I haven't written here in a while. And honestly because there isn't much new to report. Just the usual random panic attacks. Some worse than others. Some at home, some out at a store.
My medications have me sleeping 12-16 hours a day. I did the math. That means that some days I'm awake for as long as most people sleep. I often get up late. Usually around noon these days. Run a few errands and then nap through the rest of the day. I wake up in time to make dinner and watch some tv. And then it's back to sleep.
Even though I am sleeping a lot, I feel it's not quality sleep. It's often interrupted. I wake up a lot. Have trouble falling back asleep. I also don't seem to dream. I mean maybe I am. But since the sleep is so drug induced, I don't remember anything but blackness.
I'm seeing my therapist today. For the first time in about 6 years. I had to stop seeing her when I lost my health insurance. And even though I still don't have insurance, I feel I need to see her. She's waving the fee for my first visit considering that it'll be mainly playing catch up on my life. I was up most the night wondering how I can cram the past 6 years into a 55 minute session. I tried to sort out just the highlights. I figure I can go into details another time. Because even though the past 6 years in important to how I'm feeling, it's not the main issue. The main issue is the PTSD, the emetophobia and the panic attacks. I want to tackle those with her most.
I want to add that I love my therapist. I know it's her job not to judge. But I loved being able to tell her anything. She was the first person I talked to who knew anything about emetophobia. So I felt safe sharing it with her. I don't know if we'll even get to that today. But we'll see.
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
When the emetophobia began
When did it begin? That's the big question. I worked with a therapist for 2 years trying to pinpoint that moment where the phobia came about.
I know I wasn't born with it. In fact, I vividly remember being about 5 or 6 and suffering from a horrible stomach flu. My sister was caring for me while my parents were at work. She gave me soup and I thew it up a few minutes later. There was no fear. No trauma. Not even any tears. I just did it and moved on. Then I drank some 7up and threw that up minutes later too. Whatever. I crawled back into my parents bed (they let me stay there cuz the toilet is close to the bed and they had a tv) and watched tv. No panic. No fear. It was normal.
Something had to have happened that caused this phobia. And I wish I knew the one event. It's like it was so traumatic for me that I blocked it out.
Or maybe it wasn't just one thing. My therapist thinks it was a series of events. When I was 7, my sister got pregnant. She was fairly young. And I remember starting to get disturbed by her morning sickness. It wasn't super tragic yet. But I became more aware. And I remember us enjoying a pizza one day. And her running to the bathroom after barely taking a few bites. I lost my appetite too and went to my room.
Then there was the baby. Baby spit up wasn't so bad. It was such a little amount, it didn't seem to phase me. But then the baby grew up and she got bigger, so did the vomit. Good god, how can so much come out of someone so little?!
Also at this time, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. The treatments made him throw up too. Violently. We could hear it even from downstairs in the living room with the tv on. I'd turn the tv up to tune it out.
Again, back to the baby. As a toddler, she puked a lot. And the panic came. She'd throw up, and I've cover my ears and sing to block out the sound. I'd close my eyes and run for the safety of my bedroom. I would refuse to come down for the rest of the day or until we were sure she was no longer going to be sick. I also avoided where ever she threw up. I don't care how many times my mom cleaned the couch or the carpet. Didn't matter how much disinfectant she used. The spot was "tainted." For weeks, I'd also avoid my niece. And I ate very little. I would feel queasy myself. I know now that I was suffering from panic attacks and PTSD after each time she got sick.
Then there was school and shopping. Anytime I saw someone else throw up, I panicked and had to go home. The queasy feeling would return, along with the inability to eat. It's like I thought I'd catch what that person had. And as long as I didn't eat, I couldn't throw up.
I remember spending many nights awake reliving each and every time I had seen someone throw up. I would try to think of other things. But the images always came back. As did the panic. I even had nightmares about throwing up. Again, I know now this was PTSD. But back then, no one even knew much about emetophobia so no one considered PTSD,
My therapist believes that somewhere along the way, I began to associate vomiting with bad things happening. My niece coming along when my sister was still just a young teen herself. My father's cancer. Perhaps that is true. I do not know. But I never outgrew whatever it was.
