I had big plans to wake up at 5:00 this morning to finish a few little loose ends for our big Christmas snack day at work and to make breakfast for my hard-working husband. I also had big plans to be out the door a little before 7:30 so I could drop my girl off at school in peace and put on mascara before I got to work and get a Diet Dr. Pepper before the 8:15 rush at my Sonic of choice.
And then I managed to sleep through the SEVEN alarms I set on my phone (5:00, 5:03, 5:05, 5:07, 5:10, 5:12, and 5:15), woke up at 7:05, and said some very loud, very unladylike words before I tripped over the quilt and fell face first out of bed.
I untangled myself from the sheets, let (see also: threw) the dogs out to potty, brushed my teeth (with the wrong toothbrush - GAG), put (see also: threw) the ham and cheese sliders into the oven to bake, set (see also: threw) my girl's clothes out for her, and got (see also: threw) her out of bed. I stumbled into the shower and washed the important stuff (Confession: There were no legs shaved today. AND IT IS DRIVING ME NUTS.) and then got (see also: jumped) out to sprint my towel-clad self through the house to get the sandwiches out of the oven before they burned. My precious husband was headed home from working all night and was undoubtedly so tired he probably couldn't see straight to even drive home. But because he knows that I'm captain of the Struggle Bus these days, he graciously offered to take our girl to school so she wouldn't be counted tardy.
I managed to get myself and the sandwiches out the door only a few minutes late (These days that pretty much counts as early, because THE STRUGGLE.) and was blessed with plenty of red lights on my way to work for the applying of the mascara, because back-alley-hooker-esque (Don't judge me. It's a word.) eye makeup is my best defense against the dark circles under my eyes. Who needs anti-aging products when you've got Sonia Kashuk's black onyx eyeliner and Maybelline chaotic lash mascara?? NOT THIS GIRL.
My husband didn't say anything to me about being a failure as a wife and mother and human being but I feel like I was reading his mind and it said, "YOU ARE A FAILURE AS A WIFE AND MOTHER AND HUMAN BEING BECAUSE WHY CAN YOU NOT GET OUT THE DOOR ON TIME AND WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS IN A RUSH AND WHY CAN YOU NOT STOP BEING SUCH A LOSER WHO SUCKS AT LIFE AND WHY DO I CONSTANTLY HAVE TO PICK UP YOUR SLACK AND WHY CAN YOU NOT JUST GET YOUR SH*T TOGETHER ALREADY?!?!?!?!?!?!?"
That is definitely what he was thinking.
Or maybe he didn't think that at all and my brain cooked up that little rant because I am so chocked full of insecurities and frustration and feelings of failure? I don't know. I don't have time to ponder those kinds of things, because THE STRUGGLE.
So I'm finally at work, and all the things are cramping (Being female is SO SUPER FUN sometimes. Snort.), and my head is spinning in eleventy billion different directions, and I just can't seem to get it together.
I'm also constantly checking the seams of my pants (Just kidding. Let's be real - LEGGINGS.) because I have this irrational paranoia that they're going to split. (Is it still irrational if it's happened before? More than once? Don't answer that.) Because in addition to affecting my liver function and my ability to drink even a single glass of wine and making my hair thinner, my meds also MAKE ME FATTER. For serious. All four (FOUR!) of the drugs I take are linked to weight gain. Just like I didn't have time to ponder whether or not my husband was really doubting my ability to be a functional wife/mother/human being, I don't have time to ponder whether or the entirety of the weight is all from the meds or if it's from the carbs/butter/sugar/chips/salsa/queso/nachos/pizza/cookies/cake/Christmas candy that goes into my mouth, because THE STRUGGLE.
I've made my list and checked it twice, but I still feel like there's something falling through the cracks. OH THAT'S RIGHT - I DIDN'T TAKE MY MEDS. AGAIN. It seems as though in addition to being incapable of obeying my alarm clock, I am also incapable of remembering to take my meds. There is a slight (see also: ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND PERCENT) chance that this memory malfunction has significantly contributed to my heightened state of panic or mania or anxiety or whatever breed of crazy this is.
I am feeling so very bipolar this morning, and I may or may not be able to keep it under wraps long enough to make it through the day. If you happen to find me in a bathroom stall or my car or a corner of Target crying like a freak, you'll know which way it went.
There is such a temptation to fall down the rabbit hole with this and to convince myself I'm a total failure and that I shouldn't even wake up tomorrow. It makes me sad that I can even fathom having those thoughts, but lying to myself - or to you - about it won't do any good. Even with all of the progress and positive steps I've made, the demons are still there and still so close to the surface. I get so angry with myself over thinking that way that I end up thinking it even more. Did you catch that? I get so mad at myself for wanting to give up and die that it makes me want to give up and die.
I'm not suicidal today, and I'm not a danger to myself, (Well - I'm not anymore of a danger to myself than I am on the regular. Falling out of bed, face planting the side of the car, scalding my lap with hot coffee, and gouging out my eye with a mascara wand don't count as suicide attempts. That's just a day in the life of me.) but it isn't so far-fetched that I can't picture it coming to that. These are the days that I really have to buckle down and use my coping mechanisms (and maybe my anxiety meds if it gets that serious) and talk myself out of the downward spiral that feels so near. These are the days that are hard to explain to anyone.
