Dear Ellis: Two Months In

Dear Ellis,

Momma loves you and loves being your momma. I fear all of the time that I'm not doing enough, or not doing the right things. I fear that you'll come to harm or fail to thrive in a hundred different ways. I fear I have too much on my plate and I'm missing too much of your tiny, ever-changing life.

But.

You're beautiful. You're smiling and making fantastic little noises. You're growing and showing me how strong you are. You give me enough breaks that I can feel like things are just manageable enough.

I hope you always know what love is. I hope you know you can always find safety in the arms of your parents. I hope you become the most wonderful person that this world doesn't deserve but so badly needs.

And.

I hope I never forget what it's like to have you fit in my arms so perfectly. I hope I never forget your peaceful, smiling, squishy face. I hope I never forget how lucky I am that you chose me to be your momma.

Momma loves you.

Always,

Momma

My (Almost) Completely Normal Pregnancy and Childbirth Story (SFW)

No, I'm not going to give you all of the bloody and graphic details. Hell, that's kind of the point. You know what sucks? Human social psychology sucks. We have such bizarre idiosyncrasies which yes, make a certain amount of sense if you squint and because evolution and blah blah blah. One of those idiosyncrasies I hate is that our desire for story-telling also skews our sense of reality. We start to believe we are the heroes in our own stories instead of flawed, real individuals. We start to believe that outliers are acceptable benchmarks for our own worth and reality.

The things I believed about pregnancy and childbirth were borne from this quirk of human psychology. I've heard it all, "OMG I was the sickiest sicky sick who ever sicked from the moment sperm met egg to even after baby was out" "OMG that child tore me from hole to hole on the way out" "WORST EXPERIENCE EVER OMG". Here's the thing: outliers happen. Horribly symptomatic pregnancies happen. Horrific childbirth experiences combined with sub par medicine is mostly why maternal mortality had been so high until our more recent history. These are valid and real experiences and I don't want to take anything away from the birth-givers who experience them. However, they're also pretty much the only stories you ever hear. You know, because they're actually stories. You know what's not a story? "Yeah, I got pregnant and then not much happened except I was pregnant and then I had a completely normal labor and delivery and now I'm here and so's my child." No one cares. No one wants to hear about that, so no one does, including me.

Well, kind of. Part of the work I do sometimes necessitates asking patients about what they know about their own gestation and birth (or, more often, their parents will answer those questions) or their personal experiences being pregnant with and giving birth to their children. Only there have I ever really heard more consistently stories of, "Yeah, nothing happened except I was pregnant and then I gave birth. Woo."

So, all of that to say this: I'm telling my completely normal pregnancy and child birth story because they're never told and I wish I had heard more of these. Why? Well, you could say that I was vicariously traumatized by all of the awful pregnancy and childbirth stories I'd heard of over the years. I understandably believed pregnancy was scary and childbirth was on par with Spanish Inquisition-like torture. It wasn't like that for me. It isn't for a lot of people, but you never get to hear about that, really.

I didn't know I was pregnant for the first few weeks, which is normal. This is the one part that was not very normal: the reason I didn't know is because my 99.9% effective and intact birth control failed. The sheer odds there are mind-boggling but I won't get into why, beyond the 99.9% effective rate, this just wasn't likely. I even had a period, but I have been pretty regular and predictable since I was twelve years old barring extreme periods of stress and those times I had to take the morning after pill (what a hell of a drug). I was divorcing from my husband at the time, and he had quietly moved out of our bedroom to take up residence in the guest room. He also took it upon himself to start moving through the house and getting rid of stuff, mostly without consulting me. This included some almost-expired pregnancy tests. Instead of confronting him about this I figured it wasn't worth the fight and just fished one of the tests out of the bathroom trash to use on a whim. My period had bee a bit strange, anyway.

