough to pull herself free. It a question of trust, and of faith. Until I understand and fully accept that, I'm just tilting at windmills.
posted by me at 10:02 AM
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