There is absolutely nothing wrong other than the storm raging inside my head. I ran a little late today and didn't get everything done that I wanted to get done before work. That is a totally typical day for most of us, especially when small children are involved. My husband had to pick up a little slack for me, and that's totally typical too. Picking up slack is what husbands and wives do. My rational self knows that and realizes that there are just as many times that I've picked up some slack for him, but my bipolar self can't see past what feels like a monumental failure punishable only by death. And I'm serious.
I'm currently resisting the urge to text bomb Husband and ask him why he's so mad at me and why he thinks I'm such a failure EXCEPT HE DID NOT SAY THOSE THINGS. It's days like today that he really deserves a medal, because I would bet money that before the day is up I won't be able to stop myself from badgering him about what a loser I think he thinks I am. I won't be able to stop all of the negative, self-loathing crap (Just being honest. That's totally what it is. Now why can't I stop it?) that pours out when I feel like I've let him down. And just like the patient, kind, compassionate (and did I mention PATIENT?!?) man he is, he'll tell me it's okay and that he doesn't even remotely feel that way. Then I'll probably continue to beat that dead horse until the poor thing isn't only dead but is instead mangled to bits (see also: Did anyone see the video on Facebook of the exploding whale? IT IS JUST LIKE THAT.) and keep peppering him with questions and barbs directed at myself until it's out of my system. Like I said - I've made a LOT of forward progress, but the demons are still there. I can't decide if it's worse to feel like it grabs me out of nowhere or to know it's coming and feel helpless to stop it.
Forgive how this may sound (Or don't forgive it. I'm not here to be polite.), but please spare me the judgment dressed in encouraging words. I realize that the rational thing to do is to "chill out" or "let it go" or "not sweat the small stuff" or "focus on what's really important" or "not make a mountain out of a mole hill." I realize how easy it must look to just stop, calm down, and choose a different track for today. I just hope you realize how much easier all of that is to say than do.
xo.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
the one where i didn't take my meds.
Well we survived the big move.
Our house is going to be absolutely precious when we finally get it put together. For now, though, it's a gigantic mess. I've done my best to be calm, cool, and collected throughout the entire fiasco, and I haven't done a bad job.
The proverbial wheels fell off the proverbial bus more than a couple of times (It would be more accurate to say that the proverbial bus drove off a proverbial cliff and burst into proverbial flames while hurtling down into a proverbial ravine. But I digress.), and I was more than a little shocked each time that I kept it together.
The refrigerator was supposed to stay with the house but the seller took it and we had no fridge and only found out after closing and my husband had been awake for 26 hours and was approaching homicidal maniac status and I could literally see him about to pop a blood vessel? No big deal. I handled it.
We found an entire wall full of water damage and rotted baseboards behind where the washer and dryer went and had to pay a plumber multiple hundreds of dollars to cut a hole in our garage wall and rip out the old plumbing and replace it with new plumbing just so we could hook up our washer and dryer? No big deal. I handled it.
We went to storage to get our bed only to realize that we had given it away when we sold our old house and then both forgot about it which meant we had no bed and would have to buy a mattress and box spring and frame before we could sleep in our new house? No big deal. I handled it.
The antique buffet belonging to my great-grandmother fell over on the trailer while we were moving it in the rain and nearly smashed the whole thing to toothpicks? No big deal. I handled it.
All of the furniture I ordered ended up being the wrong size and had to be returned and re-ordered and it took four trips to Target on the same day to get it all straight and I ended up crying in the customer service line because THE STRUGGLE IS SO VERY REAL and I won't have much in the house for weeks and I had my heart set on having it all done this week and patience is something I lack in a major way? No big deal. I handled it.
Pinocchio the elf came back from the North Pole and then I forgot TWICE to move him after the very first day and destroyed my perfect elf-moving record? No big deal. I handled it.
I was so tired on the first day after the holiday break that I drove all the way to where I used to work before I realized I DO NOT WORK THERE ANYMORE and turned around and drove to my actual job? No big deal. I handled it. (Read: I got Starbucks with a double shot for lunch. My brain and body and everything else are a million kinds of tired. Moving is for young people, and I'm not one of those people anymore.)
The Christmas tree didn't go up until Thanksgiving night and didn't get lights until last night and won't get ornaments until tonight when I let my girl loose with the decorating and try to not be so neurotic about the whole thing that I ruin the magic of Christmas and cause her to need additional therapy in addition to the damage I've already caused since I've realized that I can't do every single thing in a single day no matter how hard I try? No big deal. I'm handling it. (But know this - our Christmas tree will be up until at least February. Believe it.)
So as I was getting dressed for work yesterday (and by dressed I mean packing on the mascara and black eyeliner until you can no longer tell where the makeup ends and the dark circles begin) I was talking to my husband (and by talking I mean whining and bitching) about how I just didn't feel good and couldn't get over being so exhausted and was worried I had the flu and how do people move like this and not need a week in the hospital to recover when I had a horrible realization:
I COULD NOT REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I TOOK MY MEDS.
In my infinite wisdom (and by wisdom I mean lunacy) I apparently stashed all my meds somewhere SO I WOULD NOT LOSE THEM during the move and for the love of all things Target NOW THEY ARE LOST.
Not only did I not have a clue when I had last taken them, but NOW THEY ARE LOST.
