I lost myself in 1991 when I turned 31. The first diagnosis was bipolar depression, but years later another doctor amended that to severe depression. To me it doesn't matter - either way you slice it a huge chunk of my identity was torn away in a matter of months.
We all carry a self-image of who we are and what our impact is on the people/events that surround us. I had not been aware of this self-image until I looked in the metaphorical mirror and didn't recognize myself anymore. Its kinds scary, not to mention life-altering.I first noticed the symptoms soon after I started divorce proceedings with my first husband, Donald. Strangely enough, the idea that I could have been symptomatic during my marriage didn't occur to me until the last few years. To this day, I wonder if the onset of the symptoms were a major or minor contributor to my perceptions of my happiness with this man who is really a pretty good guy... yeah, there were problems, but I wonder if the depression affected my thoughts as to whether is was a salvageable situation or not. Hard to say.
If you refer back to earlier posts, you may understand the HUGE gulf between being dependent on a mind like a steel trap and finding myself confused when I sat down in front of my computer one day and agonized over turning it on. It was as if the action was a pivot point that would force me into a further series of actions and reactions I wasn't prepared for. Weird, right? I remember sitting in front of a blank screen and agonizing over the consequences of pressing a button. I knew that if I turned on the computer, I would be faced with using it. To put this in perspective, my first computer was a Commodore (1979) that hooked into the TV set (as the computer screen), in my 20's I was in charge of IBM System 32 mainframe computers (input and data mining), and had been a beta tester for numerous proprietary programs developed in many of the companies I worked for. I have a gift for sitting down in front of the computer, opening a program, and figuring out how it works. I have taught myself database programs, spreadsheet formulas, and website design - so I am not a shrinking violet when it comes to a computer challenge.
It was very frightening to sit in my chair that one morning and find myself intimidated at the idea of turning on my desktop. It was the day I realized I was [literally] losing my mind. I don't remember if I turned it on or not. What is frozen in my mind is the fear and the confusion of not being able to make a decision. I just remember sitting in the chair, staring at a blank screen.
Very soon after this incident, I started to see a psychiatrist as I recognized I wasn't acting like the person I wanted to be. We started experimenting with drugs (the prescription kind)... lithium is NOT my friend! Damn, that stuff made me physically ill. I also was told I would never be the person I was. I no longer had my "total" recall, and I was confused when I tried to recall info that I KNEW. I was frustrated with myself. I lost my self image, the person I identified as a contributing and vital person. I still remember the shock when the doctor told me I would never be that person again. It can probably be compared to looking in a mirror one morning and finding I was a tall blond (instead of a short brunette). How do you make sense of something like that?
Sometime during the beginning of treatment, I started to get suicidal thoughts. I would image how fast I would have to be driving when I hit a tree or drove off an overpass to guarantee I would not survive. There were a lot of scenarios that ran through my brain, usually when I was driving, or walking. None of the thoughts drifted towards firearms or anything that would involve the guilt of another person (like stepping in front of a vehicle). The main consistency was that my death would be final... I didn't want someone to "find" me later and save me. My thoughts weren't a cry for help (that's what I was seeing a doctor for), I wanted it to be over. It was bad enough that I was no longer a person I recognized, I was just terribly unhappy. I was also in mourning for the old, familiar me. I didn't want to be a new me-- I wanted the old me back. I didn't want to drag myself through each day, fully cognizant of what was missing.
I don't remember thinking of taking pills to commit suicide, but it must have been there somewhere... I remember making an appointment to see my doctor, gathering up all the medicine in my medicine cabinet, and taking it all with me to the appointment. I remember saying to him, "you need to take this stuff or I'm going to." Very dramatic, I know, never let it be said I was boring. We discussed whether I should check into a hospital, but I told him I think the anxiety of not being able to work (which has always been a big part of my identity) would be more detrimental, so we agreed I would check in with him daily (by phone) and our appointments were escalated to weekly (maybe every couple of days). We both agreed I didn't want to kill myself and that I recognized I was in distress, and that these thoughts were not how I normally felt. We put more focus on the meds, and at some point, the thoughts started to go away.
There is a lot of time in these years that I don't remember too well (such as events, timelines, etc). To this day, I am still confused by lapses in my memories; its like portions of my life are missing completely, jumbled or disjointed to a point I wonder what is real and what were thoughts I had when I broke. I suppose at this point it doesn't matter.
Twenty years later, I still miss the old me. That was a person I liked. The new me is not so bad, but who is to say I won't wake up one day and find a chubby redhead looking back? There is a level of trust that is gone. And if you can't trust yourself, then what's left?
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