Someone I don't recognize

I am doing better. On my last visit to Dr. G, she reduced my dosage of Lamotrigine further. From 100mg, I am now taking 50mg a day until all my Lamotrigine tablets are consumed. I am still taking 150mg of Quetiapine and 15mg of Escitalopram. On my next visit, our goal is to reduce my dosage of Quetiapine if I continue to do better.

Dark clouds no longer surround me like before. I no longer plunge into a depressive state for a long time. I should be happy with this development, right? I am. But somehow, I find this new state a bit bothersome. This is my new normal, and I am not used to it. I have been plagued by depression almost my whole life (although I did not know it back then as I had not yet been diagnosed). Now that I am getting out of it, I feel different.

Sometimes, I look for that gloomy but familiar feeling. The kind that connects me to my core. The kind that allows me to feel any emotion so deeply that it becomes carved onto my soul. Now, the familiar gloom is gone, and I find myself adjusting to it.

Don't get me wrong. These are improvements that I welcome with open arms. It's just that at times, I feel that I have a new self. That this is the new me.

And then, something bad happens. Something stings. Someone hurts me. The universe throws me something that I can handle. I start crying. The familiar gloom is back. The pain. The dark cloud. Only then will I realize that I am still my fragile self, easily broken, capable of intense emotions. Then, I will wish again that I am not any of those.

An active mind

My mind is jumping from one task to another. Not just today. I can't point out exactly when it started, but lately, I've been experiencing it every day. I had experienced this before, when I still wasn't seeking treatment. It alternates with my depressive episodes. Now that my depressive episodes are no longer that often, this state is what I am in.

I am afraid that I am experiencing a manic or a hypomanic episode. But I am afraid of reporting it to Dr. G on my next visit, because she might bring my dosage of Quetiapine back to 300mg. I cannot afford the full dosage anymore, especially now that my fiance and I are getting married in December and I am allotting cash for wedding preparations. I also don't want to go back to that knock-out dosage, because it makes it difficult for me to get up in the morning.

I am trying to rein in my thoughts so I can concentrate on one task at a time. It's the only way I can deal with it. My mind is doing cartwheels as I type this, and if I allow my mind to continuously do so, I might not finish any task today.

This is not to say that being in this kind of state is bad all the time. In fact, on good days (what I call the days when I am not spiraling into depression), I become creative. Once, I was able to write a song for Dr. C and Dr. P (my and my fiance's friends who are getting married next year) effortlessly. The melody and lyrics just started forming in my head, and I just went with the flow.

On a day like this one, when my mind is in overdrive, I watch my behavior. I don't want to do things on an impulse and spend all my money on impromptu shopping sprees or worse, engage in high-risk activities driven by a temporary high. I don't know if this is right, but I like this state. I feel that it is 100 times better than being down and depressed and insecure and feeling worthless. On a day like this one, I feel good--even great, at times. And if it drives me to create beautiful things (like the song I talked about), then I will take full advantage of it.

Good news

I am happy to announce that I am being weaned off my medicines. Last January, Dr. G reduced my dosage of Lamotrigine (anticonvulsant) to 100mg from 150mg, and retained the rest. This morning, when I saw her again, she lowered my dosage of Quetiapine (antipsychotic) to 150mg from 300mg.

I am elated and thankful at the same time. At the start of this year, I set a goal for myself--that I want at least one of my three medicines to be taken off completely. With the way things are going, perhaps I would be left with only one medicine to take.

It helped that a lot of good things happened to me ever since the year started. I found a new job. I already finished the first draft of my novel. I am working on another book project with a fellow writer. And the biggest news of all: My boyfriend and I are already getting married! Hooray! I have waited, at times quite impatiently, for the moment when he would propose. And he finally did! He asked me to marry him during our Baguio trip two weeks ago. I said yes, and ever since that moment, it has been all sunshine and no gray clouds for me.

Now, I am busy with wedding preparations. My sister and my cousins are helping me out. I have already booked the church, the priest (who happens to be my uncle), a makeup artist, a photographer-videographer, and my designer-friend who will make my wedding dress. My fiance have already bought our wedding rings, too. Everything is falling into place.

I can't believe this is happening. That my dark days are over. Yes, there would still be dark days ahead, but I am now stronger and more equipped in dealing with those. I am now able to evaluate my negative thoughts using all the exercises Dr. G taught me during our sessions. Negative thoughts no longer consume me like they did before. They no longer pull me into a downward spiral. Thoughts of Z no longer put me in a dark place. And besides, the ring is on my finger and not on hers.

With my meds already being tapered little by little, I can now breathe as far as my finances are concerned. I'll be buying fewer tablets, which will be easier on my pocket. I can now set aside more money to cover my share of the wedding expenses. I am also thankful that my relatives, especially my aunts and uncles in the U.S., are willing to help me out should I run short on cash. God really does provide.

Now, I am looking forward to a lot of things, such as our wedding, my novel getting published online (and hopefully in print), finishing the book I am working on with a fellow writer, and other exciting projects. A friend of mine once told me that 2017 is going to be my year. With the way things are going, I believe he is right.

Reset

Before 2016 ended, I told myself that 2017 would be the year for me to reset. January was my warm-up month. Last February 1, I started with my new job as a copywriter in one of the hotels here in Manila. And that signaled my fresh start.

Speaking of fresh start, Dr. G gave me a new format to follow for my therapy journal. I find it more helpful than the previous format I used to follow. In the new format, I process a negative thought by answering several questions. Here they are:

1. Identify your unhelpful thought. Is there any evidence that contradicts this thought?
2. Can you identify patterns of unhelpful thinking?
3. What would you say to a friend who had this thought in a similar situation?
4. a. Benefits of thinking this way
    b. Costs of thinking this way
5. How will you feel about this in six months' time?
6. Is there another way of looking at this situation?

After answering all six questions, I am then asked to write down a balanced thought--a more rational thought after evaluating a negative thought. I find this helpful with dealing with my issues, especially my insecurity towards Z. It is a pattern of unhelpful thinking, something that has been causing me so much stress and anxiety since the latter part of 2015. With this new format, I feel like I am slowly building a solid armor against my insecurity. I am able to fight this negative thought by processing it instead of simply fighting it and willing it to go away.

Writing my answers to all these questions may be tedious, but I don't mind. I have my trusty journal with me all the time. When an unhelpful thought strikes, I'd sit down, take out my journal from my bag, and start writing. This is also how I establish my safe zone. When everything around me goes wrong, I am thankful that I have my pen and journal to keep me company and help me feel better.

However, this process is not perfect. I still find myself see-sawing between feeling insecure and feeling good about myself. It is a constant tug-of-war. But I think I'm getting better at it.