Many tears and cuss words later, I called the pharmacy and was able to get refills for everything. Thankfully the universe took pity on me (and my poor husband) and I was due for refills anyway, so I didn't have to beg or yell or cuss to get the replacements. I finally got back on track and took everything last night, and with any luck I'll be human again in a day or two. The headaches and extreme tiredness and the apparent hole in my brain all make sense now. I was going through withdrawals! The big-mama-sized doses that I take of everything make it extremely ill-advised (and probably downright harmful) to just stop cold-turkey, but I don't think any permanent damage has been done.
And I didn't murder anyone, so that's a plus.
I was already more than a little impressed with myself for how well I handled all the bumps we encountered during the move, but now knowing that I handled it all WHILE OFF MY MEDS, I feel like I deserve a medal. Or the monogrammed wallet from Madewell that has had me drooling for a couple of months. (It'll be here in a week!) Then I realize how irresponsible - and dangerous - it was to lose track of taking my meds. Maybe I don't deserve that wallet after all. (Oops. Maybe I'll make myself wait a while before using it. Probably not, but it sounds good in theory.)
The thought that I managed as well as I did and maybe it was a clue I didn't need the meds anymore crossed my mind for about four seconds before I snapped back to my senses. I got lucky and didn't have a total meltdown, but it could have been so bad, y'all. I'm so grateful that it didn't go that way and that I've lived to tell the tale here instead of punching my ticket for another trip to the land of stick-less corn dogs and zip-tied tennis shoes.
In the grand scheme of things I think this hiccup can be filed under No Harm, No Foul (or Moving Sucks And Will Make You Lose The Marbles You Have Worked So Hard To Find). But the moral of the story is this: Don't be like me. Don't risk it. Don't lose track of something so vital to your sanity (or in my case, the lack thereof). I've gone back to my trusty phone alarm to remind me to take my meds every night at least until I get back into a routine.
One of the most dangerous tricks a bipolar mind can play is to make you think that you're doing so well that you don't need the meds anymore. Back in the days of shame and embarrassment I loved to daydream about the day that I would wake up and not need my meds anymore (You know - when I wasn't daydreaming about the day I wouldn't wake up at all.). I was delusional. I'll always need my meds, and the combination that's working so well for me right now probably won't work forever. That's just my reality. This roller coaster isn't one that has a stopping point, and I'm still learning to live with that realization every day. The anxiety that accompanies that thought is something I still struggle with on the regular, and that's okay. It's allowed. Navigating life with a mental illness is a lot of trial and error (which is really true for anyone if you stop to think about it), and that's okay too. I'll keep going for now with what works, and when it doesn't work anymore we'll recalibrate and move right along.
xo.
Our house is going to be absolutely precious when we finally get it put together. For now, though, it's a gigantic mess. I've done my best to be calm, cool, and collected throughout the entire fiasco, and I haven't done a bad job.
The proverbial wheels fell off the proverbial bus more than a couple of times (It would be more accurate to say that the proverbial bus drove off a proverbial cliff and burst into proverbial flames while hurtling down into a proverbial ravine. But I digress.), and I was more than a little shocked each time that I kept it together.
The refrigerator was supposed to stay with the house but the seller took it and we had no fridge and only found out after closing and my husband had been awake for 26 hours and was approaching homicidal maniac status and I could literally see him about to pop a blood vessel? No big deal. I handled it.
We found an entire wall full of water damage and rotted baseboards behind where the washer and dryer went and had to pay a plumber multiple hundreds of dollars to cut a hole in our garage wall and rip out the old plumbing and replace it with new plumbing just so we could hook up our washer and dryer? No big deal. I handled it.
We went to storage to get our bed only to realize that we had given it away when we sold our old house and then both forgot about it which meant we had no bed and would have to buy a mattress and box spring and frame before we could sleep in our new house? No big deal. I handled it.
The antique buffet belonging to my great-grandmother fell over on the trailer while we were moving it in the rain and nearly smashed the whole thing to toothpicks? No big deal. I handled it.
All of the furniture I ordered ended up being the wrong size and had to be returned and re-ordered and it took four trips to Target on the same day to get it all straight and I ended up crying in the customer service line because THE STRUGGLE IS SO VERY REAL and I won't have much in the house for weeks and I had my heart set on having it all done this week and patience is something I lack in a major way? No big deal. I handled it.
Pinocchio the elf came back from the North Pole and then I forgot TWICE to move him after the very first day and destroyed my perfect elf-moving record? No big deal. I handled it.
I was so tired on the first day after the holiday break that I drove all the way to where I used to work before I realized I DO NOT WORK THERE ANYMORE and turned around and drove to my actual job? No big deal. I handled it. (Read: I got Starbucks with a double shot for lunch. My brain and body and everything else are a million kinds of tired. Moving is for young people, and I'm not one of those people anymore.)
The Christmas tree didn't go up until Thanksgiving night and didn't get lights until last night and won't get ornaments until tonight when I let my girl loose with the decorating and try to not be so neurotic about the whole thing that I ruin the magic of Christmas and cause her to need additional therapy in addition to the damage I've already caused since I've realized that I can't do every single thing in a single day no matter how hard I try? No big deal. I'm handling it. (But know this - our Christmas tree will be up until at least February. Believe it.)
So as I was getting dressed for work yesterday (and by dressed I mean packing on the mascara and black eyeliner until you can no longer tell where the makeup ends and the dark circles begin) I was talking to my husband (and by talking I mean whining and bitching) about how I just didn't feel good and couldn't get over being so exhausted and was worried I had the flu and how do people move like this and not need a week in the hospital to recover when I had a horrible realization:
I COULD NOT REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I TOOK MY MEDS.