And now living with a stomach condition that causes constant nausea, I now live with constant panic too. I'd love to get to the root of the problems. But considering this phobia was a learned condition that started more than 20 years ago. It may never go away...
I know I wasn't born with it. In fact, I vividly remember being about 5 or 6 and suffering from a horrible stomach flu. My sister was caring for me while my parents were at work. She gave me soup and I thew it up a few minutes later. There was no fear. No trauma. Not even any tears. I just did it and moved on. Then I drank some 7up and threw that up minutes later too. Whatever. I crawled back into my parents bed (they let me stay there cuz the toilet is close to the bed and they had a tv) and watched tv. No panic. No fear. It was normal.
Something had to have happened that caused this phobia. And I wish I knew the one event. It's like it was so traumatic for me that I blocked it out.
Or maybe it wasn't just one thing. My therapist thinks it was a series of events. When I was 7, my sister got pregnant. She was fairly young. And I remember starting to get disturbed by her morning sickness. It wasn't super tragic yet. But I became more aware. And I remember us enjoying a pizza one day. And her running to the bathroom after barely taking a few bites. I lost my appetite too and went to my room.
Then there was the baby. Baby spit up wasn't so bad. It was such a little amount, it didn't seem to phase me. But then the baby grew up and she got bigger, so did the vomit. Good god, how can so much come out of someone so little?!
Also at this time, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. The treatments made him throw up too. Violently. We could hear it even from downstairs in the living room with the tv on. I'd turn the tv up to tune it out.
Again, back to the baby. As a toddler, she puked a lot. And the panic came. She'd throw up, and I've cover my ears and sing to block out the sound. I'd close my eyes and run for the safety of my bedroom. I would refuse to come down for the rest of the day or until we were sure she was no longer going to be sick. I also avoided where ever she threw up. I don't care how many times my mom cleaned the couch or the carpet. Didn't matter how much disinfectant she used. The spot was "tainted." For weeks, I'd also avoid my niece. And I ate very little. I would feel queasy myself. I know now that I was suffering from panic attacks and PTSD after each time she got sick.
Then there was school and shopping. Anytime I saw someone else throw up, I panicked and had to go home. The queasy feeling would return, along with the inability to eat. It's like I thought I'd catch what that person had. And as long as I didn't eat, I couldn't throw up.
I remember spending many nights awake reliving each and every time I had seen someone throw up. I would try to think of other things. But the images always came back. As did the panic. I even had nightmares about throwing up. Again, I know now this was PTSD. But back then, no one even knew much about emetophobia so no one considered PTSD,
My therapist believes that somewhere along the way, I began to associate vomiting with bad things happening. My niece coming along when my sister was still just a young teen herself. My father's cancer. Perhaps that is true. I do not know. But I never outgrew whatever it was.
And now living with a stomach condition that causes constant nausea, I now live with constant panic too. I'd love to get to the root of the problems. But considering this phobia was a learned condition that started more than 20 years ago. It may never go away...
Saturday, January 18, 2014
The Mania
My doctor recently put me on an antidepressant to help with the anxiety. As I've stated before, these can be dangerous for anyone with bipolar disorder. I'm supposed to increase my dose of my mood stabilizer to counteract the antidepressant. But the mood stabilizer mixed with the anti nausea pill and the other anti anxiety pill put me to sleep. I don't like napping through most of the day. So I'm not taking as much of the mood stabilizer as I should.
And I can feel it. The mania. The energy. The high. The feeling of being invincible. Wild. Untamed. Bouncing off the walls. Even though my hands still shake, and I still feel anxious, I also feel I can do anything. Suddenly, I'm cleaning my house for the first time in months. And I'm sure my house is grateful. It needed it! I'm running errands I wouldn't have thought of doing.
But I know I'm walking a fine line now. The mood swings. The anger. The hallucinations. The need to do bad. The craving for drama. The urge to chase the high. It's bubbling under the surface. Waiting for a chance to take over. To act before thinking.
One wrong step, and I could spiral out of control. Go back to the sex, drugs, and alcohol that once consumed my days.
Thankfully, I have my man to ground me. But I also know that one tiny little thing could blow up into a huge fight. All because of the mania. All because I'll have lost control. And he's not one for drama. He won't put up with my crap.