Now, I think that going off meds (or at least having one medicine removed from my daily doses) this year isn't so far-fetched. To paraphrase Dory's mantra, just keep going, just keep going.

Selfies, self-love, and self-assurance

In one of my sessions with Dr. G, she asked me to list down pleasurable activities, or activities that make me happy. They can be as simple as walking at a leisurely pace while listening to music or eating ice cream. I listed down several, and she told me that I am free to add more activities to the list.

Then, part of my homework is to do at least one pleasurable activity every day. This is on top of keeping a thought journal. Sometimes, I am able to do at least one of those activities that make me happy. But on really bad days, I am not able to. When I'm having a bad day, I feel like every hour is a struggle. And when the clock hits midnight, that's the only time I can breathe because, whew, I was able to survive.

Lately, I've been enjoying taking selfies and posting them on social media. Last week, when I was having another depressive episode and was feeling so insecure, I compiled my best and prettiest Facebook profile pictures and created a collage out of them. Then, I posted this collage on my Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook pages. It was my way of assuring myself that yes, I am pretty and I am enough.

Sounds shallow, doesn't it? But if you are constantly down and insecure, won't you do anything--no matter how shallow it is--to make yourself feel better? I don't mind if people would call me vain or conceited. When I finished that collage, I felt good. I felt great. I felt beautiful. These positive thoughts pulled me out of insecurity.

I've started to see my true self-worth only recently, after countless people have assured me that I have nothing to be insecure of. That I don't have any reason to be insecure of Z. That I am beautiful, smart, and that I am enough. I am not fishing for compliments. I just need to be reminded that I am enough and that I have nothing else to prove.

The other day, I posted a collage of my photos wearing no makeup. It was my response to a challenge posed by an actress here in the Philippines. So there. While I was eating breakfast, I remembered the words of that actress, and decided to do what she said.

At first, I was hesitant. I don't go out without makeup because I don't feel as pretty as I am with one. And I am also scared of bumping into Z and looking plain. Makeup, for me, is more like a shield than it is a mask. It protects me from ugly things that people might see or say about me. It makes me feel armed against my insecurity, my ammunition against Z. But because I have started to realize that I don't need to be better than Z or anyone, I have decided to put my shield down little by little. Hence, the #nomakeup and #nofilter selfies.

When I saw my no-makeup photos, I actually thought I looked nice. I did not look glamorous or great, but I did see that I did not look as bad as I thought I would be. My face was plain and bare--I didn't even wear face powder. But I didn't look horrible. I wasn't ugly. In fact, I did think that those photos were refreshing to see.

Don't get me wrong. I am not bragging. But that #nomakeup challenge made me see that I am now in a safe place so I can now put down my shield. The battle between Z and me (the battle that Z knows nothing about) is over. Or at least, I can now see it ending soon. And it took me countless advice from PM and my friends and three #nomakeup selfies to realize that.

I'll definitely take more selfies because this activity makes me happy. I will take photos of myself wearing my go-to deep red lipstick. I will take photos of myself wearing simple makeup. I will also take photos of myself wearing no makeup at all. I won't post all of these on social media, but I will make a security blanket out of them. And whenever I feel down and insecure, I will look at these photos to make myself see and feel, again and again, that I have nothing to worry about.  

A new way of thinking

I thought Dr. G wouldn't start tapering down the dosage of my meds because of the depressive episode I had this week.

I was wrong.

And in the history of being wrong, this is the time when I am happy that I was wrong. Dr. G started to taper down my dosage of Lamotrigine (anticonvulsant).

In this post, I wrote about my depressive episode that started last Monday and ended on Wednesday night. But after talking about it with PM and my friends, I stopped feeling bad and I started to calm down. When I was already in a calm state, I looked back at the events and realized that these feelings and thoughts were just cognitive distortions.

Looking at them now, I can say that I am starting to get better in dealing with these kinds of thoughts. These thoughts and feelings are not wrong. I have reasons why I came up with these. But cognitive behavior therapy (CBT) has been teaching me how to see things from another perspective and has been helping me change my thinking patterns.

Whenever I have a depressive episode, these come in succession: sad thoughts, followed by insecurity. It's as if they form a package deal. Z is the strongest trigger of my insecurity (although she doesn't know this and this isn't her own doing. It's not her fault). And when I get insecure of her, I feel small; I feel that I am not smart; I feel that I am not talented; and I feel that I have to prove to people that I am the better choice. I feel these things. These are constantly in my mind.

But do I have concrete evidence that support these thoughts? Did any of PM's fraternity brods, sorority sisses, friends, family, and relatives tell him (or me) that I am not a good choice? The answer is no. So why do I need to convince them? As what my friend Dr. T told me, the only people that I need to convince are PM and myself. PM doesn't need any more convincing, so it is just me that I need to convince.

Putting it that way makes me see that there is nothing for me to be insecure of. Friends of mine, especially those who know Z, have been telling me that for quite a time already. But sometimes, I fail to remind myself of that. I fail to see the qualities that make me unique. All I can see are the things she can do that I can't. I dwell on the past even if the present is showing me something beautiful. Now, I can appreciate myself better. I recognize that I am also good at what I do, and that makes me smart, too.

CBT has also taught me to stop feeling bad about things that I cannot control. Negative things happen, and they happen not because of a fault of mine. Because of CBT, I have stopped blaming myself for things that I cannot control. Anyway, blaming myself won't change these negative things. It won't make the bus go faster if I am running late. It will not turn back time and let me change what I did or what other people did. Self-blame would just make me feel bad about myself and would send me into a downward spiral. It's not helpful at all.

Seeing my good qualities and stopping the self-blame are I guess the biggest proof that I am improving. Maybe this is what Dr. G was waiting to hear from me, that's why she decided that we can start tapering down the dosage of of one of one my meds. She asked me which of these two do I want to taper down: Quetiapine (antipsychotic) or Lamotrigine (anticonvulsant). I chose Lamotrigine. I would've wanted to choose Quetiapine because it is the most expensive medicine among the three that I am taking. But it plays a bigger role in keeping me stable. Plus, it helps me sleep, so I chose Lamotrigine instead.

I don't know how many CBT sessions I have left. I will see Dr. G again in February. I am hoping that on my next session, we will taper down the dosage of Lamotrigine even more. And if we can taper down the dosage of my two other medicines, well, that would be even better.

In and out

This Friday, I will be seeing Dr. G again. And I am afraid that this won't be the time for her to taper down the dosage of my meds. I am looking forward to that, but I guess it's not happening soon. Not this Friday nor anytime soon.

Last Monday, I had another depressive episode, triggered again by Z. She didn't do anything in particular, but it was she--or should I say, thoughts of her--that triggered my depression. Of course, this is another cognitive distortion, but once again, I got affected by her. I also fell from our bunk bed (I occupy the top part) and got a bruise on my arm; I literally ran to catch a taxi on my way to my job interview; and I couldn't tell how my job interview went. It was, indeed, a series of mishaps.

