Sometimes crazy is a battle between the soul and a broken mind.
It started on Thursday, even though the decline must have been steadily going on since the last weekend. I saw V on Thursday, felt agitated and distracted somehow. Bits and pieces of our conversation made no sense to me, and words I tried to assemble seemed to fall apart, shattering like glass all around me. V could soothe me somehow. Her tone of voice was often steady, like a soothing balm on an open wound.
But the recent constant fear was like a thorn in the side of my chest, and it hurt just to breathe. The fear came and went, like small little tsunamis. And I'd be overwhemed one moment, barely catching my breath the next.
I went home and hid, after the session. I called V later in the afternoon, begging for an end to this. I couldn't stand it anymore. She got some stat medications around to me - Lorazepam and Olanzapine. That seemed to calm me enough. At least I could keep the fear at bay. It didn't totally rid my paranoia. But it was tolerable. I got through the night.
Friday I called V again to check in. In the afternoon, my case manager came over. I can't remember what I'd done, but found myself barricaded in my living room. Desk against the door that led into the hallway and kitchen and bedrooms. Couch against the main door. When my case manager knocked on the door, I'd been asleep on the couch that was pushed up against the door. The look in her eye when she saw me triggered all sorts of alarm bells in my mind. I didn't want to be taken away to some locked ward, so I tried so hard to play cool. As cool as I could manage anyway.
We talked about going into the hospital. I said no. She'd brought me more medication. Up another 100mg to a total of 600mg Seroquel. I hadn't eaten anything all day, and took that on an empty stomach. I pleaded for her not to leave (why did I do that?). It made me sound so pathetic, so scared. I hated that tone of my own voice.
We finally came to a compromise and she called C for me. And waited with me until C arrived to pick me up. C helped me pack an overnight bag - that's when I noticed some slashes on my wrist, and couldn't for the life of me remember when I'd done it. It freaked me out because for a moment, I'd thought someone had done that to me while I was sleeping. It looked fresh and raw - like a few hours old. I still don't remember doing it.
By the time C picked me up and drove me across town, the Seroquel was kicking it, and I was falling asleep. We stopped to pick up some takeaways, and I threw up against a tree.
C tried to feed me dinner, but I took one mouthful and threw up again. That's when she put me to bed instead. I must have slept from 6pm that evening till 8am Saturday morning. I don't remember a deeper or sound sleep I've had in a long long time.
And I think that solid night's sleep did a lot for me. No more voices, no more twisting images in my mind, no more fear (well, maybe a little). C brought me home this afternoon. I've been trying to understand what happened. But I won't dwell too much on it. I'm going to take my Seroquel now and hit the bed. I'm afraid if I don't, it'll all come back again.