It's difficult, as the mania in itself can feel so great. And the greater it feels, the worse the fall will be. The worse the depression will be when I cycle back down. Because that's what it is. A constant cycle of highs then lows then highs again.
I fear this road I'm walking. I just have to hope that I've learned enough over the years to help me cope. To recognize the trouble and to be able to stop it.
So many years ago, I never knew what mania was. Never knew why I'd get so angry. Get so crazy. React with violence without thinking first. Why I was never able to even think "this is wrong." I didn't know what was wrong with me.
Now that I do, I hope to be able to fight it.
And I can feel it. The mania. The energy. The high. The feeling of being invincible. Wild. Untamed. Bouncing off the walls. Even though my hands still shake, and I still feel anxious, I also feel I can do anything. Suddenly, I'm cleaning my house for the first time in months. And I'm sure my house is grateful. It needed it! I'm running errands I wouldn't have thought of doing.
But I know I'm walking a fine line now. The mood swings. The anger. The hallucinations. The need to do bad. The craving for drama. The urge to chase the high. It's bubbling under the surface. Waiting for a chance to take over. To act before thinking.
One wrong step, and I could spiral out of control. Go back to the sex, drugs, and alcohol that once consumed my days.
Thankfully, I have my man to ground me. But I also know that one tiny little thing could blow up into a huge fight. All because of the mania. All because I'll have lost control. And he's not one for drama. He won't put up with my crap.
It's difficult, as the mania in itself can feel so great. And the greater it feels, the worse the fall will be. The worse the depression will be when I cycle back down. Because that's what it is. A constant cycle of highs then lows then highs again.
I fear this road I'm walking. I just have to hope that I've learned enough over the years to help me cope. To recognize the trouble and to be able to stop it.
So many years ago, I never knew what mania was. Never knew why I'd get so angry. Get so crazy. React with violence without thinking first. Why I was never able to even think "this is wrong." I didn't know what was wrong with me.
Now that I do, I hope to be able to fight it.
Friday, January 17, 2014
The Cutting
I don't remember when I first became a cutter. Is it strange that I can't bring to mind my first time?
I know I was young. Around 14 or 15. At the time, I was on antidepressants for tension headaches. They were supposed to be tranquilizers. To help me sleep and help ease the tension.
What no one knew at that time was that I'm bipolar. Antidepressants make the mania worse. My mood swings were a daily roller coaster. The depression was also really bad. My parents chalked it up to teenage angst and hormones. I figured that was it as well. Puberty really bumped my bipolar disorder up big time.
I believe the first time I cut, I was thinking suicide. I was that down. Dragged into a pit of despair. I was either numb or in heart crunching pain. Everything was dark. For most of my years after that, things would remain to be dark.
I didn't cut deep enough in the beginning. Thinking killing myself would destroy my parents. So I held back.
Eventually, cutting became more of a way to cope than to kill. Like I said before, I was experiencing panic attacks at this point. But I didn't that's what they were. All I knew was that cutting made it better. The ritual of cleaning the skin, pulling out my special box of "tools" and doing the deed. I felt the anxiety flow out with the blood. The depression too. Then I'd clean up and bandage up and feel fine.
Do I recommend this coping mechanism for panic attacks? Not at all. I don't even condone cutting. It took many years to stop. I cut for everything. Anger, depression, anxiety, to spite someone who pissed me off, to control something in my life when I felt everything else was chaos, to punish myself for being "crazy."
I had boyfriends during that time who all looked down upon me for it. Told me the scars on my hips, thighs, stomach and arms were ugly. I was ashamed and hid them. Wearing long sleeves even in summer.
It wasn't until I stopped, that I now don't care who sees the scars. And I have to thank my current boyfriend for helping me quit. He never supported cutting. And the one time I did it when we first started dating, I broke his heart. It was over a fight with him. Jealousy on my end. Having been in so many abusive relationships before, I had a hard time trusting this one. He had to work very hard to gain my trust. It took a long time.
I stopped cutting. And not for me. I realized that trying to quit for anyone else had always led to me cutting just to spite them whenever they hurt me. But this guy never intentionally hurt me. So taped up my special box and put it away in some other boxes in the closet.