Last Tuesday's events didn't help either. There was an event that PM attended. I found out the Z was also there. I hate it when I am not there with PM when she is, so I cried a lot last Tuesday. I was so upset. I was already having PMS, and all these piled on top of that. It was too much for me to handle.

But thankfully, after a few hours and after talking to PM and a few of my friends, I felt better. In fact, I felt great. It was as if someone flipped a switch and voila! Everything was right again in the world. I was even able to finish the fifth chapter of the novel I am working on.

That's the thing with me. I tend to linger more in my depressed state, but when I feel great, I have a lot of energy. It's not necessarily physical energy, but more of mental energy. My mind is in overdrive. I am able to suddenly come up with ideas. Most of these are ideas for creative pursuits, like for a novel, a blog post, a poem, or even a song. In fact, over the weekend, I started writing a song.

Some people who have manic episodes do things that are out of control. They go on shopping sprees and max out their credit cards all in one day, or think they are gods or goddesses, or engage in dangerous behavior like driving with rage. I haven't done these things nor have I experienced being in this kind of high, but I also watch out for these symptoms. Taking 300mg of antipsychotic (Quetiapine) probably keeps me from having these kinds of episodes.

Given all these, I can say that I come in and out of a depressive episode. It's always a seesaw of feeling great and of being down and upset. These emotions dance with each other, and they alternate in taking the lead. My homework is to identify when an episode is imminent (especially if it is a depressive episode) and take precautionary measures. When I feel down, I listen to upbeat music to help lift my mood. I always listen to music when I walk outside, and I make sure that the songs I am listening to are happy and energetic. I don't have sad or emo songs in my phone. Those will just pull me down.

So that's the thing with shifting moods and having depressive episodes. I need to recognize that I am having an episode. I need to identify what cognitive distortion I am having at that moment, so I will not blame myself for things I cannot control. This is easier said than done. As my friend Dr. T always tells me, I should be patient with myself. These things come and go, and patterns of thinking aren't changed overnight. I am a work in progress.

I have seen some improvements in my mood and in myself in the past few months. But because of what happened last Monday and Tuesday, I now feel that those improvements have been canceled out. Again, as my friend Dr. T always tells me, if I fall down, I should forgive myself, then stand up and try again. Forgiving myself is, I guess, the key to being able to stand again. Self-blame won't get my anywhere.

I'm looking forward to my session this Friday. I always look forward to my sessions. It will be another hour of sharing and learning how to deal with my moods and emotions. Hopefully, I will exit her clinic calm and collected and not a disaster.

I think I'm fat

I'm not the type who is conscious of her figure. Partly because I have a relatively fast metabolism. And really, eating what you like is probably one of the most glorious feelings in the world. I've always believed that you should dress according to your figure, instead of altering your figure to fit into the clothes you like. For me, there's always a way to accentuate your best features, and the clothes who do that are the clothes that are perfect for you.

I've held onto this belief for a very long time. Until I saw that my lower abdomen seems to be getting bigger and that I am gaining weight.

No, I am not pregnant or anything. Just getting...fat? Am I getting fat?

I don't live a sedentary lifestyle. I walk a lot. I jog when I can. I don't drink sodas, but I love eating carbs because I feel weak without them. I eat what I want with confidence because I know I will be able to burn those calories. I eat fruits, and I drink green tea especially when I ate a lot.

But last week, when I was trying out swimsuits because I wanted to buy a new one, I saw that I didn't fit into my regular size anymore. My size in this particular swimming and sportswear brand is large (they have small sizes), but now, it isn't. I am now an XL.

It's not supposed to be a big deal. After all, the jump  from large to XL isn't really a big one. But I am worried, and my number one reason for being so isn't even health-related. It is this: Z leans on the chubby side, and I don't want to look like her. I don't want to be like her.

Now, brace yourself for another Z-related post.

I've written before that I am no longer as insecure of Z as I was before. That I have learned to love and appreciate myself more. But now, I am afraid that I will be chubby like her, I don't want that. I want to be the prettier and slimmer one.

I sound ridiculous, yes? I think so, too. But I can't help it. And I can't believe I'm saying this. I can't believe I'm feeling this.

My bf PM and I decided to cut back on our rice and junkfood intake this year. We'll still eat rice (of course!), but we'll say no to a second cup. We also vowed to consume less chips and go for peanuts instead when watching movies. And we will exercise more (we do jog at least once a week. We'll keep that up and add more activities to our exercise routine.

PM keeps on telling me that I am not like Z and that I do not look like her. And that I won't be as chubby as she is. And that I am prettier. But again, when I look at myself in the mirror, I am inclined to believe otherwise. I look huge next to my petite sister, even when she told me that it's because my bones are bigger than hers. I am a bit taller, too. I have wider hips and bigger thighs and calves.

This seems petty compared to what I have been through with my depressive episodes and anxiety attacks. But I guess this falls into one of the cognitive distortions I am guilty of having. I don't know which one though.

I don't want to be like this. I don't want to feel bad about myself just because I am not (or no longer am) skinny. Ultimately, I should exercise and eat right because I want to be healthy. I should do it for myself and not because I don't want to be like Z (in fact, Z shouldn't be in the picture anymore). No one is complaining about my weight or my figure. I am the only one. So why should it be an issue?

Some end-of-the-year thoughts

When a year comes to a close, people tend to post their reflections and throwbacks on blogs and social media. Before our newsfeeds get filled with all these musings, allow me to post mine.

A huge part of my 2016 has been devoted to dealing with my psychiatric condition. Having bipolar disorder is no joke. Dealing with sudden mood changes is difficult, especially when I'm plunged into a depressive episode that lasts for weeks, months even. And a huge part of my depressive episodes involves my insecurity toward Z. Forgive me for sounding like a broken record talking about Z again and again in this blog. I don't even know whether I'm depressed because I'm insecure of Z, or I'm insecure of Z that's why I am depressed. I don't know which causes what. All I know is that those two go together. 

This is why when I learned to love myself more, I couldn't be happier. After several therapy sessions, dosage adjustments, and countless advice to friends who understand what I'm going through, I finally learned to stop feeling small and stop comparing myself with Z. We're different. 

I also made new friends this year. Some of PM's friends and fraternity brothers became my friends, too. In our boarding house, my roommates and I got closer. We bore witness to the blossoming of our respective romantic relationships. Grazielle got married. PM and I celebrated our first anniversary (of being together) and we're going strong. Lea and Camille found love in the last quarter of 2016. For us, 2016 has been full of love, and for this, we are thankful.