In my infinite wisdom (and by wisdom I mean lunacy) I apparently stashed all my meds somewhere SO I WOULD NOT LOSE THEM during the move and for the love of all things Target NOW THEY ARE LOST.
Not only did I not have a clue when I had last taken them, but NOW THEY ARE LOST.
Many tears and cuss words later, I called the pharmacy and was able to get refills for everything. Thankfully the universe took pity on me (and my poor husband) and I was due for refills anyway, so I didn't have to beg or yell or cuss to get the replacements. I finally got back on track and took everything last night, and with any luck I'll be human again in a day or two. The headaches and extreme tiredness and the apparent hole in my brain all make sense now. I was going through withdrawals! The big-mama-sized doses that I take of everything make it extremely ill-advised (and probably downright harmful) to just stop cold-turkey, but I don't think any permanent damage has been done.
And I didn't murder anyone, so that's a plus.
I was already more than a little impressed with myself for how well I handled all the bumps we encountered during the move, but now knowing that I handled it all WHILE OFF MY MEDS, I feel like I deserve a medal. Or the monogrammed wallet from Madewell that has had me drooling for a couple of months. (It'll be here in a week!) Then I realize how irresponsible - and dangerous - it was to lose track of taking my meds. Maybe I don't deserve that wallet after all. (Oops. Maybe I'll make myself wait a while before using it. Probably not, but it sounds good in theory.)
The thought that I managed as well as I did and maybe it was a clue I didn't need the meds anymore crossed my mind for about four seconds before I snapped back to my senses. I got lucky and didn't have a total meltdown, but it could have been so bad, y'all. I'm so grateful that it didn't go that way and that I've lived to tell the tale here instead of punching my ticket for another trip to the land of stick-less corn dogs and zip-tied tennis shoes.
In the grand scheme of things I think this hiccup can be filed under No Harm, No Foul (or Moving Sucks And Will Make You Lose The Marbles You Have Worked So Hard To Find). But the moral of the story is this: Don't be like me. Don't risk it. Don't lose track of something so vital to your sanity (or in my case, the lack thereof). I've gone back to my trusty phone alarm to remind me to take my meds every night at least until I get back into a routine.
One of the most dangerous tricks a bipolar mind can play is to make you think that you're doing so well that you don't need the meds anymore. Back in the days of shame and embarrassment I loved to daydream about the day that I would wake up and not need my meds anymore (You know - when I wasn't daydreaming about the day I wouldn't wake up at all.). I was delusional. I'll always need my meds, and the combination that's working so well for me right now probably won't work forever. That's just my reality. This roller coaster isn't one that has a stopping point, and I'm still learning to live with that realization every day. The anxiety that accompanies that thought is something I still struggle with on the regular, and that's okay. It's allowed. Navigating life with a mental illness is a lot of trial and error (which is really true for anyone if you stop to think about it), and that's okay too. I'll keep going for now with what works, and when it doesn't work anymore we'll recalibrate and move right along.
xo.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
this is not a gallon of milk.
{This post was actually written a few days ago. I promise I really do know what day it is - most of the time.}
It's Tuesday, it's raining, my ponytail is flat, it's exactly six days until we close on our house (which means my anxiety is in warp-speed-overdrive-murder-death-kill mode), and it's red-alert-level PMS up in here. (You're welcome for that last little nugget of honesty.)
I feel like I could go commit a crime today and then present that first sentence as my defense and end up walking out of the courtroom with the Court's most sincere apology and a gift card to Starbucks.
But really - being the weirdo that I am, I've often joked (see also: legit wondered) about whether or not my psychiatric history/medication roster would be enough to get me sent away to a psych ward as opposed to prison. You know - in the event that I really did commit a crime. It's not like becoming a felon is on my goal sheet or anything, but I've watched enough Snapped and Criminal Minds and How to Get Away With Murder that it got me to wondering. (Lawyer friends - would that count as premeditation? See! I can't stop!)
Seriously though - I feel a bit (actually a lot) like I'm walking a tight rope this week. I looked myself in the mirror this morning and told myself out loud that we (as in - me, myself, and my issues) do not under any circumstances have time for a nervous breakdown this week. I just hope they all listened.
So I sounded the alarm at home to warn my people that I'm out on the ledge this week. I'm on the verge of something - but I'm not quite sure what. This could go any number of ways. If the dam were to break, I truly don't know what would be on the other side. It could be tears. It could be rage. It could be mania accompanied by irrational, erratic, and impulsive behaviors/thoughts/outbursts. It could be a round of depression dark enough to cast a pall over everything. I really have no idea.
Not knowing what each day (or sometimes each minute) may bring is one of the scariest parts of being bipolar, especially for this control freak. I once took an intro to philosophy class in college, and all of the That Than Which Nothing Greater Can Be Thought and relative being junk made me furious. This business major wanted NONE of that. It was seriously the longest semester of my life. This feeling feels a lot like that. I hate it now just as much as I hated it then.
I was having this conversation with an individual who is to remain nameless when she asked me how long I thought I would be like this. Figuring she meant how long would I be even more nuts than usual, I cracked a joke about feeling better when I'm not homeless anymore. (To clarify: We are not homeless. We've been living with family for a while and just bought a house. We move in next week. Wheeeee!)
But I was mistaken.
She looked at me weird and said, "No seriously. How long are you going to be like this? Are you going to have to keep taking medicine forever? Will you not ever learn to control it on your own?"