I was shocked, dumb-founded, and confused when a faint blue line appeared. Uuuhhh... what does a faint blue line mean? I hopped on Google and asked. I hopped on Messenger and asked. My lovely friend Kate consulted her Facebook groups and came back to me with an honest answer: I was probably pregnant, and needed to contact my doctor right away. I reached out to a limited number of friends because I was understandably panicking. I swore them to secrecy. I went to the doctor and they took my blood but this was Memorial Day weekend, so they informed me that even though I came in on a Friday and they would normally have the results the next day, in this case I would have to wait until Tuesday. Thankfully the nurse took pity on me and conspiratorially informed me that if I called the on-call service the following day and made it sound like knowing the test results was an emergency I could get the results over the phone on Saturday. I did and obviously I was.

The next couple of weeks were tense and stressful. I was informed that the pregnancy was at risk because of my birth control, and when they pulled it there was a chance I could miscarry. By the time they told me this I already felt protective of this bundle of cells that was just a few weeks old, but I tried to be logical and remain calm in the knowledge that it wasn't up to me if I miscarried or not. Even if I kept the birth control in there was not only still a chance for miscarriage but other complications. The choice was clear. We pulled it. My provider was amused by the revelation that my little bundle of cells had actually pushed the birth control down to make room while it grew, making the extraction that much easier. It barely registered physically for me.

From there the weeks became a blur, mostly because my divorce was kicked into high gear and my one and only true pregnancy symptom, sheer exhaustion, made me nap a lot during that time. I craved ice cream something fierce and I quickly discovered why using an app to track my pregnancy: apparently at the time my baby's skeleton was the fastest thing to grow. My check-ups were completely routine and everything pointed to a healthy pregnancy and baby up to the day I was induced.

The weekend before was my one year anniversary with my girlfriend. I felt bad, being so massively pregnant that I could hardly enjoy our nice dinner together because, I thought, I had the worst case of gas since my gastric bypass surgery. This bad gas seemed to pass by the next day. When I was induced, I didn't even realize I had contractions because I felt exactly the same way I did the night of my anniversary. It took hours for the contractions to ramp up to the point that I was reminded of the worst period cramps I had become accustomed to over the years. That's when I tapped out and asked for the epidural which was heavenly. I was comfortable for a while. Twelve hours after we came to the hospital I was informed it was time to push.

My partner was on one of my legs and my girlfriend on the other when the nurse started coaching me through pushing. I felt like I wasn't getting anywhere, but I kept at it with encouragement from my partners and the nurse. I mostly kept my eyes closed and tried to concentrate within on my body. They informed me of my progress but I kept the focus on me and my body. I tried not to think too much about the fact that I was about to meet my child for the first time. A hour later, they told me they were finally here. I couldn't open my eyes at first. I couldn't believe it. This was the last moment I was not going to be the mother of a completely separate person who was not in my body.

When I looked down, I only saw the top of my child's head as they laid them down on me and cleaned them up. I had been hearing the soul-piercing screeches of children in the labor and delivery ward all day but theirs was half the volume and they settled down rather quickly once they were in my embrace. I was just shocked. There they were, a real person. I got to hold them and do skin-to-skin for the first hour of their life while my partners and the staff praised me for how well I did. By all accounts, it was the most ideal labor and delivery they had seen. I was blessed.

That's my story. It isn't exciting or gory, but not every birth story is. That's the whole point.

Dear Ellis: A Word Before You Arrive

Dear Ellis,

Let me start by saying thank you. You gave me the best, easiest pregnancy I never heard of. You see, people like to tell stories of strange and dramatic pregnancy-related events and that used to scare me. Yeah, I was really tired a lot but otherwise you've taken it completely easy on me. You had me really worried in the beginning because I wasn't expecting you and I just worry a lot, but since you were as big as a gummy bear you've given me no problem at all.

What you did give me was the strength to move on and keep trying during a difficult time in my life. I've not always been good about doing things for myself purely for myself. It was much easier to think about what was best for you. I was able to keep my stress low and make the decisions I had to because I was always thinking about you. Yes, there was a particularly difficult couple of months when I tried to stop medicine to see if I could do that for you, but by then you would wiggle to remind me why I had to keep fighting.