It is interesting to note, though, that while I gained new friends, I also lost some. Maybe that's part of growing up. Maybe that's part of #adulting. It's not about the number of friends you have but it's more of having true friends around. Life isn't a Ms. Popular competition. You don't have to be friends with everyone. I don't have to be friends with everyone.

We're down to the last day of the year. Tomorrow, it's 2017. While I'm anxious and a bit scared, I'm also looking forward to the new year. I'm excited to do things I haven't done before. I'm looking forward to getting better as I continue to have slow but steady improvement in the psychiatric department. I'm looking forward to another year full of love and happiness. No matter how shitty 2016 has been, everyone has a chance to reset in 2017. And that's what I am going to do. 

Self-love

My session with Dr. G last December 12 went well. This is probably the third or fourth session in a row that went well. Every time I leave her clinic calm and composed, every time I leave her clinic happy as if I just came from a nice conversation with a friend, I count that as an achievement.

I've been making slow but steady progress ever since Dr. G and I discussed cognitive distortions. Now, whenever I feel that negative thoughts are starting to cloud my mind, I am now able to step back and evaluate those thoughts. I don't tell myself that my thoughts and my feelings are wrong. I even acknowledge that I have a right to feel those. But now, I have learned to stop blaming myself all the time and have started to accept that some things are beyond my control. I am not the one to blame all the time. Not everything is my fault.

I also go back to my conversation with Dr. T, PM's friend whom I met last month, every time I feel bad about myself. She gave me an important piece of advice--that learning to love oneself is a process. It isn't done overnight, so I should be patient with myself. That even if I fail to love myself every single day, I should forgive myself, and then try again.

Her advice played a huge part in helping me deal with my insecurity, too. She knows Z personally, so I value her opinion whenever she says there is no reason for me to be insecure of her. A lot of people tell me that, but because it came from her, I feel it has more weight. I also got the same input from Dr. C (another friend of PM). Both of them know Z personally, so their opinions have a huge effect on me and my thinking. It's as if Dr. C's and Dr. T's opinions signed and sealed all other opinions I've heard and made them more valid and official.

Now, I feel that I am no longer as insecure of Z as I was before. I still am, but I have learned to love myself more. I now give myself the appreciation it deserves--appreciation for my talents, my skills, and even the way I think and talk to people. Dr. T said that this is even better, because the change didn't come from Z. It was not "based" on her. It was based on how I now feel towards her. This is a remarkable progress, and I am happy about it.

I still can't go out without makeup. I'm still scared of bumping into Z, and I don't want to look plain when that happens. But I am being patient with myself. Getting over this is another process, and I'm taking it one step at a time.

Stories of insecurity

Around this time last year, my anxiety level was so high it probably went beyond the stratosphere. I was to meet Z in a few days, and I was so jittery. I was so insecure of her that when we got introduced, I wasn't able to eat even if there were countless of sumptuous dishes on the buffet table.

I remembered this because last weekend, a good friend of mine talked to me about her insecurity. Like me, she's insecure of a girl. The thought of her makes her feel small and inadequate, just the way Z makes me feel so small. I can relate to every part of her story. When we were talking last Saturday, I got transported to that dinner party where I met Z for the first time.

I've talked about my insecurity a lot on this blog, with my boyfriend PM, and with a few close friends. Sometimes, I feel they are already tired of me telling them how insecure I am of Z. If I can get over it by sheer willpower, I will. But unfortunately, it doesn't work that way.

I once told PM that maybe it would help if I talk about my insecurity with other people who know Z personally. PM agreed, so I talked to two people who know her. Even if we're not particularly close, I appreciate these two friends (Dr. C and Dr. T) of mine who took the time to listen to my story. Both of them gave me the same piece of advice: that I should love myself. That there is no reason for me to be insecure of her.

PM helps me with my insecurity by telling me the qualities that he likes about me. He even greets me with "Hey, Pretty!" or "Good morning, Pretty!" I appreciate every bit of it because it makes me feel good about myself. But ultimately, this appreciation should come from deep within me. Self-love, as what my two doctor friends have advised.

A year after meeting Z, I am still insecure of her. But now, I am finding less reasons to feel that way. I have started to love myself more. I wear my favorite deep red lipstick when I need a boost. But I still can't go out without makeup. I am afraid of bumping into Z without looking my best. Maybe this will pass, too. And when that happens, I will be wearing makeup for the sheer joy of doing so and not because I am insecure of Z.

It took me quite a long time to make this small progress. Battling with insecurity is a long (and painful) process. It involves a lot of tears and a lot of talking with close friends and loved ones. If I would give my friend who talked to me last Saturday an advice, I would tell her to just hold on. Nobody can set a deadline for someone to get over her insecurity. I am still not done with my battle. But eventually, I will. And so will my friend.

Little achievements

Yesterday, I had another session again with Dr. G, my psychiatrist. She had to attend a conference two or three weeks ago, so my appointment (as well as others') got postponed. Thankfully, I managed to secure a slot in her schedule yesterday.

I wrote here before that I lent her my personal journal--my purple journal with an elephant in front. It was the journal I had been keeping before Dr. G gave me a homework of keeping a thought journal that follows the CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) format. Yesterday, she returned my purple journal. "Thank your entrusting it to me," she said. I think she read the entire journal that's why she wasn't able to return it to me sooner. I was a little surprised because I thought she would just browse through it, but she read it. And I appreciate it.

For the second time, I didn't emerge from her clinic as disaster. After my session last month, I didn't emerge as a disaster either. This counts as an achievement for me. It makes me feel that even if I frequently have depressive episodes, there are days when the sun shines on me. In fact, I haven't had a major depressive episode lately. Sure, I do get visited by anger, frustration, and anxiety, but there are days when a dose of happiness and calm comes knocking on my door. And I let it in.

I showed my thought journal to Dr. G yesterday. My thought journal now has doodles and letterings, aside from the usual narrative text that I write there. I don't know how to draw, but it doesn't matter. My thought journal isn't just a homework. It's another venue for me to express my thoughts and emotions, which Dr. G and I analyze every session.

I am to see her again mid-December (that is, if someone cancels). She told me yesterday that perhaps, she can start weaning me off my meds if I keep being in this calm and stable state. That means, if I won't have depressive episodes in the coming weeks, she can start decreasing my dosage little by little (and maybe take one medicine out of the three that I am taking). I hope it happens.

Aside from this small achievement of mine, another thing that makes me happy is the fact that some of my friends have started talking about their psychiatric struggles on social media. That they, too, are openly talking about it. That makes me happy, because why do we have to hide in the dark and talk about our struggles in hushed tones? It's about time that we break this stigma. When my friend Pam and I started talking about our condition in our respective blogs, there's a part of us that hopes we can make a difference--even just a tiny difference. Or even just a dent in our friends' lives, a dent that will prompt them to feel that they are not alone, and it is okay to talk about their struggles. That there is someone out there who is in the same boat and who is willing to listen.

