I’m only sleeping

A few days ago, on Monday morning, I crashed. The night before I was crying myself to sleep after some unwelcome news and in the morning everything felt dark and dull. I poured myself a cup of  tea and sat down on the couch. Had a sip and looked out the window. And everything just stopped.

Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just sat there.

My husband got worried of course. I wanted to tell him it was alright, but I couldn’t get the words out. It was difficult enough just to move my eyes to look at him. Stuck, I felt stuck in my own head.

He drove me to the hospital, to this emergency psychiatric place. Thoughts kept spinning in my mind, it may have looked like I was half asleep but it was quite the opposite. I was aware, fully aware, painfully aware of every little detail. My uncombed hair. My husband’s concern. The chatter of others in the waiting room.

There was a woman there, waiting for her turn, who started talking of babies. On and on she went, describing her previous pregnancies and how giving birth was the best thing ever, the best, the best. Husband told me not to listen but I couldn’t stop it. I listened, and felt close to blacking out. My head was about to explode it seemed, I couldn’t breathe and everything hurt. I hurt, the world hurt, the woman’s words hurt.

I couldn’t sit there listening. In a full panic I fled into the nearest bathroom and sat down on the floor, in a corner, crying.

We were at the hospital for half a day. I talked to doctors – or rather they talked to me while I merely managed to whisper a few stray words in return – and got pills.

Once home I slept.

The day after I slept.

And the day after that.

Despite sleeping all day I’ve also been able to sleep all night, so my waking hours have dwindled to barely more than a handful per day. I’m exhausted, absolutely exhausted. All I want to do is sleep.

I wish I could just make it stop. I wish I could be normal. I wish I wouldn’t hurt my husband like this. I wish the pain would stop.

 

They call me from the hospital every day now, to check on me. They keep asking if I want to kill myself. Every day they ask. I keep saying no. They don’t seem to believe me. But I keep saying no. I won’t. Even though I feel worthless, even though I’m sure my husband would be better off without me, I won’t. I want to live. I want to grow old. And I want to see this hell through and come out victorious on the other side.

Hurting

I  am not doing great. It is Friday and I should be happy for the upcoming weekend, for the summer warmth and for the chance to simply hang out with my husband. To enjoy the garden, cuddle the cats, keep writing, keep working on that embroidery too that I’m so proud of.

 

Instead I just hurt. I cry. I do my job but without pleasure, with every minute stretching out to last an hour.

 

By necessity I am trying to face and accept the possibility that we won’t ever have a child. Wondering when to say stop, when to give up, when to decide that it won’t happen. But that acceptance does not come easy. The questions hover over me like a dark cloud, blocking out the sun.

 

I’m not doing great. It hurts, badly.

Needle Time – cycle 2 has begun (IVF)

I am so glad I’m not afraid of needles.

 

Today the IVF process started over with daily shots administered by yours truly. Hopefully this second time around will work better on all levels. I am starting on a higher dose of the hormones which hopefully will mean it won’t take quite as long to get the eggs ready, which in turn hopefully will mean better quality eggs and no overstimulation. Last time was PAINFUL and I spent days just sitting around at the hospital, being checked on every few hours. But that was last time, this time will be better! Fingers crossed, ta i trä.

 

These last few days have been emotionally rough. Very rough even. A fun combo of pms followed by intense period cramps and IVF related anxiety, wehey. Not good. I’ve even been sleeping badly, which for me is super unusual – even through my worst times of depression I’ve usually been able to sleep! But these past few days everything has been off.

 

Right now? I’m a bit fuzzy. That’s the painkillers work. Period cramps are always terrible for me and even light painkillers make my mind a bit… fuzzy. Tired. And well, any pills that are actually strong enough to kill the pain are also strong enough to put me to sleep. Working during the worst crampy days have in other words never really worked, as I am either shaking of pain or asleep. Now I hoped yesterday was the worst day but this morning is starting badly. As I am writing this I’m laying down on a couch and constantly wriggling my legs and hips – somehow the motion helps handling the pain.

 

Oh hey, this post was supposed to be about the IVF start, not about period cramps! So I better stop there. I promise I’ll get back to you on the cramps topic though! Because that is just so much fun. ^^ Isn’t it?

 

Ouch.

 

I better stop now. Wish me luck!

 

Bad Breath – Ill Mind

When I have bad days, when the old depression flares up and my mental state crumbles, my breath changes. I can’t tell myself, but my husband tells me it’s quite clear. Sometimes he can even feel the change before I have fully realized that it’s more than just having a bad mood. It turns sour, he tells me. Smells like illness.