I used to be scared about pregnancy, childbirth, and mommyhood but ever since I knew you would be coming that's mostly gone away. I used to think I'd be emotional and out of control, but you helped me realize that I am still always me and I can trust myself. I used to worry that I'd be annoyed by your kicking and miserable about pregnancy side-effects but you made me smile every time I felt you move and hey, we could all use more naps sometimes, right?

I'm just so excited to meet you! I know you're going to be loved, and we'll never be alone in any of this. So many people are already loving you and excited to see what kind of person you're going to be, including me of course. I just know you'll be a good baby and an amazing person and I'm honored to be your mommy through it all.

Be seeing you soon,

Momma

Ugly Depression

Maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like there is this kind of "Cute Depression" concept out there. Like, the "depressed gf" memes. Here are some examples:

This... kind of pisses me off? Like, this isn't cute. Or really accurate. Like, maybe if you mean depressed as the mood state but not the disorder and people conflate the two. Anyway, all of this is to say I so don't have "cute" depression.

My depression is ugly. It is a saw-toothed monster dripping in a mixture of phlegm and disease. It is a haunting presence draped over my shoulders, weighing me down like lead. It is noxious air poisoning my lungs with my every waking breath. It is a shrill voice both whispering and screaming in my ear to kill myself. It is hideous.

In the grips of depression I will isolate and denigrate myself out loud. I will stop showering, brushing my hair, drinking anything remotely hydrating, or eating anything nourishing. I will smile and not feel it any deeper than surface level. I will fantasize about the sweet embrace of death taking my pain away. I will convince myself that the ones I love will be better off without me.

It's.

NOT.

Cute.

This needed to leave my body. I'm okay. Better than, actually. Productive. Peaceful. But I have depression, and it's ugly.

The Friend I Never Knew

I've had a rough and confusing go of it in the last week, and I wasn't even aware of why. Today I went to my EMDR therapist and put the pieces together. I had been looking for a book in my pretty respectable book collection when I stumbled upon this:

In eighth grade, my delightfully eccentric Language Arts teacher, Mrs. Jones, had us engage in a semester-long project to have a story printed and hard-bound for each of us. This one was mine. I remember being disappointed in how it turned out because the pages were out of order, making it difficult to read, but I figured it out.

Anyway, finding this book brought up a lot of feelings for me. As you well know my childhood was pretty traumatic and by the time I wrote and published this my mom had stopped physically abusing me. I still hadn't told many what had happened let alone an adult who I knew would have to tell someone and risk my family's safety and security. The result was that, as I paused to read this last week, I was struck by how much I had mixed fiction and non-fiction, fact and lies. It's hard for me to parse out entirely what was true and what wasn't. Maybe I'll save that for another time. I don't have the energy right now. I also don't have the energy to fix mistakes I made while transcribing this. But I ended up feeling like I still couldn't trust my memory of my childhood. Some things simply don't fit, and yet I have a distinct impression that some of these things happened.

I tried not to change any spelling errors or formatting problems or (ugh) the painfully saccharine prose and ending, but boy did 13-to-14-year-old me have a lot to learn about writing. I even included the dedication: 


Dear Mom,
You've always been there for me, pushing me and guiding me. You've always helped me when I was in need. It's about time I gave back. I'll never be able to pay you back. This book will kind of be a down payment until I can find a way to pay the whole lump sum. I really hope you'll enjoy it. I love you always and forever until the end of time.
Your Daughter,
Amanda Taylor

Dedicated to My loving, giving, and hard-working Mom
Chong Taylor
I love you forever!

Tears of frustration filled my eyes as I messed up on "The Kuku Waltz" once more. I glared at the music in hate, the notes slightly blurred from those stubborn tears. There was silence as my piano teacher stared at me, carefully studying my shiny eyes, my upset frown, and my crestfallen face. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't concentrate. All the problems, everything that was going on, was ruining every prospect of my life.

"Amanda, is something wrong?"