And because of this blog, these people didn't just find me. I also found them. That's why I keep writing on this blog of mine as honestly as I can. You don't know how happy I am when people send me messages that say they read my blog. I am not doing this for page views or likes. I am doing this to share my story (and consequently, myself). It's my way of saying, "Hello there, you're not alone."

The Philippine Psychiatric Association is pushing for the passage of the Mental Health Act through this petition. The Department of Health is prioritizing mental health (read the article here). If you have a few minutes to spare, I hope you could sign the petition. Let's help spread awareness and break the stigma.

A year of sharing

November 4, 2015. This was the day my friend Pam and I first wrote about our struggle with mental illness on our respective blogs. Fighting an invisible war, as I had called it. I have, since that day, written about my experience of dealing with bipolar disorder. I didn't hold anything back (and I am not planning to). I have opened myself up to the world. I have let myself become vulnerable. And I have shown how I can be both weak and strong at the same time--weak in often succumbing to a variety of triggers that pull me into a dark, downward spiral, but also strong in a sense that I still manage to hold on even to the thinnest of strings that connect me to my sanity.

To be at war with one's own mind is probably one of the most difficult battles out there. For how can you protect yourself from your own thoughts? How can you shield yourself from your mind's violent attacks that cut, wound, bruise, and maim you? Oftentimes, I just want to lock myself in a bathroom stall or hide under my pillows and blankets just so I would feel protected from the vicious attacks of my chaotic mind. But every day, every time my phone alarm rings, I know I will be facing another 24 hours of unpredictable moods.

Whenever people send me messages of support on Facebook, I can't help but be thankful. But I think the most beautiful thing that came out of my blogging about my condition is how friends of mine became open to talking about their respective struggles. Mental health and mental illness are, let's face it, still considered taboo and are not openly talked about. Even I didn't tell a soul when I first sought the help of a psychologist (and later on, a psychiatrist). But when everything got so overwhelming and the thought that what if someone out there is looking for company dawned on me, I decided to write about my own struggles on my blog so in my own way, I could tell that someone that hey, I'm here and we're on the same boat.

I've been receiving psychiatric treatment for a year and a half already. I am not in a position to assess myself, to say if I have improved or not. But all I can say is that I saw and felt the difference between my pre-treatment self and my current self. My medicines have done a great deal in improving my mood, even if I still sink into depression from time to time. I swing back and forth, from being okay to not being okay, from being terribly anxious and restless to being calm, from being happy and cheerful to being down. I swing back and forth every single day. This is the reality of my condition that I have come to accept.

But God is kind, and He has sent angels my way. I have my boyfriend PM, who has absorbed a great deal of all this; my hotline friend Pam, whose number I dial whenever I am in an emotional emergency; my family, who tries their very best to understand me; my aunt who has been so generous in giving me financial support; and other people from whom I've received kind and encouraging words.

This war may be invisible, but it doesn't mean we have to fight it alone. Let us not live in fear and shame. Let's get all the help that we need, and let's be there for each other. The whole world may ignore us, may judge us even, but if we have each other, we got this.

Inversely proportional

I've encountered this term several times when I was still in school. It's used in physics. It's used in mathematics. And now, I realize, it can be used in my daily struggle with my mood and emotions.

I've been thinking a lot about this, and I have come to this conclusion: My highs are inversely proportional to my lows. I don't know how high my mood should be for it to be considered a manic or hypomanic episode. But all I know is if I'm not wallowing in despair, I talk loudly, spewing out witty and funny comments with an unbridled energy. It's as if I don't run out of jokes and witty retorts. I make people laugh, especially my housemates in the boarding house. I love being in this kind of state, although I wish I hadn't spilled water over one of my housemates the other day while I was spewing out these spiels and wanted to demonstrate something funny. 

But this state scares me, because I know that when the energy and laughter have died, it will be followed by a deep downswing. It can come hours after this high, or at times, minutes after this high. My mood will slide and before I know it, I've hit rock bottom. Again. For the nth time. 

And when I am in this state, everything is a struggle. Waking up is a struggle. Getting out of bed is a struggle. Doing anything is a struggle. I don't want to go out. I don't want to be around people. I just want to stay at the boarding house with my housemates or go see PM, my boyfriend. 

Then, my mood would lift, but it wouldn't last long. I would again exchange funny banters with my housemates. My energy would be at an all-time high. Then, my mind would be so active that I would work like a beast until the wee hours of the morning. 

When I work at night, I don't take my meds until I'm done. Maybe it's the reason why my mind becomes active and I feel that I can do anything and everything. There's nothing that can knock me down and sleep. I can go and be a machine. 

And then again, when all these is over after a few hours, I would plunge again. The higher my energy was during my active moments, the deeper I would sink into depression. 

Maybe this is what having a bipolar disorder really is about. My psychiatrist Dr. G once told me that she doesn't see me having manic or hypomanic episodes, but she thinks it's because I am taking medicines for bipolar disorder (Quetiapine and Lamotrigine). I think it's also because when I see her, I'm usually in a depressive episode. She doesn't see me every day. She doesn't see me talk loudly and expel jokes one after another. She doesn't see how noisy and energetic I am when I am not having a depressive episode. 

I am supposed to see her today, but she has to attend a conference, so I have to wait until my next scheduled appointment, which is on Nov. 9. I wish she didn't need to attend to that conference, because I want to see her. I want to report to her everything that has been happening to me. I want to know her thoughts on this. 

I have to hang on. I have no other choice, even if these daily ups and downs are driving me nuts. 

Alone

Do you feel this, too? You're surrounded by a lot of people, each of them in their respective circles, but you don't belong to any. You're able to talk to different people at different times, but when the small talk has died down, you're left on your own. Or you simply feel that you're not a part of a group you're supposed to be a part of.

This has been happening to me recently, and when I can't take it anymore, I ask myself, "Do I see and feel these things because of my psychiatric condition? Am I being too aware of my inner thoughts and emotions that I come up with different interpretations of certain events? But a friend of mine told me not to blame my condition. Some people are just like that--they live in an exclusive bubble.

I've been in this place before. I've experienced being an outcast in school, with only one or two friends. Back then, I endured all their parinig. I endured their whispering behind my back. I endured all the things they (some of teachers included) did to put me down. I was 12. Now, I'm 28, and I can't believe I am again experiencing how it is to not belong to anything.

Every day, I do my best to set aside this feeling and instead focus on my tasks, on what I am supposed to do. But sometimes, it becomes overwhelming that I find yourself crying at midnight and wishing I have someone to talk to but, unfortunately, all my friends are already asleep.