I don't ever forget about it. There are even times when I am at rock bottom and I long for my "tools." I know where they are. But I fight the temptation to go back there. Once I start again, it will be so easy to fall right back into that addiction.
I don't want that crutch. I will try and battle this out without it.
I know I was young. Around 14 or 15. At the time, I was on antidepressants for tension headaches. They were supposed to be tranquilizers. To help me sleep and help ease the tension.
What no one knew at that time was that I'm bipolar. Antidepressants make the mania worse. My mood swings were a daily roller coaster. The depression was also really bad. My parents chalked it up to teenage angst and hormones. I figured that was it as well. Puberty really bumped my bipolar disorder up big time.
I believe the first time I cut, I was thinking suicide. I was that down. Dragged into a pit of despair. I was either numb or in heart crunching pain. Everything was dark. For most of my years after that, things would remain to be dark.
I didn't cut deep enough in the beginning. Thinking killing myself would destroy my parents. So I held back.
Eventually, cutting became more of a way to cope than to kill. Like I said before, I was experiencing panic attacks at this point. But I didn't that's what they were. All I knew was that cutting made it better. The ritual of cleaning the skin, pulling out my special box of "tools" and doing the deed. I felt the anxiety flow out with the blood. The depression too. Then I'd clean up and bandage up and feel fine.
Do I recommend this coping mechanism for panic attacks? Not at all. I don't even condone cutting. It took many years to stop. I cut for everything. Anger, depression, anxiety, to spite someone who pissed me off, to control something in my life when I felt everything else was chaos, to punish myself for being "crazy."
I had boyfriends during that time who all looked down upon me for it. Told me the scars on my hips, thighs, stomach and arms were ugly. I was ashamed and hid them. Wearing long sleeves even in summer.
It wasn't until I stopped, that I now don't care who sees the scars. And I have to thank my current boyfriend for helping me quit. He never supported cutting. And the one time I did it when we first started dating, I broke his heart. It was over a fight with him. Jealousy on my end. Having been in so many abusive relationships before, I had a hard time trusting this one. He had to work very hard to gain my trust. It took a long time.
I stopped cutting. And not for me. I realized that trying to quit for anyone else had always led to me cutting just to spite them whenever they hurt me. But this guy never intentionally hurt me. So taped up my special box and put it away in some other boxes in the closet.
I don't ever forget about it. There are even times when I am at rock bottom and I long for my "tools." I know where they are. But I fight the temptation to go back there. Once I start again, it will be so easy to fall right back into that addiction.
I don't want that crutch. I will try and battle this out without it.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Worthless in a crisis
I feel like a terrible daughter. A worthless one.
My mother had a bit of a mishap with her dog. The dog is old and cranky and easily spooked. Somehow she freaked out and bit my mom on the lip. It was pretty bad. The hole went all the way through her upper lip.
I guess my mom sent me a text about it. But I was asleep. At 4pm. Yep. I'm adjusting to my new medications and the past couple days, I've been sleeping a lot.
I wake up, take my meds, do some stuff around the house, feed the pets, feed myself, and then pass out on the couch. Yesterday, I had only been up for 4 hours, then fell asleep for 3.
Anyway, with my fears, phobias and anxiety. I'm pretty sure I would've never been able to have taken my mom to the emergency room anyway.
Thankfully my sister stepped in and took care of it.
I finally woke up when my mom called me just before she left with my sister to the ER. I felt so useless. I wanted to have rushed to the ER to meet up with them. But was too groggy.
So all I could do was sit home and worry and text my sister every 10 minutes to find out what was happening.
My mom is also diabetic. And she was stuck in the waiting room during her dinnertime. Meaning, she was at risk to pass out due to low blood sugar. And she doesn't heal well.
God, I wish I had been more helpful. I feel pathetic. I know my mom doesn't hold it against me. But I still feel bad. Thankfully, it wasn't that bad of an emergency and she's all stitched up and ok now. Had it been something more severe, I don't know what I would've done.
My mother had a bit of a mishap with her dog. The dog is old and cranky and easily spooked. Somehow she freaked out and bit my mom on the lip. It was pretty bad. The hole went all the way through her upper lip.