Still I stared at the piano, refusing to make eye contact. Duh! No, I'm sitting here, about to cry because everything is just perfect in my life. I bit my tongue and fought the urge to just yell, "YES! Yes! Something is wrong! Nothing is right! Yes!"

I fought down the urge and barely breathed, "Yes."

There was another brief silence in which I tried desperately not to blink and choked down the oncoming tears. She finally spoke, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"It's just..." my voice trail off as I tried to find the words for my anger, sadness, and suspicion, "I'm just having some problems right now." My throat ached as I tried to fight off my latest urge, which was to spill my guts to this lady, my piano teacher, Debbie. The more I fought it, the more I could feel the stress enlarging within myself. Again, I bit my tongue in effort to stop myself. "No, you're not going to tell her. Don't tell her. She doesn't have to know, she can't do anything to help it," said a small voice in the back of my head.

For a minute, I thought I had won, until she said, "You can tell me."

I was temporarily unprotected as I considered telling her everything. Instead, I took a blind swing at my opponent inside me. "I'm just having some problems with my friends, my family, and my self esteem," I said, hoping that was enough for her to leave me alone and forget about it, but what I had just said was the truth, but not the whole truth, but the truth.

As my piano teacher observed me again, I thought to myself, "What am I fighting? Am I fighting for the right thing? If I am, how come it hurts so much?" I felt a single tear hit my hand, it was then that I noticed that my cheeks were wet from the multiple streams of sadness flowing, I was crying. I was furious at myself for crying. Why was I always so sensitive? I never wanted to cry in front of her, but it was too late.

"Okay, Amanda, today's lesson is over," said Debbie.

I got up and grabbed my piano books, brushing away newborn tears with the back of my hand.

"Listen, Amanda, maybe you should talk to your mom about this," she said.

Is she joking? Talk to my mom? Is she insane? I've never had a real talk with my mom. I guess I kind of feared my mom. Even if I wanted to talk to her, she was always busy sewing or at work or at church most of the time. "I'll try," I said, slipping on my flip-flops.

I walked out her apartment and through the parking lot that separated her apartment complex from mine. Normally I thought of the closeness of the apartments as a blessing, but now I thought of it as a curse. I needed more time to think. How could I explain this to her? There was no other reason as to why I would be coming home early from piano practice. I would have to tell her the truth.

When I open the door to my apartment I heard my mom on the phone, I froze in the doorway. Had Debbie called my mom? "No silly, you know your mom is always on the phone with some friend, don't worry about it," whispered the voice in my head, but deep down, somewhere within my soul, I knew who was on the other end, I knew it was Debbie telling my mom what happened.

I knew better then to interrupt my mom when she's on the phone, whether or not it was about me. I put my books on my old wooden piano and sat down on the equally old bench. I played a few notes. Normally the notes felt so alive to me, even coming from this old piano, but now the notes sounded flat, dull, old, and musty, just like the piano. I tried putting "arm weight" in my notes, which is a method my piano teacher teaches all of her students. It relieves tension and gives grand sound to every note you play. I played middle "C," even then the notes seemed dead. Why? The music used to be so perfect and alive, even if I did make mistakes, all the notes were beautiful. Why had all that changed?

I heard my mom end her conversation and hand up the phone. I summoned every ounce of courage left inside my body and took a deep breath. I stood up and walked down the hall to my mom's room. The hall seemed to be so long, now keep in mind I live in an apartment and the halls really aren't that big. The very walls seemed to give me pity, pity that I did not need and did not want.

After what seemed like forever, I was right outside my mom's room. I took another deep breath and said, "Mom, Debbie canceled the lesson."

She reached over and turned off her radio, which frequently played as she was doing her sewing. My mom pointed at her bed. I sat down. "What happened?" she asked.

I felt betrayed, "So Debbie had called my mom," I thought to myself.

My mom waited patiently as I sat there, staring at her eyes, my own glistening again as tears threatened to fall. "I don't know. I'm just having so many problems now," I said look out her window, which was covered by bushes, the sunlight barely showing over them. I did not want to look at her straight in the eye, I knew that I would break down and cry.