Last week, my therapy session went great. Again, I wasn't a disaster when I got out of the clinic. There was no crying, there was no meltdown. In fact, I felt proud of myself because I was able to identify recent events and thoughts as cognitive distortions and what I did about them. I thought things would get better. But then, as what usually happens, I'd be feeling great for maybe three to five days, then something would happen that would ruin everything, and I'd be back to zero. And I would be zero for weeks and it would go on and on and on, until the next three- to-five-day period of stability, and then I would go back to zero again.

Three Sundays ago, I opened up to a friend about my insecurities and everything that I am experiencing. I was pleasantly surprised because even if we're not particularly close, he took time to listen to me and offer kind words. I felt that wow, there's an additional person out there who gets me. Yey! It is during these moments that I feel I am not alone, which is ironic. When I am surrounded by people, I feel alone because I am not part of their circle. When I am literally alone and I am talking to friends through FB messenger or text, that's when I feel that I have company.

Maybe I feel this way not because I have a psychiatric condition, but because I trust the wrong people. And I trust the wrong people because I think that they have even a small amount of empathy in their system. Apparently, some (if not all) of them have none. I guess it's hard to ask that of people.

Maybe the best thing for me to do is not to be so hard on myself and stop blaming myself for everything that I see and feel. I may have a psychiatric condition, but I have a fully functioning mind and heart. I am not making things up. People are just showing their true colors, and now, I am seeing them for what and who they really are.

What type are you?

A friend once told me that he didn't see me as the type who listens to Paramore (he didn't mean anything bad by this, by the way. It was just an honest observation :) ). He said he pegged me as more of a Taylor Swift fan. Well, I am a Taylor Swift fan, a Demi Lovato fan, AND a Paramore fan.

A classmate back in college once told me that she didn't think I am the type who throws and breaks things when angry. Well, I am. In a fit of rage, whenever my dad and I would fight, I would break almost anything that I touched. I had broken almost everything that was on my desk in my room at home. In a fit of rage, I even broke plastic storage boxes, which were supposed to be unbreakable. I once threw my cellphone across my room. Good thing it didn't break.

When another friend learned that I'm dealing with bipolar disorder and depression, she told me she didn't see me as the type who would have these struggles. For her, I am a jolly person. Which I am. I can exchange jokes with people. I can talk to people at events. I can introduce a friend to my other friends and professional contacts and make them talk to each other and exchange contact information. She meant it as a compliment, and I took it as such.

But looks, as they say, can be deceiving. Not everyone who wears a smile has rays of sunshine inside. In my case, I do wear a smile. I have sunny days. But I have a lot of rainy days, stormy days, days when everything feels like a tornado. Most of the time, my soul feels like it's in an eternal winter solstice--nights are long and dark while days are short. And on those nights, there's no moon or any star in sight. It's just plain, black darkness.

There are times when dark thoughts linger in my mind. Sometimes, these thoughts are about what it would be like when I'm gone from this world. And then, I'd feel scared because I'm afraid of death itself. I still want to live. But aside from this, other dark thoughts also linger in my mind, thoughts that aren't as dangerous as death but are just as powerful in pulling me down. When I think and feel that I am inadequate, when I think and feel that there's nothing "special" in what I do because everybody else can do it anyway, I feel down. It's as if I am not doing enough.

This plain, black darkness keeps me up at night. Without my meds, I won't be able to sleep. That's why it was I and my cousin (who was studying law and who was comfortable reading at night) who worked the "night shift" during our grandmother's wake. Our parents and aunts would sleep at night, while my cousin and I would stay awake. Then I would take my meds by 2 or 3 am when one of the grown-ups was ready to continue the "shift."

This is insomnia, and this is not healthy. Insomnia got me through college, when 24 hours isn't enough to finish all my academic requirements and things I had to do for my college org. I was able to survive with just four hours of sleep, or even less, daily. But this isn't a healthy way to live. And when you're dealing with psychiatric conditions, it is best to have a regular sleeping schedule, as advised by my boyfriend who is a doctor.

When I still wasn't seeking treatment, and dark and sad thoughts would occupy my mind, I would cry for no reason. This would probably come as no surprise to other people because it is pretty much an established fact that I am the type who cries a lot. I am the type who cries at movies even if the movie is a jolly, animated film. I am the type who cries when I feel cornered. I am the type who cries because I easily get hurt. I am the type who cries and breaks down when filled with overwhelming sadness or anger or rage. But people never saw me as the type who would have a psychiatric condition.

Once, when I bought my meds at one of the leading drugstores in the country, the pharmacy assistant told me that I didn't look like I am taking those meds. He probably meant it as a compliment, but anger and disappointment and sadness did cartwheels in my mind so fast that I wasn't able to process what I was really feeling at that moment. I just smiled and let out a short "haha" then left. Because really, what is someone who's dealing with psychiatric issues supposed to look like? Who or what is the type who has these conditions? And when you're a pharmacy assistant handing out medicines to anyone who's afflicted with any kind of illness, shouldn't you just keep these types of opinions to yourself?

This made me realize that we really have a lot of work to do to raise awareness about mental health issues. It's still a taboo. We can't talk about it openly. A lot of people are still afraid to step forward and tell a friend or someone else that they're dealing with something invisible, something dark, something that cannot be explained. Even I didn't tell a soul when I first sought treatment. Then slowly, I opened up to a few people, until I started writing about it here in my blog last November.

This is the type of issue that we should be talking about. It's not the type of issue that we can just sweep under the rug and pretend that it doesn't exist. It's not the type of issue that only a few people should care about.

So the next time someone tells me that I am not the type who has a psychiatric condition, I'll politely tell that person that psychiatric conditions don't have a particular face. They have no specific look. But we can do something specific about them, and that is to seek professional help.

My purple journal

When my therapy session last week was about to end, I handed my personal journal to Dr. G. It was the journal that I kept when I was still under the care of Dr. B (my former psychiatrist) and was still not undergoing Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT). I was just under medications back then. Writing on my journal was my way of releasing...whatever it was that I needed to release. My anger, anxiety, things that make me upset, things that make me sad, Z whom I'm so insecure of, how Z (or should I say, thoughts of Z) has the power to pull me into a deep, dark, downward spiral--all these are on the pages of my journal which, coincidentally, is purple and has a metal elephant ornament in front. "Oh it's an elephant, and it's purple," Dr. G said when I handed her the journal. My purple elephant. My symbolic purple elephant, which I wrote about here.

I stopped writing on that journal when Dr. G told me to keep a thought journal wherein I would write situations, my moods, and emotions and images that came to mind in those situations. This is the CBT format. My purple journal doesn't follow any format. It's all me. I'll resume writing on my purple journal when I'm done with CBT.

