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Broken Bones, Bikes, and Wanting That Cigarette...

I wanted to write a post about the depression I recently experienced and explain more in detail my food phobia thing. Maybe phobia isn't the right word, as I'm not deathly afraid of food. It's more of a food...aversion? A food intolerance? Reluctance?

Well, I'll get into that in a minute.

Okay, so I just had a really horrible depressive episode that lasted a good while. (That's why I haven't written in awhile).
It came outta nowhere, like usual. I don't think there was a set-off moment. But I know that things were happening during this time that was sending me down my spiral into the abyss.
And everything was becoming overwhelming. And there was nothing I could do about it.

The day that A broke his wrist, was originally going to be a beautiful day. I was forcing myself to go outside, and I figured if I was forcing myself, I should force J to come with me! And we could hang out at the park together and play with David.
Where's the Skelegro?!
The sun was out. I was really hopeful that this was the day I'd be given that breath of fresh air.
So when A called to tell me he was on the way to the hospital, I thought he was messing around.
He does that sometimes! But when I arrived at the hospital and saw the state of his wrist, I was repulsed and I felt my mother instinct click on.
Well, it clicked on, and like usual, there wasn't anywhere to place that mother-ness except right back inside myself.

I had David with me, and as soon as I heard what happened with A, I grabbed J from her house and brought her with me to the hospital.

She was worried, as I was. And she was his mother. She could take care of him and tell him that she loves him. Though I could tell he was embarrassed by his mother's cooing, there was a piece of me that wished I could be the one embarrassing him.

No, this wasn't what set me off.

We all sat and waited in the emergency waiting room; A, J, David, A's friend, and me.
A's crooked wrist swelling up, and he was starting to finally feel the pain. He got tears in his eyes and I could see the frustration in his eyes. I wanted so badly to hold him and reassure him.

The best I could do was, "Don't worry, bud. They'll call us back soon and take good care of you. Just try to not think of the pain. Focus all your energy on something else."

They called A's name and we all stood up.

We walked over to the doctor. "Who are all of you?" He said.

"I'm his mother, this is his step-momma, and his baby brother, and his friend." J told him.

He said, "I'm sorry but we can only allow so many people back here."

J went on and said, "Well, I'm his mother so I'm definitely going back there." And off they went.

I teared up. Sure, he wasn't my son. I am not his mom. But I was scared for him. I wanted to be there for him too. I wanted to stroke his hair and kiss him on the forehead. And tell him everything was gunna be alright.

Still, that wasn't what set me off.

David, his friend, and I all went back to our seats in the waiting room.
We waited for hours.
And I was waiting for M to get here because David was getting fussy and I had to watch A's friend.
J texted me, letting me know that they had to put him under sedation so that they could pop his wrist back into place.
And when he woke up from the sedation, he puked all over himself.
Then J told me that he was going to need surgery.

By this time, I had left David with M at the hospital and was driving A's friend back to where the boys ditched their bikes.

Their bikes were gone, and I automatically assumed they were gone for good, because people are assholes and like to steal kids bikes.
But I went in to get help from this lovely lady who was working inside this weird building.
I asked if maybe someone moved the bikes inside somewhere.
She told me she'd call me when she heard if someone put the bikes somewhere safe.

I drove A's friend home and told him I was sorry for being so quiet. And that I had racing thoughts.
He said it was okay and not to worry about it.
As I was dropping him off, I apologized to him about the bikes and reassured him that as soon as I knew where the bikes were, I'd bring his bike home to him.

And he left.

I was alone in the car.

I started panicking.

I thought maybe I'd just go home and smoke a small bowl to relax my racing mind. And since I was starting to panic, I figured it would be good for me to just be home and shut myself in the room and just breathe.

I pulled into the driveway and ran inside, the panic increasing in intensity. I was starting to hyperventilate. I couldn't stop seeing A's teary-eyed face in my head. And I couldn't stop hearing David's screams and cries. And M's face. The way A's friend said, "it's okay, don't worry about it." And the feeling of walking on eggshells everywhere I went. And K's pretty, thick hair and the way she looks at me. My mother's absence. My dad's several attempted suicides. Cameron jumping off that cliff. Zoe's terrible, unfair death. The immense loneliness I felt. It was all tumbling down on me.

