Video About Overcoming Depression with ECT

It is a long video but worth it.

Why can't I be that simple?

I'm sitting here next to my cat "Kitty" AKA "Chub B. Kins" who has her own chair.  On it is a heating pad and it's turned on right now.  Now the point of the chair and the heating bad is to prevent her from getting on my computer and she's close enough for me to pet.  But to the real issue, she is perfectly happy laying there on her heating pad.  It doesn't take fancy toys to entertain her.  Why can't my life be that simple?  Why can't I just turn on a heating pad and be perfectly happy?

Yes, I know I'm whining, and yes, I know that humans are more complex and have different needs.  I guess I just wish that something could pull me out of this depression, like my own little heating pad that would make me content with the way things are.  I guess I will have to accept the pills and the coping skills that I'm dealt.

I saw my psychiatrist today and he decided it was best to take me off of the nortriptyline which has been making me foggy to say the least.  I haven't been able to think straight or remember things.  I ask stupid questions and repeat things.  I have even sat there and wondered if this is how stupid people feel.  It's not a nice thing to say but there, I said it.  I left my purse in a cart outside the grocery store and didn't realize it until I got home.  Luckily a very kind person turned it in and nothing was missing (including cash).  I feel like my brain took a vacation.

My psychiatrist put me back on venlafaxine (Effexor) to replace the nortriptyline.  My neurologist is the one who put me on nortriptyline.  Because Effexor and nortriptyline are both antidepressants my psychiatrist just increased the dose my neurologist put me on to manage both depression and migraines.  Now I can't seem to get my neurologist to answer my calls to find out what he wants me to do for migraines.  It's frustrating.

With all this going on it would be nice to go see my family like I usually do each month but my finances simply won't allow it. My (27th) birthday is the first of February and I might be able to move things around and spend my birthday there with my family.  I don't want to feel tempted to over-drink and have a repeat of Halloween.  And I don't want to be sitting here at the computer.  Perhaps my dad and I will go out to dinner.  I don't know, I'm rambling.  I'll stop there.

"This Is Not A Sad Poem"

I am too depressed to write anything of real substance but here is a great poem, "This Is Not A Sad Poem" (link to owner's blog at the end).

"This is not meant to be a sob story.

This is a poem to make you understand.

In the past year alone,
I have attempted suicide 4 times.
In the past year,
the police have come to my house 2 times.
In the past year I ran out of resources
and had to check myself into a treatment center.

In the treatment center,
there was a girl who had
welts on her arm deeper than mine.
It looked like she had
punched her fist through
a glass window
the way life had punched
the life out of her.

In the treatment center
there was a girl who had hallucinations
about a man standing in the corner
that terrified her so much
that she couldn’t stand still.

In the year before the last one,
I had two suicide attempts.
I was checked into an ER for my overdose
then a psychiatric hospital.

This is a poem about all the people
who have been bounced back to a hospital
every time they thought they got their life back together
only to let their mental illness catch them off guard again.

This is a poem for all the people
who are so weak that they
cannot stand on their own.

This is a poem for the people
whose eating disorders are so strong
that they will refuse food
even when they weigh 70 pounds
and are forced by hospital staff
to be fed by a tube.

This is a poem for the people
who have more hospital bracelets
than they do friends.

This is a poem about
how I have to take 8 pills a day
to function somewhat normally.

This is a poem about how I had
to drop out of public school
because my mental illness
has interfered with my eating,
my breathing, my sleeping,
and my ability to live.

This is a poem about
how I cannot count the number of people
who have told me they wanted to die
on two hands.

This is a poem about the 400,000
emergency room visits
for self inflicted injury in 2001.

This is a poem for the 30,622
people who committed suicide in 2001.

This is a poem for everybody with a mental illness
who is more scared of being judged
than they are of death.

This is a poem for everybody who
has wanted to bleed away their pain.
This is a poem for everyone
that wanted to disappear,
hoping that if they shot themselves,
if they crashed their car,
that if they jumped off the roof of a building,
that they might shatter.

This is a poem for everyone
who has tried to choke the pain
out of their life.
This is a poem for everyone who hoped
that an overdose would be a peaceful death.

This is a fuck you to every hallucination,
every manic episode, every depressive episode,
every flashback, every panic attack, every nightmare,
every suicide attempt, every hospital visit,
every purge, every laxative, every crash diet,
every single doctor that told you you were doing it for attention,
every single bully that didn’t know what they were driving you to,
every family member that ever looked at you like you were a freak,
everybody that ever told you to “get over it”,
everybody who told you that you were faking it.
Everybody who ever told you that it wasn’t a big deal.

Would you still be saying the same thing at our funerals?
Do us all a favor and tell us how beautiful
we “were” while we’re still alive.
How beautiful we are .

This is a poem for everyone who ever thought
the world would be better off without them.
This is poem for everyone who ever needed
somebody to just listen without judging.
This is a poem for everyone who just needs someone
to care or believe in them.

This is not meant to be a sad poem.
This is not a poem about overexaggeration.
It is a poem about reality.
It is a poem to finally make you understand.

We are more than statistics.
We are stories."

This Is Not A Sad Poem

http://expresswithsilence.tumblr.com/post/71883649940/this-is-not-meant-to-be-a-sob-story-this-is-a