I decided to lend my purple journal because I wanted to let Dr. G see how I was before I started seeing her. I wanted her to see what plagued me when I was still not undergoing CBT. I wanted to give her a peek into my chaotic mind so she can help me deal with my present troubles, which are a continuation of my past troubles. I wanted her to get to know me better so she will know the story behind every tear I shed during therapy.

My purple journal is my private, personal journal. The journal itself is a gift from PM (my boyfriend), which he got for me during his trip to Thailand. He told me that when he saw that journal, he knew he had to get it from me. And the moment I saw that journal being handed to me, I knew I was meant to have that journal. It's now my purple journal, and written on its pages are my purple elephants.

I let PM read my entries once in a while. I'm not sure if I've allowed him to read everything, but every time I want him to read an entry or two, he would gladly oblige. He is the only person who has access to that journal, and even then, he doesn't touch it unless I ask him to. Now, it's with Dr. G. I'm practically letting her dig deep into my soul. I'm practically introducing her to my demons. This is difficult. No wonder a psychiatrist's professional fee is steep. It's because he or she helps the patient fight demons that the patient cannot fight alone. And these demons cannot be seen, but they are there.

I've been seeing a psychiatrist for a year and five months already. It has been a long journey but the road ahead is still long. Dr. G and I are processing everything one at a time. Every negative thought, every emotion, every trigger--we're dealing with them one at a time. CBT is usually finished after ten sessions, but I think I would have to extend. I don't think everything that plagues me can be resolved in my remaining three or four sessions.

On a more positive note, I always look forward to my CBT sessions with Dr. G. I get upset when I have to skip a session because of work or other matters. I feel safe in her clinic. For me, it is a place where I am free to talk and cry and then talk again. It is a place where I am away from all my demons and ghosts, from all my triggers. It's a place where I am away from Z, where Z cannot hurt me.

Every time I sit on that sofa at Dr. G's clinic, I do not want to leave. I do not want to be back to the "real world." But of course, the next patient is waiting, someone who maybe has the same demons as mine.

I hope Dr. G has the time to read everything in my purple journal. But she's busy. Maybe she would scan them and maybe read the entries that stand out. I don't know. I don't know what her reaction would be. Maybe I'll find out on my next session.

Cognitive Distortion No. 1: Catastrophizing

Last Wednesday, after my therapy session, I didn't come out of Dr. G's clinic a disaster. And that, I think, is an achievement, so I treated myself to a glass of chocolate cream frappuccino and a sausage roll from Starbucks. I deserved the treat.

I now feel that everything that Dr. G has been telling me in our therapy sessions is starting to make sense. In my mind, they're no longer theories. Dr. G has been telling me that one of our goals in doing CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) is to deal with my destructive thinking patterns and "fix" them. My session last Wednesday couldn't have come at a better time.

Last Tuesday, I made a REALLY BIG mistake at work. It was really a big deal. It was a stupid and avoidable mistake. Of course, I got flak for it. I was so embarrassed that I felt I couldn't face anyone at work anymore. I slept last Tuesday night hating myself--as in REALLY hating myself--and telling myself repeatedly that I was so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And irresponsible. Irresponsible, irresponsible, irresponsible.

And when Wednesday came, it was still fresh in my mind, so I told Dr. G about it, aside from all the things that happened to me the past month. Dr. G told me that the incident at work is a perfect example of why we're doing CBT. We focused on this thought: I am stupid and irresponsible. From that thought, she asked me what is my basis for saying that I'm stupid and irresponsible. And so I told her. She then asked me how many times I've made this mistake in the past seven years (I've been working in this publishing company for seven years). I said one, followed up by, "But I also made other mistakes in the past." She then asked me to share them, and I obliged, and she wrote them down.

After this, she asked me what my basis is for saying that an employee is responsible, and in my seven years of working, what are the things that I've done that make me responsible. And so I told her all that I could remember--all the good things that I did, articles that I wrote beautifully, positive feedback from some of the people whom I've interviewed for my articles, writing for other magazines published by the company once in a while, and representing our team during events. She wrote everything down.

Then, when I was done talking, she told me to look at the things she wrote. I made a mistake, yes, but in my seven years of working, I've done good things, too. One mistake doesn't make me irresponsible. And that, I felt, is how CBT helps.

One of the cognitive distortions I am guilty of having is the tendency to catastrophize things. One mistake, and I feel that I've summoned a catastrophe. One mistake, and I already feel that I'm stupid and irresponsible. One mistake, and I feel as if I've committed a crime against humanity. One mistake, and I can't forgive myself for it.

This isn't my first time to catastrophize. Last February, I've done this, and I think that was my worst case of catastrophizing so far. It was when I tried to reach out to Z to make sure everything is okay between us. But then, she said that it only made things awkward, and I didn't take it well. I beat myself for it, attempted to overdose on tranquilizers (Alprazolam) not to die but to fall into a deep sleep, and I made cuts on my left arm. I wrote about it here and here.

Now, cognitive distortions and CBT are starting to make sense to me. Catastrophizing isn't the only cognitive distortion I'm guilty of having. I'll write about them in my succeeding entries. For now, Dr. G's homework for me is to do at least one pleasurable activity per day. Activities that make me happy, which she had me list down during our session. I listed down fifteen activities, but she told me that I am free to add more. That is my homework. And I'm going to do it, being the good student that I was (some XX years ago) and being the good patient that I am.

My never-ending battle with insecurity

Nothing could trigger my depressive episodes really hard than bouts of insecurity. And there's this particular girl that I am so, so, so insecure of. In my previous entry, I called her Z. From then on, let's call her Z in all my related entries.

I'm not the type who's insecure about looks; modesty aside, I think I'm not lacking in that department. What I'm insecure about Z are her brains and her talent. She's incredibly smart. She's a doctor. And she can sing--not very well though, but still, she can sing. Ever since I got to know these things about her, I felt so down and inadequate, even if we're not being pitted against each other.

The fact that she can sing is probably the biggest and heaviest boulder thrown at me. She's incredibly smart and she's a doctor, and I'm neither. Sure, people say I'm smart, and I'm happy about that. But the thing is, I sing, too. I love to sing. And it pulls me down knowing that she can do this, too. It's as if she can do everything that I do, but I can't do what she does.

I've never considered science, math, medicine, and law to be superior fields, reigning over the arts, languages, and communication. That's why we have multiple intelligences, right? But when I got to know Z and the things that she can do, I felt so small. I felt that being a writer "doesn't count." I felt that I'm in a "lesser" industry. What's writing compared with saving lives? It's as if she's doing something great for humanity, while I'm just here, typing my articles.