I guess my mom sent me a text about it. But I was asleep. At 4pm. Yep. I'm adjusting to my new medications and the past couple days, I've been sleeping a lot.
I wake up, take my meds, do some stuff around the house, feed the pets, feed myself, and then pass out on the couch. Yesterday, I had only been up for 4 hours, then fell asleep for 3.
Anyway, with my fears, phobias and anxiety. I'm pretty sure I would've never been able to have taken my mom to the emergency room anyway.
Thankfully my sister stepped in and took care of it.
I finally woke up when my mom called me just before she left with my sister to the ER. I felt so useless. I wanted to have rushed to the ER to meet up with them. But was too groggy.
So all I could do was sit home and worry and text my sister every 10 minutes to find out what was happening.
My mom is also diabetic. And she was stuck in the waiting room during her dinnertime. Meaning, she was at risk to pass out due to low blood sugar. And she doesn't heal well.
God, I wish I had been more helpful. I feel pathetic. I know my mom doesn't hold it against me. But I still feel bad. Thankfully, it wasn't that bad of an emergency and she's all stitched up and ok now. Had it been something more severe, I don't know what I would've done.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Yay got my meds
Finally got more anti-anxiety medication. Also got put on a few more medications. And as much as I hate taking pills that are probably destroying my body, if they help me function like a normal human being again, I'm willing to try it. Only thing is that I am now on 5 different medications that cause drowsiness. So guess who can't drive or work? Yep, me! But try telling the county that. They will probably still deny me disability. But I'll be applying again. I'm going to see a therapist and maybe even a different psychiatrist, so I can build a better case about my inability to work. I mean come on, who wants to hire a zombie who needs Xanax just to leave the house anyway?
The last job I got was a fluke really. I got lucky because the manager who hired me liked pretty girls working for him. So even tho I flat out told him that I have bipolar disorder, he didn't care and hired me anyway. I even had to call out of work once due to me being hauled away into a 51/50 hold. That was yet another ex who caused that one. He called the cops and had me hauled away 2 hours before I had to be at work. My boss didn't seem to mind. I think he had a soft spot for me. I don't know. But once he was replaced by a female manager... Well, I couldn't get away with as much =p
Anyway, it's going to take a few weeks for these new medications to make a difference. I hope they help. We shall just have to wait and see. I'm going to nap now, because like I said, all the pills make me drowsy. Think I could get a job where I get to take a nap everyday? Yeah, I didn't think so.
The last job I got was a fluke really. I got lucky because the manager who hired me liked pretty girls working for him. So even tho I flat out told him that I have bipolar disorder, he didn't care and hired me anyway. I even had to call out of work once due to me being hauled away into a 51/50 hold. That was yet another ex who caused that one. He called the cops and had me hauled away 2 hours before I had to be at work. My boss didn't seem to mind. I think he had a soft spot for me. I don't know. But once he was replaced by a female manager... Well, I couldn't get away with as much =p
Anyway, it's going to take a few weeks for these new medications to make a difference. I hope they help. We shall just have to wait and see. I'm going to nap now, because like I said, all the pills make me drowsy. Think I could get a job where I get to take a nap everyday? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Monday, January 13, 2014
The day I was forced to seek professional help
I can't remember the date or even the year. I want to say it was about 8 years ago. But truly so much of my life is a blur. I never was good at keeping track of time.
But even though I can't remember the date, I remember the details of that day so well.
I was in an abusive relationship with a guy who I should've left long before I did. I wasted 3 years with him. I hate to say it, but the bipolar me loved me the drama. And yet, there was a sane part of me that hated every minute of it. It was a toxic relationship with lots of fighting, breaking up, getting back together.
He and I were arguing on the phone one day. One of the many arguments over something dumb that I can't remember. At this time, I was a cutter. I had actually started cutting around 14 and it continued until only about 3 years ago. But that's a story for another time.
Whatever my asshole boyfriend at the time was saying to me that day gave me a panic attack. Back then I didn't know that's what it was. But looking back, it was clearly a panic attack. And cutting quickly eased those attacks by giving me something to concentrate on, and by lowering my blood pressure. Yes, I did have a ritual and yes I did make sure my tools were always clean.