Oh honey. Bless her heart.
To say that I thoughtfully considered her question and then calmly told her that mental illness doesn't really work that way would be a lie. I burst into hot, angry, indignant tears. Through choked sobs I explained (see also: wailed) that I'm not a gallon of milk. Being bipolar doesn't have an expiration date. I won't wake up one day and no longer need my medicine. And for her (and your {and anyone else who wants to effing know}) information, I am going to be like this forever. I am going to keep taking medicine forever. I am controlling it.
I'm choosing to wallow in the bout of depression brought on by that little encounter longer than I probably should. I'm fighting the triggers that always surface. I'm fighting the urge to spiral out of control and crawl under my covers and never come out. I'm fighting the temptation to feel sorry for myself and be hateful to anyone who tries to talk me out of it. I'm fighting the nagging want to take a double dose of my anxiety meds and then sleep through the rest of today and tomorrow and maybe the day after that. I'm fighting myself.
I'll get it together and feel better at some point, but it won't be today. I'm sad today. I'm edgy today. I'm pissed today. I'm self-righteous today. And I'm fine with it today.
Take this how you will, but I appreciate the dark days sometimes. It lets me know I'm still in here. I like knowing I'm not lost in a sea of drugs and that all of my sharp edges haven't been dulled to nothing. That would suck.
So I'll stay out here on the ledge until I'm ready to go in. I'll do the best I can not to break anything or anyone or make any messes. I'll try not to lose my mind every time I feel like I could. I'll ride out the storm that no one else can see. (And I promise - I'll ask for help if it gets too rough.)
With any luck, the body count will be low.
xo.
{Edited to add: Me, myself, and my issues did NOT listen to the warning they were issued. I won't bore you with the details of exactly who did what and why the who did the what that almost caused me to scream and cry and do ALL OF THE THINGS, but we survived it. Barely. There will be mass casualties in the calorie department tonight, but it is what it is. Like I always say ... It could be worse. I could be addicted to heroin.}
It's Tuesday, it's raining, my ponytail is flat, it's exactly six days until we close on our house (which means my anxiety is in warp-speed-overdrive-murder-death-kill mode), and it's red-alert-level PMS up in here. (You're welcome for that last little nugget of honesty.)
I feel like I could go commit a crime today and then present that first sentence as my defense and end up walking out of the courtroom with the Court's most sincere apology and a gift card to Starbucks.
But really - being the weirdo that I am, I've often joked (see also: legit wondered) about whether or not my psychiatric history/medication roster would be enough to get me sent away to a psych ward as opposed to prison. You know - in the event that I really did commit a crime. It's not like becoming a felon is on my goal sheet or anything, but I've watched enough Snapped and Criminal Minds and How to Get Away With Murder that it got me to wondering. (Lawyer friends - would that count as premeditation? See! I can't stop!)
Seriously though - I feel a bit (actually a lot) like I'm walking a tight rope this week. I looked myself in the mirror this morning and told myself out loud that we (as in - me, myself, and my issues) do not under any circumstances have time for a nervous breakdown this week. I just hope they all listened.
So I sounded the alarm at home to warn my people that I'm out on the ledge this week. I'm on the verge of something - but I'm not quite sure what. This could go any number of ways. If the dam were to break, I truly don't know what would be on the other side. It could be tears. It could be rage. It could be mania accompanied by irrational, erratic, and impulsive behaviors/thoughts/outbursts. It could be a round of depression dark enough to cast a pall over everything. I really have no idea.
Not knowing what each day (or sometimes each minute) may bring is one of the scariest parts of being bipolar, especially for this control freak. I once took an intro to philosophy class in college, and all of the That Than Which Nothing Greater Can Be Thought and relative being junk made me furious. This business major wanted NONE of that. It was seriously the longest semester of my life. This feeling feels a lot like that. I hate it now just as much as I hated it then.
I was having this conversation with an individual who is to remain nameless when she asked me how long I thought I would be like this. Figuring she meant how long would I be even more nuts than usual, I cracked a joke about feeling better when I'm not homeless anymore. (To clarify: We are not homeless. We've been living with family for a while and just bought a house. We move in next week. Wheeeee!)
But I was mistaken.
She looked at me weird and said, "No seriously. How long are you going to be like this? Are you going to have to keep taking medicine forever? Will you not ever learn to control it on your own?"
Oh honey. Bless her heart.
To say that I thoughtfully considered her question and then calmly told her that mental illness doesn't really work that way would be a lie. I burst into hot, angry, indignant tears. Through choked sobs I explained (see also: wailed) that I'm not a gallon of milk. Being bipolar doesn't have an expiration date. I won't wake up one day and no longer need my medicine. And for her (and your {and anyone else who wants to effing know}) information, I am going to be like this forever. I am going to keep taking medicine forever. I am controlling it.
I'm choosing to wallow in the bout of depression brought on by that little encounter longer than I probably should. I'm fighting the triggers that always surface. I'm fighting the urge to spiral out of control and crawl under my covers and never come out. I'm fighting the temptation to feel sorry for myself and be hateful to anyone who tries to talk me out of it. I'm fighting the nagging want to take a double dose of my anxiety meds and then sleep through the rest of today and tomorrow and maybe the day after that. I'm fighting myself.
I'll get it together and feel better at some point, but it won't be today. I'm sad today. I'm edgy today. I'm pissed today. I'm self-righteous today. And I'm fine with it today.