Months passed but this feeling didn't go away. And as the day that I'd get to meet her drew near, my anxiety level shot up, one level at a time, every single day. When I was already at the venue (it was a dinner party), I couldn't eat because I knew she would arrive at any moment. My stomach was in knots. I felt like throwing up. My pasta tasted bland--either it was really bland or I couldn't taste anything anymore. I wasn't able to eat. And when she arrived, I didn't know what to do. I managed to smile and shake her hand when we got introduced, but I knew I wasn't in a "safe place." I managed to interact with the other people at that dinner party, and somehow, those interactions helped calm my panicking self. But those interactions didn't change the fact that I wasn't feeling well. Seeing her around made my heart beat faster and pound in my chest really hard.

After that dinner, I broke down and cried. I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't pull myself together anymore. I just cried, even if I knew I wasn't making sense, nor was I being rational.

A couple of months after that dinner, I thought I was already feeling better. I thought I was ready to put everything behind. I thought that if, by some reason, we bump into each other, I wouldn't be awkward with her, and I didn't want her to be awkward with me. And so with all these good intentions, I tried to get in touch with her to tell her how I felt. But it didn't turn out well. She said it made things awkward. I felt that wow, there I was, trying to rectify the situation. But I made things worse. Even with good intentions, I made things worse. I failed.

Because of this, the more I got pulled into this downward spiral. I got even more insecure of her. And the worst part? SHE HAS NO FREAKIN' IDEA about all these. She doesn't know that she has this effect on me. And why should she care anyway? It's not her fault that I am insecure.

I am insecure. I wish I wasn't. But it's not something you just get over with. It's not something you put in a box and stash in your storage room (we call it bodega here in the Philippines). It's not something you throw in the wastebasket. It's not something you wash off. It's part of you. It's part of me. I wish it wasn't.

And so I'm here, dealing with my insecurity. I'm already on my seventh session of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT). My psychiatrist Dr. G has really been so nice and patient. Throughout those seven sessions, we always touch on my insecurity. And what happens next is always the same: I break down and cry. My makeup gets ruined. My eyes get red. My nose gets clogged. And all these because I'm insecure of Z. Because I feel so small. Because I feel inadequate.

This isn't something that my medicines can fix. That's why I'm going through therapy, hoping to get equipped with the right skills to cope with it. I can't go through life feeling like this, feeling small, feeling like my achievements don't count because someone out there is saving lives or whatever. I'm tired of all these. I'm so tired of being insecure.

Don't compare yourself with others. It's easy to say that. I've told myself the same thing countless times. And yet, here I am, still insecure.

I can't wait for the time when all these--my insecurity, my depressive episodes, my unpredictable moods--will be over. I can't wait. But like my psychiatrist who's patient with me, I need to be patient with myself, too. And I should stop punishing myself for feeling this way. I didn't want to be like this. I'm sure no one wants to be like this. But what can I do? These are the cards I am dealt with. I have no other choice but to play this right and recover.

The case of the purple elephant

I've been wanting to write about my therapy session two weeks ago, but I've been really busy. Anyway, here I am, writing about it and giving you an update of what I've been going through.

As I've mentioned in my previous entry, my psychiatrist put me back on antidepressants (Escitalopram). So now, I'm back to taking three medicines: Escitalopram, Quetiapine (antipsychotic), and Lamotrigine (anticonvulsant). The cost has really hit my wallet so hard. Thank God I got extra money last payday for extra work I did before.

Last August 24, my psychiatrist and I touched on my insecurity once more. This, I think, is my biggest depression trigger. I've been really insecure of (and frankly, annoyed at) this person. Let's call her Z. And last February, when I sort of had a close encounter with Z (through Facebook), I really spiraled down. Down, down, down. I wrote about it here and here.

Ever since that February encounter with Z, I never go out without makeup. Before, I could go out with just moisturizer and powder on my face, especially if I wouldn't be out for long. But now, since February, I always wear makeup when I go out. When I'm with my boyfriend to watch a movie or just stroll at the mall around the area where he lives in, I make sure I wear makeup. First, it's because when I see that I look good, I feel good. And second, we might bump into Z (she lives in the same area), and I don't want to look plain when that happens. I want to look good, to be pretty when I bump into her. So far, it hasn't happened. Yet.

This insecurity of mine is spiraling out of control. It's one of the reasons why my psychiatrist (Dr. G) put me back on Escitalopram. I'm now taking 15mg of Escitalopram in addition to 300mg of Quetiapine and 150mg of Lamotrigine. This combination is making me very, very sleepy.

In my last session with Dr. G, she gave me the elephant exercise. She asked me what my favorite color is (it's purple), then she told me to close my eyes and think of a purple elephant. She asked if what I'm seeing is an adult or baby elephant; what's going on with its ears, trunk, and tail; and where I am seeing it, was it in a jungle, zoo, or somewhere else. When she told me to open my eyes, she asked me if I've seen a purple elephant in real life. I said no. She then went on to say that that is the power of our thoughts.

After her explanation, I asked, "Does it mean that I'm making it (my depressive episodes) all up?" She assured me that I'm not making anything up. The point of cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) is not to put blame on me. It's to change my negative thought patterns. She then went on to say that our thoughts are influenced by our past experiences, like the way were brought up. These experiences affect how we think about and see things. None of these are imagined or made up. They're all products of our past.

My depressive episodes and panic attacks and my restless and noisy mind--from now on, I will see these things as one purple elephant. My purple elephant. It's not something I made up, of course, but something I saw because of my past experiences.

Dr. G also gave me a list of cognitive distortions (with explanations for each) and asked me to encircle what applies to me. Out of ten, I encircled eight. It's from David Burns's book Feeling Good Handbook (which I have yet to get my hands on). My destructive thinking patterns are destroying me and the way I see myself.

My latest destructive thought is that I'm afraid of getting fat (just to make it clear, I don't have anything against plump people). I've never been the type who's conscious about her weight or figure. I eat anything I want. I have a fairly fast metabolism, but I don't overeat. But lately, seeing a flat tummy when I look in the mirror makes me feel good even if it means I'm hungry because I haven't eaten breakfast yet. Then I will just have light snacks then eat lunch late. When I get to the office, I just want to work, with sugary food like cookies sustaining me before I eat a proper meal. It's not healthy. I shouldn't rely on sugar for energy--I must eat regular meals. But lately, my appetite is messed up. Z triggered my latest panic attack (and my subsequent plunge, as if my current depressive episode isn't drowning me enough) when I saw a photo of her on my Facebook timeline (FYI, I'm not friends with her on FB but some of my friends are). I got insecure for the nth time, hence this latest destructive thought: I don't want to gain weight because Z leans on the chubby side.

I'll see Dr. G again in two weeks (I'm supposed to see her this Wednesday but something came up at work so I had to reschedule). I'll bring all these up--my fear of gaining weight, my fear of being seen barefaced, my neverending depressive episodes. Maybe we'll have another exercise that could help me see things from a better perspective.