3 09 2013

It seems that all I do these days is forget.

It’s the ECT, of course. Electroconvulsive Therapy. I imagine I’ll remember everything, but I immediately forget every detail of my day. Oh, I’m spending the night at my parent’s house tonight? I had no clue. I guess I’d better pack my bag before my dad comes to pick me up.

It’s ridiculous. Unacceptable, really—except for the fact that I’m not so sad now.

I don’t know which is worse; forgetting everything, or being sad.

It’s being sad, right? I’m pretty sure it is.

My eldest child is turning eight on Thursday. I’ve forgotten to buy him a present.


His mom is—if not overjoyed with her existence—less sad.

Have I just forgotten to be sad? Is that what this is? I just can’t tell.

I hate this.

Here’s what I know: My name is Jenny. A doctor gives me seizures to help reset my brain. I’m happier than I was a month ago.

It’s a good thing.


16 08 2013

Do you ever feel already buried deep?
Six feet under screams, but no one seems to hear a thing
Do you know that there’s still a chance for you
‘Cause there’s a spark in you?
~ Katy Perry


6:55 am

Waiting for my first electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) treatment. Got up at 4:15 to be here on time. I’ll be doing this three times a week for at least three weeks.


The nurse gave me an injection to dry up my spit and now my mouth feels funny. I find this annoying, but not as annoying as the fact that I’ve been awake for almost three hours now.

I’ve got a lot of threes in my head.

After I sign away all of my good sense, the nurse leads me into a room and motions that I should get onto the hospital bed in the middle. I lie down and look around. There’s the doctor—always good to have at least one of those present. An anesthesiologist, thank goodness. Two nurses.

Okay, then. I guess I just…sit back and relax? There’s not much else to do, so I lie back and the anesthesiologist makes his way over. Within minutes, I’m out.

I wake up with an excruciating headache—not too surprising when people are shooting electricity into your skull. I don’t feel much happier with life in general, but I assume that’ll come with time.

The headache lasts around 12 hours so I sleep most of the day. If this continues for every session, I’m going to cry.


My headache isn’t as bad this time, thank goodness. I’m even able to be alert for more of the day.

I’m afraid I’m already starting to forget things. Things people said to me at the treatment facility. Things I was supposed to do. I don’t know how much of it is actual forgetting and how much is panic, but I’m afraid.

I don’t want to forget, but I don’t want to be sad, either. I’m not sure there’s a win-win in all of this.

For now I’ll go with slightly forgetful but hopefully soon to be happier.

That’ll do.


12 08 2013

I slept too much this morning.

The bed is not my friend, I keep telling myself. Even though I want to burrow under the covers and hide away from the world…the bed is not my friend.

By noon I’ve showered and dressed and I’m ready to leave the house. I’m exhausted, but feel triumphant. My mother drives me back to UNI, because they managed to discharge me without the meds for my ADHD—something I discovered Sunday morning.

That wasn’t a good moment. We’ll label it “crying episode number four,” and then we’ll stop numbering them, because I’ll just feel discouraged by how high the number gets.

The ECT people didn’t call to schedule my appointment. I suppose they have a full schedule, but that doesn’t make me any less annoyed. I’ve decided to have electricity run through my brain, people! Let’s get this show on the road!

I have moments where I wonder if getting ECT is the easy way out. Then I stop and I realize 1) there’s nothing easy about having an electricity-induced seizure three times a week and 2) nothing I choose at this point constitutes an “easy” way out.

I want to remember that. I need to remember that. Nothing about any of this is easy.

People ask me how I’m doing, and my answer is generally the same: “I’m adjusting.” It’s the truth. Actually, if you want the brutal truth, life is not as amazing as I’d hoped it would be when I got out of UNI. I feel sluggish—like I have mud running through my veins and filling up my skull. I stare at my food. I snap at my boys. I remind myself that it’s okay—I’m adjusting—but I don’t want to adjust. I want to be better.

It’s past 11, and time for me to go to bed. This is the only time of day the bed doesn’t beckon me sweetly, but I’ve made a schedule and it’s bedtime now.

The bed is not my friend.