It’s not due to a change in diet, nor due to something as simple as forgetting to brush. It’s me.

Tells you something about how direct the connection between psyche and body is, doesn’t it?

 

On a brighter note, I do feel a bit better. The elephant has stepped off my chest, replaced now by… a medium sized dog. Less painful. Easier to breathe. Easier to think.Still uncomfortable, but… bearable.

The husband agrees. He can still feel the ill smell on my breath but it’s not as bad as yesterday, or worse – the day before. I’ll take that as a good sign!

Pain Within

The new year has begun and it is painful.

My chest hurts.

No matter how deep I breathe it still doesn’t feel as though I am getting enough air.

My eyes have trouble focusing.

My appetite is gone.

My balance is off and I feel faint.

My head is empty and at the same time whirling with panic stricken words.

I cry, and cry, and cry.

 

 

I understand those who end up cutting themselves. Physical pain would come as a relief in comparison. The only reason why I am not hurting myself as a form of distraction is that I know, on an intellectual level, that it’s not the answer. But the urge is there, the wish to escape the swamp of emotional hell by any means possible.

 

Yes, I am having bad days.

 

But yes, it’ll get better.

Too Tired to Title

The last couple of days have been difficult. Anxiety has clutched to my chest like a frantic alien parasite, clawing its way into my body and ripping me apart from the inside. A most painful experience, I assure you.

It’s getting a bit better though, and I feel almost back to normal again now. (Which you might have guessed from the mere fact that I managed to write more than five words in a row!) So, on to lighter thoughts!

Winter is here, and so devotion has turned to Ullr yet again. I have been reading what I wrote about Him last year, revisiting old ideas, lighting His candle in a snowy shrine, and meditated. What conclusions I reached last year still feel true, even more so now in fact. As I write these words now my chest feels warm, swelling with appreciation and respect for the bright and beautiful. Since yesterday I have been considering making something, crafting something inspired by him, for him. Nothing is decided yet though, so far it is just ideas. Hopefully though, I’ll be able to tell you more about it later. It’ll involve needle and thread, that much I’ll say.

Until next time, be well! I… am going to bed. Night ya’ll.

A Hateful Cycle

It was bound to happen eventually. It always does.

The process, which I’ve repeated countless times since a tender age, looks like this:

 

 

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GREAT IDEA! I get inspired and start writing. I love writing, new ideas always keep coming and I can’t go without writing too long. So I write, and it’s fun, and I am optimistic!

 

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I get deeper involved in the project, my mind keeps spewing interesting ideas and I am starting to see how I can wrap things up into a curious finished product, eventually.

 

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Self doubt starts creeping in.

 

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I read through what I’ve written, and realize it is crap.

 

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I desperately try to salvage the situation. Rewriting parts, restructuring, changing things, hoping an overhaul might somehow help.

 

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I reach the conclusion that the project can’t actually be salvaged, because I am simply a terrible writer who will never manage anything. I give up, feeling like a complete failure and a terrible person. Intense anxiety and self despising ensues.

 

And then I stay in that stage until a new idea hit me, and I simply can’t help starting the whole process over again. This has been repeated countless times since… well I think I started working on my first attempted novel around the age of ten? And now I am 31. Every time I hit that final stage of failure it gets worse, because not only do I feel sadness over the project lost, I also feel increasingly foolish for having made the same fundamental mistake AGAIN. The fundamental mistake of thinking I could actually be good enough. The mistake of even trying.

 

This last project of mine has gone surprisingly well. I’ve rarely managed to keep writing for this long without breaking down! I’ve enjoyed the writing itself, I love the characters and the story itself grips me. But of course, I couldn’t just carry on happily ever after. Two days ago I made the mistake of reading through what I’ve written, and I ended up in tears. It’s crap. I’m convinced it’s crap. I really am.

The thing is, I’ve been down this road so many times before that I know how such thinking ends. It ends in nothing. If I stop writing there is no improvement, there is no progress, there is nothing. So I need to carry on anyway, that’s the only way I can break the terrible cycle of failure. And I need to break the cycle, I don’t know how many more times I can manage getting up again after facing that horrible breakdown at the end.

So where am I now?

The project is crap. I suck at writing. But what are my options? Carry on and perhaps manage to finish a crappy novel? Or give up now and get nowhere?

Finishing a crappy novel that never gets published is at least something new. It may lead to progress on some level. So, that’s what I need to do. I need to finish my crappy project even if it sucks.

I hate myself sometimes.