She looked down at the pantsuit she was mending; I think she got the hint, "What kind of problems?"

"Well," I searched my mind for my biggest cause of stress, "my friends. Everyone's fighting, nobody wants to get along. Sara's fighting with Lynne, the rest of my friends just seem distant to each other, I just want everything to be the same again."

"Well Amanda, I understand," she looked up at me.

"You do?"

Yeah, Amanda, I know teenagers, I was one, friends mean a lot to you. This is the time where everyone's changing and they won't always change the way you want them to." I don't know why, but for some reason I really couldn't picture my mom, my hardworking, loving mom, being a teenager.

"But... why?" I asked, avoiding her glance once again.

"Amanda, listen, you're changing, too, your friends might think the same things as you do," she said, not completely ignoring the pantsuit, "It's just the way it is," she said.

Well that was all fine and dandy, but I still had something else bothering me.

"There's something else wrong too isn't there?" she said, do you notice noters seem to always know in these areas?

I nodded in response, "I just don't like who I am," a single tear weaseled it way out and ran down my cheek.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice full od concern.

"I think I'm fat and ugly," I said, a few more stray tears falling.

"What?" my mom exclaimed, "What would make you think that?"

"I don't know..."

My mom waited patiently, she knew I did know.

"It's just that, when I compare myself to my friends, I feel so different, like I don't belong," I said, more tears steadily winding their way down.

"They accept you, right?" she asked, again looking at the pantsuit, I had a feeling she couldn't bear to see me cry.

"Yes," I replied.

"Then why would you feel like you don't belong?" she asked. She made her point, if they accepted me for who I am, then why did I feel this way. They were also always telling me that I was beautiful and I was not at all fat.

"It's not only that. You know when you say I'm fat? It doesn't help much."

She stared at me in shock, "Amanda, I was kidding, I thought we were just joking around."

"I know I know, but it doesn't exactly help how I feel," I desperately tried to shorten the tears, holding the stress inside once more. I really didn't want to cry, "And there's one more thing. Whenever I do the slightest thing wrong, you yell at me and make me feel so bad. I always feel like I'm not good enough for you."

"Not good enough for me? Amanda, do you know how much I tell my friends and work and at church how you're so pretty, and how much you help me? I tell them that your growing into a very pretty young lady, and that you help me around the house, with the dishes, and the laundry, and with Steven" she said, again ignoring the pantsuit.

I stared in shock, I never knew this. Of course, I always heard my mom talk in Korean to her friends but I never understood what she was saying exactly. Sure I could pick out a few words and my name, but I never fully understood what she was saying. I guess I should have known. What kind of mother doesn't brag about her kids? Why would she say anything bad about me? If she said bad things about me, then that would mean that she didn't raise me right. No parent wants to look bad. It all made sense.

"I just never tell you. I don't want to have a conceited daughter. 'Oh, I'm so pretty,'" my mom pat her hair as she imitated a conceited stuck-up person, "I don't want a daughter like that."

I nodded, "I know."

"And about your friends. You're looking for a lot of friends, Amanda, that's no good. Look for quality, not quantity. A few good friends is better then a lot of bad friends."

"I know," I whispered again, my voice scratched and my throat raw from unshed tears.

"Amanda, look at me."

I looked up at her eyes, noticing they were glistening, too.

"Listen, don't worry about your friends. If you have no friends in the world, you'll still always have me. I have no choice, I can't leave you. You can tell me anything. I don't promise that I won't be mad, but I don't want you to lie to me. I can promise to try. I can try to be fair and listen to you. Friends can turn their back on you whenever they want, I have no choice, I'm your mother, and I love you, no matter what you do, I'll always love you, you know that," my tears were just on the verge of spill at my mom's inspiring words.

My mouth was clamped and my lips were dry as I stared at my mom, not in shock, but in love and understanding. I didn't say a word, but I think that expression said it all.

