I was sick. I was so, so sick.
A change in medication a few weeks prior turned me into a rapid cycling, anxious mess. It was the beginning of the 3 months or so where lived in a continual panic attack where I felt like I was going to throw up at any given time. Except I had no idea that anxiety was at fault. The psychosis symptoms kept building up to the point I was frightened. The strongest memories I have are sitting on my living room floor crying so hard I couldn’t breathe or sitting in silence contemplating suicide. Those months are probably the closest I’ve ever been to being hospitalized.
In spite of being nearly non-functional, my stubborn side enabled me to get out of my apartment to travel out of state to visit with friends over the holidays. I was miserable, and the disrupted sleep schedule made the cycling worse.
I was sick and it sucked.
Every time I get frustrated that I can’t stay up past 9 and have to sleep ten hours a night, I remember this. Every time anxiety starts to subtly reappear, I remember this. Every time I’m able to acknowledge a symptom, set it to the side, and continue on my way, I remember this. Every time the depression and self-pity start to set in, I force myself to remember how bad things were and how far I’ve come.
This Christmas I’m remembering that even though I might not feel fantastic, its a far cry from how bad things were last year. I’ve done a lot and should be proud of myself for it.
Most importantly, I’m OK.