every winter i go through something. all of my history of depression, eating disorders and self-destructive behaviour culminates to a climax and i fall apart at the seams.
with the exception of last winter, which was milder in part due to the influx of pregnancy hormones but still included days where i did not get out of bed and mentally scanned myself for seriousness towards suicidal tendancies, every year gets worse.
two winters ago i was single, cuz dr. daddy and i had split the summer before, and my forays into other relationships were not timely and ultimatey hurt people. myself, and the other people involved. i wasn’t ready to be there for anyone, i wanted someone to take care of me and save me from myself and honestly, after a 3 year relationship, it was unkind to venture into a new one so soon.
things had been getting bad for a while before winter hit. for the last few months of our relationship, dr. daddy had to put up with me being on medical leave for psychological issues. i was having panic attacks, sometimes more than 5 in an 8-hour stretch. i would have conversations that i didn’t remember and do things that i didn’t recall. massive mood swings. insomnia. anorexia. all i could do was smoke pot and laugh at stoner movies. and occassionally or frequently fuck, because back then, fucking was the only thing that i thought i was really good for when i was depressed. i was losing it.
i lost everything that winter. i worked two jobs, 65 hours a week, coming straight off of the leave. i loved my jobs until one day, i just couldn’t. couldn’t look in the mirror, getting ready for work, without staring for 40 minutes straight and not recognizing the person i saw. i quit those two jobs within 2 days of each other. then things really got bad.
when dr. daddy and i split up, i started doing drugs and drinking again. i started dieting again. i was already too thin, too high, too drunk, too hungry, but i was going to be the thinnest, drunkest, highest person i could be. hunger couldn’t touch me.
i slept every third day. spent days in front of the computer, manically chain smoking and playing msn games. the matching ones, like zuma, so that i could measure my progress (or mental decline). i spent $40 a day on coffee from the shop half a block away. i did whatever drugs people offered me and since i was a major partier at that point, with no money, a lot of people offered me a lot of drugs. i chain smoked marlboros because though i hated the taste, i could get 2 cartons of them for the same price as my regular brand. i didn’t pay my rent or bills, which eventually helped me to decide to move to the island. i didn’t. why? something suspicious was found on an xray of my dad’s lungs and back. anyways, back to…
one day i started seeing things. this was the night after i dyed my hair – i used a cap to put black streaks in and it took me 3 hours in a tiny, non-ventilated bathroom, to pull all of the hairs through, mix, apply and wait. i passed out in the shower rinsing it out. when i woke up, it was morning and i saw clear water. felt cold water hitting my body. i remembered why i was in the shower, and went to the mirror to look at my dye job and saw my face change shape in front of me. it melted. it was dali, rilah-style.
the next time, that same mirror again, i saw spiders. crawling everywhere behind me in the bathroom. when i looked away they were gone and when i looked back, they still had never been there.
i went for walks in the middle of the night. i’d put on a hat, gloves, sunglasses, multiple sweaters and jackets and walk around downtown and yaletown until i was done. i looked at the ground the whole time because by this point, i was also getting paranoid. i thought that if i looked up, if i saw into someone’s eyes, i would know when and how they would attack me. i’d see it coming. because every man, especially, on the street wanted to/was going to attack me. and i also thought that if i looked into their eyes, they could see into my soul and see how not right it was. unpeaceful.
i started hearing voices. two of them, actually. one, demonic. the other, singsongy and scottish. don’t ask me why scottish.
finally, i got some help after i yelled at the scary angry schizo guy that lives on our main street in the west end. i challenged him to fight me, i think, though i don’t remember the contex or words. i was a little under 90lbs and he now easily weighs 300.
i was pronounced “full-spectrum personality disordered” – a fancy way of saying, “you don’t fit the textbook and there’s too many different things wrong with you to properly diagnose you.” put on lithium, anti-psychotics, anti-depressants and the sedative clonazepam (a favourite amoungst those tending to anxiety). i got dopey and wasn’t capable of anxiety anymore. i was really only capable of sleeping, reading, drinking, smoking, twitching and yup, you guessed it, fucking. this would be when dr. daddy and i got tangled back up. i think it was the fact that i was so much more mellow (ahh, meds) than usual and so much more for drunkenness, so i didn’t give him any shit about it that made him make the mistake of getting caught up again. and so we move on…
this year, this winter, things are picking up fast and i can feel myself spiraling downward at a pace too quick to measure.
usually in the past winters, i’d have one good day, one bad, during the build up. this year, it’s two bad, maybe one good.
i know, in part, it’s due to some postpartum depression. i have moments when i hate her. when i think of horrible thoughts and don’t regret thinking them. when i wish that i had never gotten pregnant and that i could just run away to where no one knows my name. where i’m not mommy, or the milk provider, or the one to let her cry, scream, drool on me or the one who rocks her or bounces her in the bathroom while the tap is running. where i’m nobody.
i also have moments where i’m convinced that i am damaging her, just by thinking those thoughts. that she knows, but she really doesn’t like me anyways. and let’s be honest, based on the model i had to grow up with (apart from), i really know nothing about being, nor am a good mother.
and then there’s the times when she falls asleep in my arms without a fight. when dr. daddy is holding her and she’s fussy but smiles and curls into a zoë-ball when she sees my face. when she wraps her hands around my arm when we’re lying down and breastfeeding in bed. bliss. that’s what that feels like. then i feel like i’m doing everything right.
the worst thing is not being able to separate those feelings from the darker, older ones. the ones that tell me that i’m 20lbs too heavy for this time of year. that i’m being old by living like my life is over. sleeping too much when there’s so much to do! not drinking or doing any drugs. not having sex to get a high off of it. okay, not having sex at all.
i’ve been trying to hang on for a couple more months. til i’ve made the 6-month breastfeeding mark. i’ve tried tons of meds before and the only combo that’s effected me well aren’t safe to take while breastfeeding. i’ve been trying really hard, but it’s not working.
today, i hit a new low. i started shit, knowing i was, for the millionth time in the past few weeks. i screamed. i cried. i demanded. i wilted. i did a lot of that while holding zoë – i involved her. i actually used her to manipulate. and when it came to the wilting part, i wasn’t involved with her at all, even though i was holding her. she was crying and just wanted to sleep and i couldn’t do anything, i didn’t feel anything, i just wanted to go away for a while. he took her, because all i would do is stare at the floor. he tried to take her away for good, maybe, but i wouldn’t let that happen. i blocked the door. i seethed words out that i don’t remember now but i know they were pure attack of his morals and ability to be a parent. they were unfounded, in actualit
y. he told me at one point to go somewhere, to check myself into someplace. and i sneered in my head and maybe on my face. that was so fucking ridiculous a concept – i just needed to beathe and look at this one spot for a while.
now, it’s hours later, and i’m thinking that it wasn’t so ridiculous and i’m mentally sneering at myself. i don’t know this new me. this new crazy me. and i’m uncomfortable with her. in fact, i hate her. the old crazy me – abrasive, sure – but she was like my sister. a part of my family. i knew where she came from and when she’d go back home. this new me, she seems like she’s never going to leave.
i really want her to leave.