"Come here," she said, extending her arms. I stood up and fell into her arms, weeping like a newborn. There was a difference in the tears though. These were tears of happiness. I felt like a little kid again, clinging to her mom and crying. I felt a tear on my shoulder, that's when I noticed my mom was crying, too.

I felt shock for a few minutes. My mom very seldom cried, and almost never in front of my. It was official. The wall between us had been torn down and made way for a new way of communication. No longer would I have to keep these feelings inside. No longer did I have to worry about not being food enough or not understanding. I can truly say that at that moment, no child or young adult in the world was as happy as I was.

We pulled away and my mom wiped away the few tears she had shed. I used the back of my hand and my sleeve, crying my face.

"I love you, okay?" she said.

"I love you too, mom," I smiled, and she smiled also. It's one of those snapshot moments in my memory. This was the first smile we exchanged in our new understanding of each other, paving the way for many more.

I walked out, more less floated, out of my mom's room to my room next door. I felt virtually weightless. All this stress had been weighing me down, but now that I let it out, everything was going to be okay. I flopped down on my bed, just thinking. I felt so at peace with the world.

I pulled up the covers and lay there, thinking of nothing in particular. I've never felt so happy in my life. I just knew everything would be all right. I had new confidence within myself. Life would go on, I would be okay.

I couldn't wait to go out into the world, to school, to church, just anywhere, in this new way. I loved who I was now, whether different or not. I was Amanda, and I was proud. Mean words and harsh thoughts were not a part me, at least not for a while. I just wanted everyone in the world to be as happy as I. I kind of predicted how close my mother and I would get. I knew we would. I just knew it. Yeah, sure, maybe I wouldn't tell her everything, but I knew it would be very few things, if anything, that I would keep from her.

After about a quarter of an hour, I decided to go outside to see the world in the new light. I could hear the happy little children splashing around and laughing, calling, "Marco" and "Polo." I smiled to myself, praying that those children would someday be able to be as happy as I was at that very moment.

I looked up at the clouds. You know that game little children play? Looking at the clouds and determining what they look like? Well, I guess I was playing that myself. I had never played this game as a kid, but now the clouds seemed fun, exciting, beautiful, and alive. Everything seemed that way.

I sat up, "Wait, if everything's alive again, then that means..." I didn't even wait around to finish the thought.

I got up and ran to my house and to the old, musty piano. I sat down on the piano bench and took out the music to "The Kuku Waltz." I played the music with "arm weight" and with spirit. I made a few little mistakes along the way, which I knew I'd fix eventually.

When I finished with the lovely chord at the end, I smiled again. Hey, it wasn't perfect, but the music was alive once more.

The 4-Year-Old and 14-Year-Old

I've been in therapy for over nine years at this point, and I've been taking medication for about 3-4 years. In that time, I've gone through a few phases in my treatment, including integrating Internal Family Systems theory into my understanding of my illnesses. Here is a Wikipedia article if you're curious about the details, but basically I've identified two discrete personalities that exist within me and I carry with me in my daily life. They are a four-year-old version of myself, and a 14-year-old version of myself.

Amanda, roughly age 4.

The four-year-old is very small and meek. They hide a lot, usually in darker rooms dimly lit by yellow light. They're scared all of the time, and braced for pain. They need a lot of love and attention because it was suddenly ripped away from them when my father left and my mom stopped being so loving and nurturing and became drunk and violent. This one brings me great sadness. I love children, and my first instinct is to protect them and love them.

Amanda, roughly age 14.

The fourteen-year-old on the other hand is very dark and angry. I see them standing in the doorway of my childhood bedroom glaring out into the hallway at me, the adult version of myself. They don't trust me and their reaction to everything is anger. This is the age my mother says she can remember me spending a lot of time in my room and gaining a lot of weight. This is likely when my trauma turned into my severe depressive disorder. They yell and lash out and won't let anyone in to comfort them.