Sadly, on this particular day, I cut too deep by mistake. There wasn't a lot of blood, but the wound opened up a lot and I could see muscle and fat beneath my skin. I guess I managed to just cut through the skin, but nothing below that.
It was vanity that led me to tell my mom. The wound was wide open and I was pretty sure it would leave a horrible scar. Yes, I was a cutter, but I was also self conscious about my scars. I'm not anymore, but again that's another story. So, yes I admit, vanity led me to tell my mother.
There wasn't an easy way to say it. She knew I had cut before so I merely showed her. I was still on the phone with the asshole. And he was yelling at me. Telling me I was stupid and he couldn't believe how dumb and selfish I was. Yep. I hung up when my mom gasped at my arm.
She called my dad, who was no longer living with us. He rushed over and tried to place me into a 51/50 hold. That's when they deem a person a danger to themselves or others and lock them into the psych ward for at least 24 hours. Thing was, I wasn't suicidal. I wasn't even hysterical or upset. I wasn't even crying anymore. I was however embarrassed.
My father called some place to have them take me away, but since I was an adult, they asked to talk to me. After a 5 minute conversation, they decided I was of sound mind and weren't going to lock me up in some padded cell. Dad was pissed. He never understood my issues. Even once I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, he still considered me just a "drama queen."
Anyway, it was suggest by this family crisis center that I at least seek mental help. So I was given references to some therapists and psychiatrists. My mom also made an appointment with my general physician to stitch me up. Dad left angry. Mom took me to the doctor. I agreed to see the mental health specialists for my mom. Because of the pain in her eyes when she took in my gaping wound.
I remember the sad look in the doctor's eyes when he saw not only my gash, but the scars around it. It took 13 stitches. He said the skin was too ragged from multiple cuts and scars that it just kept falling apart as he tried to stitch it. So I was still left with an ugly scar.
I have to look at that scar everyday. Have to remember how it happened and what it led to. In the end, it was sort of a good thing. I found a great therapist and a good psychiatrist. I was properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder and anxiety and started getting meds and help on a weekly basis.
That day had been life changing for me. And even though I'm not anywhere near cured (there really is no cure for these things) I was given tools to help me cope. And for 2 years, my therapist was my lifeline. Sadly, my health insurance changed after that, and I had to stop seeing her. But I still have my psych. Even tho she's less of a "let's talk this out" and more of a "here's some pills" type of help. It's still help.
I'm lucky I didn't have to hit rock bottom and wind up in a hospital, getting my stomach pumped due to an overdose. Lucky that I didn't sever an artery or something. Lucky that my help came before something much worse happened.
To my readers, you are not alone. Talk to someone. Professional or not. Talk about it. Hopefully before you hit rock bottom. Hopefully before you have to see the disappointment in the eyes of your loved ones as they witness one of your not so shining moments. Start talking. Someone will listen.
I will listen.
But even though I can't remember the date, I remember the details of that day so well.
I was in an abusive relationship with a guy who I should've left long before I did. I wasted 3 years with him. I hate to say it, but the bipolar me loved me the drama. And yet, there was a sane part of me that hated every minute of it. It was a toxic relationship with lots of fighting, breaking up, getting back together.
He and I were arguing on the phone one day. One of the many arguments over something dumb that I can't remember. At this time, I was a cutter. I had actually started cutting around 14 and it continued until only about 3 years ago. But that's a story for another time.
Whatever my asshole boyfriend at the time was saying to me that day gave me a panic attack. Back then I didn't know that's what it was. But looking back, it was clearly a panic attack. And cutting quickly eased those attacks by giving me something to concentrate on, and by lowering my blood pressure. Yes, I did have a ritual and yes I did make sure my tools were always clean.
Sadly, on this particular day, I cut too deep by mistake. There wasn't a lot of blood, but the wound opened up a lot and I could see muscle and fat beneath my skin. I guess I managed to just cut through the skin, but nothing below that.
It was vanity that led me to tell my mom. The wound was wide open and I was pretty sure it would leave a horrible scar. Yes, I was a cutter, but I was also self conscious about my scars. I'm not anymore, but again that's another story. So, yes I admit, vanity led me to tell my mother.