Take this how you will, but I appreciate the dark days sometimes. It lets me know I'm still in here. I like knowing I'm not lost in a sea of drugs and that all of my sharp edges haven't been dulled to nothing. That would suck.
So I'll stay out here on the ledge until I'm ready to go in. I'll do the best I can not to break anything or anyone or make any messes. I'll try not to lose my mind every time I feel like I could. I'll ride out the storm that no one else can see. (And I promise - I'll ask for help if it gets too rough.)
With any luck, the body count will be low.
xo.
{Edited to add: Me, myself, and my issues did NOT listen to the warning they were issued. I won't bore you with the details of exactly who did what and why the who did the what that almost caused me to scream and cry and do ALL OF THE THINGS, but we survived it. Barely. There will be mass casualties in the calorie department tonight, but it is what it is. Like I always say ... It could be worse. I could be addicted to heroin.}
Sunday, November 15, 2015
i'm not ashamed, but maybe you should be.
There are some things I just can't stand.
I can't stand mayonnaise. It's disgusting. I am definitely judging you if you eat it in my presence. And if you let it touch my food, we can't be friends anymore.
I can't stand smacking. PEOPLE. Chew. With. Your. Mouth. Closed. (Dear Husband and Daughter, I know you find it hilarious to smack when I'm around, and all I can say is that you are risking your personal safety and the safety of those around you by doing so. Scary Mommy will show up, and I can't make any guarantees as to what she will or won't do.)
I can't stand wire hangers. Joan absolutely got this one right (except for the whole child abuse thing). NO. WIRE. HANGERS.
I can't stand the feeling of pantyhose. My skin literally starts to crawl. Team leggings forever.
I can't stand stepping in something wet when I'm wearing socks. BLIND RAGE AND KILL ALL THE THINGS.
I can't stand lip gloss. Especially the sparkly, super-sticky kind sold in the make-up kits that grandparents/aunts/uncles/friends without kids just love to buy. (We get it, Grands. It's your revenge. But know that I am absolutely throwing it all away the minute she isn't looking and then denying the deed until the day I die.) I know my fellow Girl Mamas will understand this one.
I can't stand scuffing the toes or heels of a pair of shoes. It makes me insane. (No comments needed from the peanut gallery on this one.) OCD much? My first instinct is to toss anything with even the teeniest imperfection and go buy a new one, but that's not really a reasonable course of action. (Thank goodness that's not what my people decided to do with ME when they discovered my imperfections. I'd have been at the bottom of a landfill years ago.) So instead, I carry black and brown sharpies in my purse just for touch-ups. (I also do the same for pedicures. Don't y'all?)
I can't stand people who are perpetually peppy and go all Pollyanna on me all the time. (You've heard me rant about this before, and if you stick around, you'll likely hear me rant about it again at some point.) I can rationally understand that things could always be worse, and I can rationally understand that many, many people are struggling with demons much more complicated than my own, but when you are telling me to 'be thankful' that I am 'just' bipolar or 'just' depressed in the hopes that I'll 'cheer up' or 'get over' whatever is weighing on me at the moment? Yeah I pretty much take that as you telling me that my struggle isn't a valid one. I take that as you telling me that what's wrong with me isn't significant.
As much as it pains me to say, I am aware, in fact, that the universe does not actually revolve around me. But consistently suggesting that I 'look on the bright side' (or whatever inane metaphor you're choosing to employ at that moment) will only isolate me. It will only make me feel unimportant and marginalized, and no matter how good your intentions may have been, it will only make me worse.
Let me stop now to say that my intent is not to throw barbs at those who love me enough or are concerned enough to speak up and try to pull me out of my black hole. Such is not the case. I'm just being honest. And that's allowed.
I learned in treatment that it's okay to tell people what helps and what hurts, and that I don't have to be ashamed of it. I also like to say things like "I learned in treatment..." because I think it sounds serious, and bipolar depression is serious.
So while The List of Things That Make Jill Stabby could go on (and on and on and on and on and on) and on, it's this last one that's really ugly:
I can't stand the stigma and the truly unnecessary shame that too often accompany mental illness.
For a while I participated in both. I was angry and embarrassed and would have rather died (And I almost did.) than for anyone to know that I was diagnosed with a mental illness. I wanted to cry (And I did.) every time I picked up my meds when the pharmacist would read the labels to verify I was getting the right ones. I lied about why I was going to the doctor. I canceled therapy appointments and drove around town instead so no one would see my (monogrammed, DUH) car parked in a therapist's parking lot.
I allowed myself to believe that I was worthless. I allowed myself to believe that mine was a made-up illness that a 'normal' person could just 'snap out of' and 'deal with.' I allowed myself to believe that the best way to handle my diagnosis was to hide it. I allowed myself to believe that I should be humiliated by and ashamed of my illness.
I allowed myself to be an idiot.
I don't allow myself to be those things anymore.
That was Step One. Learning to be okay with not being okay took a long time. There are still days that I'm not so good at it, but for the most part I can manage.
I wouldn't be embarrassed to take the necessary drugs to treat a diagnosed condition in my heart or my kidneys or my arm, and I am no longer embarrassed to take the necessary drugs to treat a diagnosed condition in my brain.
That thought and $5 will get me a Pumpkin Spice Latte (except I don't like PSL even a little bit).
It's widely known that I am an avid over-sharer. And there is very little material that is off-limits, including mental illness. It doesn't bother me to talk about my issues or what kind of hell I lived through for so long.