I was standing in the bathroom, my bowl was empty, and my weed jar seemed less full, and everything crashed on me right then and there.
I saw red. And my fingers were tingling. And I was hot. On fire.
I ran out back to the car and sat there for a moment. Everything crashing down. Seeing red. Feeling like I was set ablaze.
And I lost it. Right there in the car.
And I couldn't stop. There was no stopping. It was coming out like vomit. Hot, putrid vomit.
I wanted it to stop. I wanted to shut up. I wanted all the thoughts in my head to go away and leave me alone. And I was repeating words over and over. Though I can't remember what the hell I was talking about now, K came out and tapped on the window.
I had no idea she was even home.
And I couldn't even pull myself together for her. Which only made me feel more rage.
I was humiliated. And full of rage and sorrow and loneliness.
I just wanted to apologize to K and tell her that I loved her. With all my heart. That I would do anything for her, she was my soul. Just like M, A, and David were.
But I was just babbling crazy nonsense at her.
So she ran inside and called M.
I didn't know what to do.

I have no idea what got me to calm down. I think I had called my dad and asked him to take me to the hospital when he got off of work. I was arguing with M on the phone. I was falling apart and he didn't understand. It was frustrating and felt hopeless. I just wanted so badly to be happy. Why couldn't I be happy? Why did all these feelings have to be so difficult to deal with all the time? Why could I never get my racing mind to just stop once? For just a moment. A moment of peace. Silence. Happiness. Tranquility.'s okay sage. Everything is okay.
There was no angel there to embrace me and tell me that everything is okay.
To not think of the pain and to focus all my energy on something else.
This whole moment in the car is what made me think I was this-close to falling into a psychotic episode.
And I refused to be around anyone except doctors during my psychosis.

I drove away and bought everyone some burritos. I couldn't eat anything. I went to see A, because apparently, since M was now there, I could go back there.
He had his surgery. He was drugged up. He wanted to go home. With his mom. And she could take care of him there for a few days.
I waited for my dad to call me. He wanted me to come over and talk to him about what was going on with me.

Well, we did. Over a few beers. It calmed me down for the most part, but that tingly, apprehensive feeling in the back of my mind still worried about the psychosis. Especially now that I had a decent amount of alcohol in my system.

I asked my dad to take me to the hospital now that they were sending A home.

I checked myself in and they sent me back.
They put me in a small room with a small sink and a large, mirrored window.
I had a few doctors come talk to me.
I danced around the small room, listening to Warpaint.
I really wanted a cigarette. Really bad.
But I didn't want them to send me home. I was in crisis. I needed help!
But since I was not planning on killing myself, or anyone, they booted me out a couple hours later.
Fucking doctor sent me home with hydrocodone!!! For what??! I wasn't even in physical pain!!!
I walked home alone in the dark. Praying I'd stumble across a giving gentleman in the middle of the night who had an extra cigarette to spare.
I passed by a bar and had the slight idea of going into it. But I kept on walking.

When I got home, M and David were laying in bed, David sleeping peacefully.

I didn't want to look at M. I just wanted to pretend this whole day never happened. And I closed my eyes.

I tried to avoid K for the next few days as much as I possibly could.

I just wanted to hide.

When I got the flu a couple days later, I thought I was going to die from all the puking. I couldn't stop. Figured this was my death. But hey, at least no one would see me around anymore.

A few days later, three hospital visits because I was so severely dehydrated, and a doctors visit, I was finally put on Zyprexa. Which I refused to take because there was no way in hell I was going to take a medication that makes you gain a bunch of weight and may give you diabetes.

So the next day, I mentioned to my doctor about Lamictal. Because I'd heard such great reviews about the drug. Seemed like a good fit for me. And boom! I was taking Lamictal. I am taking Lamictal.
And I'm really hoping that this is the one for me.
I just refuse to take medication that will make me gain a shit ton of weight, or turn me into an emotionless robot.
I'd rather deal with my mania and depression alone than be taken out of my own body.

Now to explain the food aversion thing. I know, abrupt change in subject.

See, I never really gave a shit about food. Or more, the food I put into my body. To me, food was just food. You needed it to survive. Simple as that.

When I pregnant, I ate whatever I pleased. No care in the world. When I was hungry, I wanted to eat! And whatever I was craving, I needed to have! So yeah, I gained sixty-five pounds during the pregnancy. Was 110 pounds before, and was 175 at the end.
I felt horrible about that!
And what was worse is that after the C-Section, I lost fourty pounds in only a week and a half.
No joke. I'm not fucking kidding, here.
As you may know, losing too much weight too fast can make your skin saggy.
Well it did! My stomach took all it could handle and it just seemed to give up. I don't blame it!
It's not too bad now, but boy it was a scary sight to see every day for a whole year.

