My heart hurts.

The more I ruminate on it, the worse I feel, and the more my depression decides to beat me upside the head with lies and self-hatred.

From my Livejournal, January 28th, 2013:

Even after bracing myself, and preparing myself for at least a week for that inevitable conversation, it still hurts deeply. The more I think about it, the more I realize that it honestly was more him than me.

I was giving all I could; I tried to go out as often as he wanted, but it made me hypomanic and anxious. He stopped inviting me along and seethed that I wasn’t going. Twice we talked about that; he assumed I wouldn’t want to go, so just didn’t ask, and I reminded him that I don’t *always* say no.

He said that the way to get to know him, was to go out and hang out as often as possible. I can’t do that. Between being an introvert, having bipolar disorder, and having PTSD with plenty of anxiety to go with it, I have to be very choosy about where I spend my energy, to keep as even a keel as possible. I have to create buffer days between activities, when nothing is expected of me and I can unwind. I said I would try to be able to go out more than once a week, but that wasn’t enough. He asked me, “What’s so bad about being overstimulated?” and did not seem to feel it was really that big a deal when I ended up manic, blacking out doing something weird, and off work for three days to recover.

He took my not wanting to go out, as not wanting to be with him, but he hated nights in, saying that wasn’t how we would get to know each other. He wanted me to go with him and his sister and her fiance most nights to someplace weird, and noisy and crowded, and couldn’t understand why that made me horribly uncomfortable. He was so upset when, due to a pharmacy/doctor miscommunication, I ran out of klonopin before the trip we’d scheduled for the Tennessee renfaire, and had to back out because I was out of medication that I would desperately need in a weird place with weird people and no escape plan. He tried everything to convince me to go, while I sobbed helplessly, already in the throes of a panic attack, and out of medication to treat it.

I tried so hard to keep the lines of communication open but he kept shutting them down. I tried to have a weekly date night but if I didn’t push, he didn’t initiate anything, wouldn’t call me, wouldn’t ever pick a place to go. Plans always fell apart; last weekend, he blew me off four times, each time with a different excuse. My phone’s battery died, my sister showed up unexpectedly to go get pizza and we ended up at a bar playing trivia games all night, you didn’t tell me when I could come over.

He really didn’t know what to do with depressed me, or anxious me. He really liked manic me, and normal me, but depressed me scared the shit out of him. He didn’t check on me to make sure I was ok, he didn’t answer my calls the few times I reached out to him for support, he once blew off my “I’m suicidal and scared” for bingo with his sister.

It really all boils down to selfishness and immaturity. I was trying, but I can’t move too far from my equilibrium for my health’s sake. He couldn’t compromise his fun, for my health, and didn’t understand why he would need to.

I am back to the “I’m a burden” stage I’d kicked for a little while. My life is never going to be “normal” and I have accepted that, and want to kick ass anyway. NAMI featured an article in the New York Times called “Successful and Schizophrenic” about a person with schizophrenia going on to be seventeen flavors of awesome with like, three doctorates. I know it can be done. I want to work, and be successful, and live comfortably, and maybe get married someday.

One of my friends called me when she saw my distress on Facebook, wanting to know if I was ok. I’ve been texting her for a while, as it’s been getting worse as the night progresses. I said, “I just…. hurt. Like the Cymbalta commercial. Everything hurts outside, and I am numb inside; I keep coming back around to the fact that I was rejected because of my mental illness. I will always be someone’s burden and it hurts so much. Especially given how prejudiced my parents are to people on disability, so I would have nowhere to go.” Her response was, “That’s why you have friends, honey. You’re not a burden to them. :)”

I burst into tears. Sometimes I forget or am too afraid to reach out, assuming that it will drive yet another person away, so I suffer in silence. I’ve been texting this friend and my sister tonight, and it helps to reach out, and let other people know how much pain I’m in. My sister wants me to go get some sleep and she will come over tomorrow and we will bake chocolate chip cookies- or just eat the dough- together, and it’s nice to know I have that support.

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