There wasn't an easy way to say it. She knew I had cut before so I merely showed her. I was still on the phone with the asshole. And he was yelling at me. Telling me I was stupid and he couldn't believe how dumb and selfish I was. Yep. I hung up when my mom gasped at my arm.
She called my dad, who was no longer living with us. He rushed over and tried to place me into a 51/50 hold. That's when they deem a person a danger to themselves or others and lock them into the psych ward for at least 24 hours. Thing was, I wasn't suicidal. I wasn't even hysterical or upset. I wasn't even crying anymore. I was however embarrassed.
My father called some place to have them take me away, but since I was an adult, they asked to talk to me. After a 5 minute conversation, they decided I was of sound mind and weren't going to lock me up in some padded cell. Dad was pissed. He never understood my issues. Even once I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, he still considered me just a "drama queen."
Anyway, it was suggest by this family crisis center that I at least seek mental help. So I was given references to some therapists and psychiatrists. My mom also made an appointment with my general physician to stitch me up. Dad left angry. Mom took me to the doctor. I agreed to see the mental health specialists for my mom. Because of the pain in her eyes when she took in my gaping wound.
I remember the sad look in the doctor's eyes when he saw not only my gash, but the scars around it. It took 13 stitches. He said the skin was too ragged from multiple cuts and scars that it just kept falling apart as he tried to stitch it. So I was still left with an ugly scar.
I have to look at that scar everyday. Have to remember how it happened and what it led to. In the end, it was sort of a good thing. I found a great therapist and a good psychiatrist. I was properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder and anxiety and started getting meds and help on a weekly basis.
That day had been life changing for me. And even though I'm not anywhere near cured (there really is no cure for these things) I was given tools to help me cope. And for 2 years, my therapist was my lifeline. Sadly, my health insurance changed after that, and I had to stop seeing her. But I still have my psych. Even tho she's less of a "let's talk this out" and more of a "here's some pills" type of help. It's still help.
I'm lucky I didn't have to hit rock bottom and wind up in a hospital, getting my stomach pumped due to an overdose. Lucky that I didn't sever an artery or something. Lucky that my help came before something much worse happened.
To my readers, you are not alone. Talk to someone. Professional or not. Talk about it. Hopefully before you hit rock bottom. Hopefully before you have to see the disappointment in the eyes of your loved ones as they witness one of your not so shining moments. Start talking. Someone will listen.
I will listen.
Things I can't/don't do because of my phobia
In no particular order, things I can't or won't deal with due to my phobia of vomit and vomiting.
- Go to parties, bars, clubs, ect. I pretty much avoid places where there will be heavy drinking. Because people tend to drink too much and throw up! I have never drank till I threw up. For obvious reasons. I briefly lived in a party house where drinking till you puke was a daily thing. I couldn't handle it. The bathrooms were always full of people throwing up. So I actually used to pee outside. I felt it was cleaner!
- Have kids. Not that I'm in a place to have them anyway. But the fear of morning sickness and having a child with the stomach flu is enough to scare me away from the idea of motherhood. Everyone says I'd make a wonderful mother. And I probably would, until they got sick. Then I'd be running out the door!
- I have gone to the emergency before. But I'd rather not. Again, sick people, throwing up. Can't handle that. Same with dr waiting rooms. I usually take someone with me who will wait in the room for me and I stay out in the parking lot.
- Drugs. Obviously this is a good thing to avoid. But my reason wasn't because they are wrong. But because I feared throwing up. Someone told me that you're supposed to throw up with some drugs. Why?!
- Certain medical procedures and medications. I avoid pretty much anything that "may" cause vomiting. No thank you!
- Working. I did it for a little bit. In a store. And who knew that customers threw up so often in stores?! It's crazy. If you feel sick, stay home!
- Cleaning when my pets throw up. I throw a towel over that crap and leave it for my boyfriend to clean. I can't even look at it. Actually, I've gotten wise and when I know my dog is feeling nauseous, I throw garbage bags around the floor so clean up involves just wrapping it up and taking it outside.
- Public transportation. People get motion sickness. I can not be trapped on a bus or something with someone puking. Flying on a plane is definitely not happening.