I want people to know that if I can survive those days, so can you. I want people to know that there is no such thing as a lost cause. I want people to know even the darkest, most desperate depression can be manageable. I want people to know how proud I am of myself for first admitting that I just wanted to give up and die and then for not just giving up and dying. Whether or not you realize it, that was hard, y'all. It's still hard, and it's still something I think about every day.
The unfortunate thing is that mental illness isn't a very socially acceptable topic of conversation. It blows my mind (and turns my stomach) that some people don't mind talking about whatever growth/boil/cyst Aunt Martha had to have removed/lanced/drained but then get uncomfortable talking about mental health.
It's dumb. I'm not ashamed to talk, so why should anyone else be ashamed to listen?
I'm fortunate that my people don't feel this way; that or they're just really good fakers.
The shame associated with mental health issues will only last as long as the stigma that accompanies them. Don't be dumb, y'all. Sometimes all you have to do is listen, and it could save someone's life. You never know - you may even find yourself part of a conversation that could change your life too. Just keep an open mind. Realize the guts it takes to start one of those conversations and respect the person sharing it with you. If that's not something you can do, then you are the one who should be ashamed.
xo.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
it's been a year.
Today is November 10.
Today I woke up around 6:30, got dressed for work in my Basic White Girl uniform (boots, scarf, cardigan, DUH) while listening to Christmas music (DUH), convinced (see also: bribed) my girl to wear something monogrammed, put her hair up in a bun for dance today, made coffee in my favorite Bye Felicia mug, dropped my girl off at school, stopped at Sonic for my usual Diet Dr. Pepper (Haters gonna hate. I don't need any lectures here, people. Like I say when it comes to my many other addictions {i.e. Sharpies, Target, monograms, DUH}- It could be worse. I could be addicted to heroin.), and drove to work with my sunroof open and my Michael Buble Christmas playlist turned up loud enough for all of Richmond Road to hear.
Today I worked on typical Tuesday things (I have finally found my niche in accounting and I l-o-v-e it. Matching invoices to purchase orders is my jam. Seriously.), laughed with my co-workers who have totally learned to live with my crazy, grabbed lunch with my husband, made a few more to-do lists for the move to our new house in a couple of weeks, picked up my girl from dance, and came home to my favorite guy, my favorite pjs, my favorite blanket, and my favorite book. Today has been a good day.
Today I can't help but think of how much has changed since last November 10.
It's been a year since I woke up with the depressed realization that I had indeed woken up. It's been a year since I cried at the thought of having to get up, get dressed for work, get my girl dressed, and get us both to school. It's been a year since I felt panicked at the thought of, well, everything. It's been a year since I spent the entire morning planning how to commit suicide. It's been a year since I sat in my doctor's office after school and cried to her that I wanted to kill myself because there just wasn't any other way. It's been a year since she told me the only other thing she knew to try was an inpatient facility. It's been a year since I tearfully agreed with her and packed a bag for what I thought would be a 72-hour stay to adjust my meds. It's been a year since I walked into what felt like a prison and screamed and cried and begged my mom and sister not to just leave me there. It's been a year since I cried myself to sleep without a pillow (since I was a suicide risk) on a plastic mattress in a sterile hospital room while nurses came in every fifteen minutes (since I was a suicide risk) to shine a light in my eyes and make sure I was still breathing. It's been a year since I was admitted to a 'unit' and given a 'number' - both of which felt much more like a prison than a hospital.
It's been a year.
It's been a year, and I'm still very much bipolar.
It's been a year, and I'm still very much struggling with depression.
But that's okay.
It's been a year, and I'm okay.
I take my meds, I check in with my doctor, and I see my counselor. I know my triggers, and I know (for the most part) how to cope with them.
I'm not afraid to call my doctor and tell her when I don't feel like I'm managing well enough, and I'm not afraid to admit when I need help making it through the days. I'm not afraid to tell someone when I'm not okay, and I'm not afraid of what that may or may not say about me.
I'm not afraid to make changes. I had to be brutally honest with myself and admit that I was unhappy in my old job. Massively unhappy to be precise. My heart wasn't there anymore, and both those kids and I deserved better. I deserved to have a job that didn't reduce me to tears every morning when it was time to go to work, and those kids deserved to have a teacher that was more equipped to handle the great responsibilities that come with that classroom.
I was afraid for so long that admitting I was unhappy as a teacher would make me a failure. I was afraid that it would mean that I wasn't good enough. Those fears fed into a defensiveness that only compounded how I felt and began to color my relationship with my co-workers, my administrators, and my students. Staying would have only been even more of an injustice to all of us. The brutal truth is that I was in no shape to take care of myself, much less 25 little people who needed as much emotional support as they did academic instruction.
So I turned in my notice that the end of the school year would be the end of my teaching career. And it felt wonderful. And that's okay.
I'm not afraid to tell you that I don't have it all together, and I'm not afraid to tell you that I'm not fixed. I won't ever be fixed, but I will be - I am - better than I was.
I would be lying if I said that the thoughts I used to have don't creep in every once in a while. They do. But then they leave - because I make the choice for them to leave. I make the choice to change my mind, and then I'm okay. And if I'm not okay, I just keep working at it until I am or I ask for help.
Today is November 10, and I am thankful to be here sharing these rambling thoughts with you instead of sobbing in my hospital room.
Today is November 10, and I am thankful to be alive.