These two parts of my personality come up usually at different times. The four-year-old likes to be impulsive and wants what they want, and they want it now. The fourteen-year-old usually comes out when I've been hurt by someone. They are the "anger problem" part of me. They can be very mean, even dangerous and destructive.

A long time ago in my work I went through a meditative journey of creating a safe space in my head. It came to my mind's eye as an idyllic beach, and on this beach I put the four-year-old for safe-keeping. As I said, my instinct is to protect them so this seemed like a good place to keep them safe. It was a really emotional experience for me to imagine myself holding the four-year-old version of myself on my lap and playing in the sand. I always wanted that from my mom, but she was not the most affectionate or emotionally demonstrative person and I very much was. She couldn't understand me or give me what I needed, so I knew that it was my job as an adult now to do it for myself.

However, I never brought the 14-year-old in. I kept them out. I think back then I was still afraid of them, their raw anger, and worried that they could destroy my safe place somehow, or harm the 4-year-old. Thinking about it now makes me sad. I know now that they're not actually dangerous. They exude that energy because they want to protect themselves from the pain of abandonment, rejection, and and judgement from others. I closed the door on them because like most people I misunderstood them.

Today I had my 5th reiki session and it felt really good. I entered a space of kind of buzzy energy throughout my body and decided to do something different this time and enter my safe space, only this time I invited the 14-year-old in. Admittedly, I was worried. They can lash out and I didn't want them to harm or scare the skittish 4-year-old, but they didn't. I could feel them get impatient and angry but I somehow forgot that even back then I loved children and had an abundance of patience for them (excluding my little brother). I mostly stood back once I realized I could trust the 14-year-old and watched them play in the sand together and wade in the water together. They protected and kept the 4-year-old just as safe as the adult version of myself does. It felt good to see that in my mind's eye. I felt whole.

I think it's safe to say I'm on my way towards healing and acceptance of self.

I Want To Die

I've been intensely suicidal since Thursday without much interruption, and I expect that at least a few people reading this will be super concerned and wonder what to do about it but I want to explain that it's not always that serious. I can only speak for myself, naturally, but I find many people misunderstand suicidal ideation. Mine kind of comes in levels. Let me explain.

Level 1: Where the fuck did that come from?

I could be doing anything, be anywhere, in any kind of mood and my brain will insert the thought, "I want to die" right into my stream of consciousness. What? Why? I'm sitting in my doctor's office right now. And like, not even the right kind. The vagina doctor. Now? Why now? Or, I'm out with my friends. I don't have time for this. Or more often I'm driving and spacing out. Now's not a good time for this, brain. It leaves as quickly as it came.

Level 2: Incessant, dispassionate chanting

This is an obvious step up from the first level. Instead of a single thought, it's like a chant from a dispassionate protester who's not entirely sure why they're even at the rally. That rally is in my head, and it's about me dying for some reason. The thoughts aren't completely clear on the why, but they brought a spiffy sign. It's annoying more than anything.

Level 3: Paralyzed

The thoughts have stepped it up and now I'm trapped in bed or some other place, not moving, because it's so bad that I don't really have the energy to even roll over without considering it for a while. I'm doing everything I can without moving to stay alive. I've let my arm get painfully numb. I've let my stomach cramp from hunger. I've let my tongue swell in my mouth from dehydration. But I'm alive.

Level 4: 123GO, 123GO, 123GO!!!

I've stepped over the threshold. My thoughts, no longer content with sitting back passively, have now taken the steering wheel both literally and figuratively and start to drive my actions to end it. I've nearly crashed my car, took pills, cut, or drowned myself. I haven't actually done any of those things. Not ever.

I imagine there is a level 5, and that's when I'll actually try, but I've worked like hell to keep from going there. I'm not so naive as to think it will never be a part of my repertoire. So where have I been since Thursday? Started at a 2, then jumped to 4, back down to 3, then 2 to finish out work on Friday. Stayed that way until all of Sunday where it was a mix of 2, 3, and 4 and this morning I was a mix of 3 and 4. My med doc wanted me to go inpatient. I probably should have. I'm scared. I'm managing.