- School. I HATED being forced to go to school when I was younger. Too many kids throwing up! Even in high school! Again, stay home! When I did witness such a thing, I'd go home feeling sick myself and stay home for days. Now as an adult, I don't have faith that others know any better so I never did attend college other than online.
- Eating questionable food. Be it something new I've never tried, or chicken cooked by someone I don't really know or a place I don't trust. No food poisoning for me thanks!
- Watching certain movies. Anything with a vomit scene will send me running. I often have to look up a questionable movie to see first if there's such in a scene in it before watching it. If a tv show seems to be leading towards a possible vomit scene, I close my eyes and cover my ears.
- Carnival rides. No roller coasters or things that spin or go upside down. I don't want to get sick and really really don't want to someone to get sick on me!
I'm probably missing out on a lot due to this phobia. But it runs my life. It has since I was a little girl. In fact, I have yet to pinpoint the exact moment when vomiting became the end all. When it turned into a traumatic event that led me to never want to deal with it again. But the irrational fear is there. And I wonder if it'll ever go away...
- Go to parties, bars, clubs, ect. I pretty much avoid places where there will be heavy drinking. Because people tend to drink too much and throw up! I have never drank till I threw up. For obvious reasons. I briefly lived in a party house where drinking till you puke was a daily thing. I couldn't handle it. The bathrooms were always full of people throwing up. So I actually used to pee outside. I felt it was cleaner!
- Have kids. Not that I'm in a place to have them anyway. But the fear of morning sickness and having a child with the stomach flu is enough to scare me away from the idea of motherhood. Everyone says I'd make a wonderful mother. And I probably would, until they got sick. Then I'd be running out the door!
- I have gone to the emergency before. But I'd rather not. Again, sick people, throwing up. Can't handle that. Same with dr waiting rooms. I usually take someone with me who will wait in the room for me and I stay out in the parking lot.
- Drugs. Obviously this is a good thing to avoid. But my reason wasn't because they are wrong. But because I feared throwing up. Someone told me that you're supposed to throw up with some drugs. Why?!
- Certain medical procedures and medications. I avoid pretty much anything that "may" cause vomiting. No thank you!
- Working. I did it for a little bit. In a store. And who knew that customers threw up so often in stores?! It's crazy. If you feel sick, stay home!
- Cleaning when my pets throw up. I throw a towel over that crap and leave it for my boyfriend to clean. I can't even look at it. Actually, I've gotten wise and when I know my dog is feeling nauseous, I throw garbage bags around the floor so clean up involves just wrapping it up and taking it outside.
- Public transportation. People get motion sickness. I can not be trapped on a bus or something with someone puking. Flying on a plane is definitely not happening.
- School. I HATED being forced to go to school when I was younger. Too many kids throwing up! Even in high school! Again, stay home! When I did witness such a thing, I'd go home feeling sick myself and stay home for days. Now as an adult, I don't have faith that others know any better so I never did attend college other than online.
- Eating questionable food. Be it something new I've never tried, or chicken cooked by someone I don't really know or a place I don't trust. No food poisoning for me thanks!
- Watching certain movies. Anything with a vomit scene will send me running. I often have to look up a questionable movie to see first if there's such in a scene in it before watching it. If a tv show seems to be leading towards a possible vomit scene, I close my eyes and cover my ears.
- Carnival rides. No roller coasters or things that spin or go upside down. I don't want to get sick and really really don't want to someone to get sick on me!
I'm probably missing out on a lot due to this phobia. But it runs my life. It has since I was a little girl. In fact, I have yet to pinpoint the exact moment when vomiting became the end all. When it turned into a traumatic event that led me to never want to deal with it again. But the irrational fear is there. And I wonder if it'll ever go away...
Unedited
I've been writing these entries without going back over and reading them. So I apologize if there are errors. Spelling, grammar, or otherwise.
I feel that if I were to reread what I wrote, that I may want to rewrite it. I'd want to censor myself and start deleting sections. But I think it's better if I don't. I want this to be raw. To be the truth. So I'm doing my best to keep it that way.
I feel that if I were to reread what I wrote, that I may want to rewrite it. I'd want to censor myself and start deleting sections. But I think it's better if I don't. I want this to be raw. To be the truth. So I'm doing my best to keep it that way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)