Okay, I'm getting side-tracked.

Food Aversion. Food Aversion. Food Aversion.

When I gave birth, everything changed for obvious reasons. And I had a set plan for how I was going to raise my baby boy. I wasn't so worried.
But after a few days of being home with my new baby and after my mom and my grandmother had already left back to their homes in Washington and New York, the panic set in.

Being a new mother was the most exhilarating, frightening, beautiful, messy, and tiring time of my life. That honestly hasn't changed much. There were new things I had to think about. New ideas, new dreams, new everything. Everything changed. Literally. And I became a new me.
That new me started developing weirder quirks than usual.
One of the main ones being food.
I told myself that David was only going to eat organic food. I was going to breastfeed him for a couple years, and home blend his baby foods out of organic fruits and vegetables and meats, gluten free pastas, non-GMO labeled products, etc., etc.

I refused anything otherwise.

But then a year passed and he didn't want breast-milk anymore. And I was blending his foods and feeding him proudly. Feeling like I was doing good. Putting no harsh chemicals into his tiny, baby body.

And things got harder. And more expensive. I couldn't keep up with his eating. He ate constantly. I would run out of fruits and vegetables. Meats and pastas.

That's when we started buying "normal" food. And I was feeding him crackers and pop-tarts and easy-mac, and packaged frozen chicken nuggets. I tried my best to keep giving him as much fruit and vegetables to eat, so I'd buy those pouches and fruit cups and steamed vegetable mixes and lots and lots of organic juice that had fruit and veggies in it. I dared not give him dairy unless it was organic, minus the easy-mac because, well, it was easy-mac.

But for the most part, I just felt like I was poisoning my son. That his body was impure because of what I was feeding him.
To me, all food was poisonous. Is poisonous.
And so every once in awhile, I'll have a freak-out over food.

Like once when I was in the bath, trying to relax and get my mind to shut the fuck up for once. And I broke down, sobbing, pounding the water like a cement floor I was stuck in. Freaking out over food.

Or the time I was sitting on my bed and started pounding on the walls about how I was poisoning my son. That food was poison. And why couldn't I just be normal for fuck's sake?! Don't feed him that!!! Read the labels!!!

And then the other time where I freaked out again, in the bathroom, again. Over chicken nuggets.
Sobbing on the bathroom floor, mumbling nonsense about frozen chicken nuggets. I cried so much my eyes almost swelled shut. Luckily I slept that off.

This food aversion nonsense bothers me. As stupid as it sounds. It really fucking bothers me.
I feel like I just can't trust anything anymore. The world has gone mad. All the food is fake. And it's killing us and giving us mental disorders and cancers and horrible debilitating diseases.

Having dealt with eating disorders before in my lifetime, this shit worries me. My compulsions that I have. I don't want to starve myself or my son. That's not what I'm saying. I don't want to gain anymore weight either. But I feel so frustrated at this food shit. I worry that I won't be able to get rid of this food compulsion in time, and David will grow up watching me and then he'll develop weird food aversions. Absolutely not!!!
I just have to tell myself that David is okay. He is healthy and happy and whatever I feed him, he will be fine.
And sometimes that works! But there's always that thought in the very back of my mind.

I haven't been able to see my therapist through all this chaos but will be seeing her this coming Monday. And god, how I have missed her. It's been such a struggle going through these past three weeks without her. I'm just thankful I have the Lamictal to hold me together. And David's smiles and soft skin. And M's heart-shaped lips. A's silliness. K's beauty.

I am okay. I always dig myself out or find a way back down.

No, I didn't fall into psychosis, thank god. Yes, I got the boy's bikes back.

It's still a struggle every fucking day, but I really am getting myself back to a healthy state of mind.
There's a lot to work on, but at least I'm working on it. I've realized how much I feel like I need to be in control. Not of people, but of things. I like things done the "right" way. Situations handled and taken care of. And when I feel like situations aren't under control, or when I see something being done the "wrong" way, I freak out inside.
But realizing that I can't be in control all the time, and realizing that, guess what, David's actually the one in charge, is hard for me to comprehend. Well, not comprehend, but....acquiesce....
I'm learning to let go of control a lot. On top of all this other shit I'm learning to do.
Phew! Breathe in. Breathe out.

And I leave you with this:

"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards--"
-Soren Kierkegaard
(thanks wes)



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