Bad emo poetry

It's never a good sign when it's been this long between entries. Writing is how I most effectively deal with what is going on inside and outside my head. I began a depressive spiral a little more than three weeks ago, and this was compounded by an illness that forced me to postpone a lot of things that needed to be done.

This entry is likely to be very triggering for certain people, as it contains an account of self-harm, so take that warning accordingly.

There are thirteen neat, parallel scratches on my right arm from where I dragged the dull blade across my skin until beads of blood oozed forth. I didn't count the scratches as I was doing it, or anything, but now that I look at my arm, it's like bad emo poetry. I am pleased to say that the shame that led to cutting is, for now, merely a cardboard cut-out of a concept in the back of my mind. The guilt for having done it dissipated more quickly than it would have in the past. Still, I have not harmed myself this way in seven years. The last time I did, I ended up in a mental hospital for four days.

The same argument that culminated in this stupid, selfish act of self-loathing ironically led to Matt resorting to the same behaviour, simultaneously, in another room. I think that bothers me more than anything else- the fact that I drove him to it. If I am not careful, if I think too much about it, I will be standing exactly where I was three days ago, screaming and ranting and throwing my wedding ring at my husband, because I don't deserve him, because he will just tire of me anyway, because everything I touch turns to shit.

But I'm not thinking that way right now. Strangely, I feel a new kind of kinship with Matt. When I saw the scratches on his own arms, I realised that we had more in common than I gave him credit for. I know it sounds weird, but hear me out. I guess since I get along so well with his parents, and his family isn't completely broken and dysfunctional like mine was (before everyone died), I made assumptions. I assumed that he had grown up in a (comparatively) idyllic situation, with parents who loved and supported him, with friends who stuck by him, without pain or inner turmoil that even approached my own. Sure, I knew he got made fun of for being a fat kid, and I knew he and his dad had issues, but I didn't realise his pain could manifest the same way mine did. Despite his unconditional love for me, and his patience and kindness, I didn't think he could ever really understand the depth of my pain. Now, I know that he does, and can, and always will. All because we bled together, for each other, because of the fear of losing us. Yeah. Bad emo poetry.

I am in no way suggesting that screaming at each other and then going off to our separate hiding places to cut ourselves was a responsible, reasonable, healthy or mature way to handle our situation. I hope that it never, ever happens again, but the experience did bring us closer. The experience strengthened our bond. I have less fear now than I ever have that our marriage will somehow fall apart. We recovered quickly, and it wasn't by sweeping the incident under the rug. We immediately sought the help of our therapist. We talked it out. We explored why it happened, what our triggers were, and what we could do to prevent escalations like this in the future. The next day, we were being us again, making sorbet in the kitchen, talking about our favourite shows, making plans to get together with friends. We are okay. We aren't walking on eggshells, we aren't teetering on the razor's edge (pardon the pun) of another explosive argument. We're solid.

In the meantime, I am working on me. I feel much more like Morgan right now than I did three days ago. Today, I started Latuda, an atypical antipsychotic. I had a bit of a scare at first, because I got some chills about ten minutes after I took the first pill, but it could have just been a coincidence. I called a nurse hotline, and she assured me that the lack of other more serious symptoms indicated it wasn't an immediate concern. I will see if it happens again tomorrow, and if it does, I'll call my psychiatrist and ask what I should do. But I don't want to give up. I really want, really need this pill to help me. I need to believe that it will improve my ability to function in my household and in the real world. At the moment, I am feeling okay. Really okay. And that's promising.

So, onward. Last night, I finally had the sleep study done that I had to postpone twice because of a sinus infection. It wasn't an overly pleasant experience. I found it even more difficult to sleep than usual, knowing a camera was on me at all times, but I got through it. The electrode paste in my hair was the most annoying part. Eh. Conductive hair gel. Whatever. I haven't gotten the results of the study yet, but they didn't have to wake me at any point to put me on a CPAP, so that's promising. I do remember jerking awake several times, though. Maybe they can give me some insight as to why it's so damned hard for me to fall asleep.

Next Friday, I am having my tubal ligation surgery. This is a whole other subject that I am not going to get too far into right now, because I need to get some sleep, but it is a big step forward for me. Ultimately, it will free me from the anxiety of becoming pregnant, miscarrying, or having to decide whether to stop taking all of my meds in order to carry a child to term. Matt and I have discussed it at length, and both of us believe it is best.

As for my back surgery, I still have not heard back from our insurance about whether they are going to approve it, and this is definitely a source of anxiety. At least when I finally get around to it, it won't have been my first surgery.

Anyway, that's about it. I feel good for having written this. It's another step back onto the path of normalcy, at least, normal for me, and hopefully, the changes I am making are going to improve what "normal" for me is in the future.