Into the Abyss..... (read with caution)

I debated with myself a long while about the wisdom of writing this. It is very personal and some might find it disturbing. If you are disturbed by discussion of extreme depression or psychosis, click by for today. Things will be back to normal tomorrow.

It seems to be important to do it for a few different reasons. The primary one being that I would have gladly given my left tit if someone would have done it when I was in the depths. More than anything, I wanted to know I wasn't alone.

Secondly, if one person loads this page, sees herself in it and gets medical help, any blowback I get from writing it will be well worth it.

I have to put this in a little bit of context for it to make sense. Throughout my lifetime, I have always been an extremely sensitive person. Everything in my world was amplified. When I am happy, I am very happy. When I am content, I am very content. When I'm sad, I'm really sad and when I hurt, it hurts like ungodly hell. I am not one to recover from things quickly. I forgive very easily but often have trouble forgetting. And that's not in a vengeful way. No evil, angry thoughts. It is just hard to move on. I also perceive color more brightly and can not tolerate loud noise. Elaine Aron calls it "HSP", Highly Sensitive Person. Our brains process stimulation differently than the average person.

Additionally, I have always hated commerce. I do not do well in competitive situations or environments that are built on distrust and deception. That has made working outside the home extremely difficult. At the same time, the culture shifted just around the time when I would have been old enough to get married, stay home and raise children. Women went into the workforce in droves and I was expected to ride along with the tide. I never wanted that and did not adjust well to it. I am the sort of woman who should have stayed home.

The option wasn't available in the late 60s and early 70s. Men no longer wanted stay at home wives, at least not where I was raised. So I went out into the workforce and proceeded to get pummelled. Each day felt like being beaten by an angry husband. This person (job) had entire control of my well-being and I could do nothing to change it. My very survival depended on taking the abuse.

As a result of that, I developed post traumatic stress which became chronic because it was untreated.

I don't know exactly when the depression started but I will guess it began around 1987. That is a significant date because it was my first "get in the car and disappear" episode. Finally having had enough, I walked out my apartment door and never returned. During the next ten years, I would live in four different states and seven different cities.

Fast forward to 1997. I arrived in Northern California from Tucson, somewhat battered and bruised but I did believe things were getting better due to all the metaphysical training I'd had in Tucson. I thought I had a fairly good handle on things and did indeed do quite well until the early 2000s. In those few years, I was quite active. I held a steady job in the Information Technology field until 2003 as a software technician. During that time I took my first trip to Thailand. I had a steady significant other during most of those years. Life actually looked pretty good, if a bit overwhelming for someone like me. But, still, the worst appeared to be behind me.

It wasn't long though before the fog came in the room again, the fog that blurs color and perceptions, makes everything kind of fuzzy. My thinking wasn't very clear. I couldn't concentrate and had the attention span of an infant. Most days, I could blow it off and go on. Those days became further and further apart. Thinking clearly and coping with normal, fairly simple problems became beyond my ability. As the illness escalated, it became harder and harder to leave my house. I felt safe only in my own little part of this house (the mother-in-law unit) and the few places in the neighborhood I normally frequent. I gained weight. This was an insidious change, not something sudden.

There must have been a spark of life in me somewhere because I eventually called someone for help. I went to see a therapist who was rather confused but intrigued by my history. It is an unusual history. It was so interesting to her apparently that she saw me without charge when I was fired from the job that provided the health insurance that paid her.

Ultimately, she told me that I needed to visit a medical professional, specifically a psychiatrist. My issues were a little too complex for her to manage alone and she wanted me to see about medication. I agreed to go. She looked for a recommendation.

The final crash came in June 2003 when I literally could not leave my house without breaking out in a cold sweat. I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't breath, couldn't eat, couldn't think straight. Thoughts intruded and wouldn't go away. I honestly believed it was something outside of me pushing me to kill myself. I decided to do it later in the week. Why? I don't know. That's psychotic thinking. The laundry had to be done or something.

I called Dorothy, my therapist, keening and wailing and told her I could not do it anymore. Period. I was done. I hated my life so much that I couldn't face another day of it. She called Emergency Services and the police. I was committed for three days to a hospital for threatening to kill myself.

During those three days, I was given tests and a good number of people talked with me. I was immediately given Seroquel, an anti-psychotic drug. On some level, I was relieved to let someone else take over. Sort of. That was the small voice of sanity that remained in me, buried in the subconscious where it does its work.

Those who treated me had to fight a big thick wall of abject paranoia. I accused them of trying to poison me. I accused them of being nothing more than toadies for the capitalist oligarchy who didn't give a shit about me as a human being. They just wanted to patch me up to send me back to the gerbil wheel so that I could contribute to their disgusting, evil economy. They just wanted to poison my mind so that I wouldn't go back to Thailand and be happy. They wanted me to murder myself first. The sad thing, I told them, is that they didn't even know it because they were brainwashed automatons whose own minds had been poisoned. I literally fought physically with hospital attendants who tried to get me to take my jewelry off. One guy got a bloody nose when he tried to remove my Thai ankle bracelets. (Yes, it's funny now but somehow I don't think he spent much time laughing.) I wasn't just being difficult for the hell of it either. I believed this stuff. In my mind, it was all perfectly logical. How others didn't see it was an enigma wrapped in a puzzle.

Okay. That is a brief description of what it is like to be insane.

Once the cycle of treatment began, results were fairly rapid, all told. Within six weeks or so, I was able to see a substantial difference in my thinking. The static went away. I started to see light and colors differently. I could articulate my thoughts and feelings without the crazy thinking. That is not to say that I became a good little "productive citizen" (really think about that phrase and what it means) who supported or who supports now the cultural standards I live under. I am permanently disabled and will not be going back to the mainstream at all.

Naturally, there is much more to this story as far as my recovery. That's for another time. I had bad days and good days ~ but I am no longer in the grips of that deep dark hole where there is no light, no love, no peace, no comfort. It is the darkest, loneliest, most desolate place I can imagine. I do not have words to describe it. Simply no words. It is hell. Think of every description you have ever read about "hell" ~ and all of them fit.

So... why would I put such a thing on a public blog? You know, admitting that you went crazy isn't socially acceptable in any culture, let alone this one. I might lose readers here. Some people may decide that I am not worthy of respect or might choose to reject any contact with me, including reading this blog. If so, go with God and be well. Some things matter more than that. I want to provide a glimmer of hope for anyone who might be experiencing it now. It is not shameful. It is nothing to be embarrassed about. It is a chemical imbalance in the brain. Our brains don't produce it and we need medication to provide what nature can not. It is a hard road back, lots of damage to fix, lots of self-knowledge to gain and many decisions to make.

I will make this commitment: If you are in my area, I will personally walk you through it. I will hold your hand until you come through the veil. That is not idle talk. I mean it. If you are not in my area, I will offer you email support. Click the link at the top of my blog and email me. You are not alone anymore.

Take the first step though and get help. Please. Get help. If you don't have health insurance, there is Medi-Cal or Medicaid. You don't have to live like that. Take it from one who has been in hell and managed to escape it. It is worth the effort, as hard as it is, to take the first step.

One last thing: I don't think it's necessary to hide behind "Thailand Gal" any longer. While that is the name of the blog, that is all it is. I will use my Thai nickname here, just as I do on all of my Internet mailing lists. It is Chanakarn.. pronounced Cha-na-kahn. Most people shorten it to "Chani" for simplicity and ease. I am okay with it.


Much love and peace to all ~


~Chani
~*~*~