Today is November 10, and I hope these words will find someone who needs them as desperately as I needed them a year ago (and to be honest - as much as I still need them now).
Today is November 10, and unlike last year (and again to be honest - several years before that), I am looking forward to November 11.
Today is November 10, and life is good.
xo.
Today I woke up around 6:30, got dressed for work in my Basic White Girl uniform (boots, scarf, cardigan, DUH) while listening to Christmas music (DUH), convinced (see also: bribed) my girl to wear something monogrammed, put her hair up in a bun for dance today, made coffee in my favorite Bye Felicia mug, dropped my girl off at school, stopped at Sonic for my usual Diet Dr. Pepper (Haters gonna hate. I don't need any lectures here, people. Like I say when it comes to my many other addictions {i.e. Sharpies, Target, monograms, DUH}- It could be worse. I could be addicted to heroin.), and drove to work with my sunroof open and my Michael Buble Christmas playlist turned up loud enough for all of Richmond Road to hear.
Today I worked on typical Tuesday things (I have finally found my niche in accounting and I l-o-v-e it. Matching invoices to purchase orders is my jam. Seriously.), laughed with my co-workers who have totally learned to live with my crazy, grabbed lunch with my husband, made a few more to-do lists for the move to our new house in a couple of weeks, picked up my girl from dance, and came home to my favorite guy, my favorite pjs, my favorite blanket, and my favorite book. Today has been a good day.
Today I can't help but think of how much has changed since last November 10.
It's been a year since I woke up with the depressed realization that I had indeed woken up. It's been a year since I cried at the thought of having to get up, get dressed for work, get my girl dressed, and get us both to school. It's been a year since I felt panicked at the thought of, well, everything. It's been a year since I spent the entire morning planning how to commit suicide. It's been a year since I sat in my doctor's office after school and cried to her that I wanted to kill myself because there just wasn't any other way. It's been a year since she told me the only other thing she knew to try was an inpatient facility. It's been a year since I tearfully agreed with her and packed a bag for what I thought would be a 72-hour stay to adjust my meds. It's been a year since I walked into what felt like a prison and screamed and cried and begged my mom and sister not to just leave me there. It's been a year since I cried myself to sleep without a pillow (since I was a suicide risk) on a plastic mattress in a sterile hospital room while nurses came in every fifteen minutes (since I was a suicide risk) to shine a light in my eyes and make sure I was still breathing. It's been a year since I was admitted to a 'unit' and given a 'number' - both of which felt much more like a prison than a hospital.
It's been a year.
It's been a year, and I'm still very much bipolar.
It's been a year, and I'm still very much struggling with depression.
But that's okay.
It's been a year, and I'm okay.
I take my meds, I check in with my doctor, and I see my counselor. I know my triggers, and I know (for the most part) how to cope with them.
I'm not afraid to call my doctor and tell her when I don't feel like I'm managing well enough, and I'm not afraid to admit when I need help making it through the days. I'm not afraid to tell someone when I'm not okay, and I'm not afraid of what that may or may not say about me.
I'm not afraid to make changes. I had to be brutally honest with myself and admit that I was unhappy in my old job. Massively unhappy to be precise. My heart wasn't there anymore, and both those kids and I deserved better. I deserved to have a job that didn't reduce me to tears every morning when it was time to go to work, and those kids deserved to have a teacher that was more equipped to handle the great responsibilities that come with that classroom.
I was afraid for so long that admitting I was unhappy as a teacher would make me a failure. I was afraid that it would mean that I wasn't good enough. Those fears fed into a defensiveness that only compounded how I felt and began to color my relationship with my co-workers, my administrators, and my students. Staying would have only been even more of an injustice to all of us. The brutal truth is that I was in no shape to take care of myself, much less 25 little people who needed as much emotional support as they did academic instruction.
So I turned in my notice that the end of the school year would be the end of my teaching career. And it felt wonderful. And that's okay.
I'm not afraid to tell you that I don't have it all together, and I'm not afraid to tell you that I'm not fixed. I won't ever be fixed, but I will be - I am - better than I was.
I would be lying if I said that the thoughts I used to have don't creep in every once in a while. They do. But then they leave - because I make the choice for them to leave. I make the choice to change my mind, and then I'm okay. And if I'm not okay, I just keep working at it until I am or I ask for help.
Today is November 10, and I am thankful to be here sharing these rambling thoughts with you instead of sobbing in my hospital room.
Today is November 10, and I am thankful to be alive.
Today is November 10, and I hope these words will find someone who needs them as desperately as I needed them a year ago (and to be honest - as much as I still need them now).
Today is November 10, and unlike last year (and again to be honest - several years before that), I am looking forward to November 11.
Today is November 10, and life is good.
xo.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
was i a sociopath?
I love a good dose of the socially deviant and mentally disturbed.
The First 48 is my jam. Dead Again and Intervention are way up there too - along with Stalker, Criminal Minds, The Killing, The Following ... and the list goes on. I am completely fascinated by psychopaths and true crime stories. It's nice to see that there are actually people out there more messed up than I am (even if they're fictional). Rainbows and sunshine make me angry - that's not life. Watching or reading the sweet and sappy stuff legit turns my stomach. It's not an accurate portrayal of how the world usually works, and all the happily ever afters only make me feel like even more of a pariah. (I say that while I'm sitting here watching You've Got Mail for the thousandth time. There is an exception to most every rule, and that's mine. Thou shall not speak ill of the greatest movie ever made while in my presence.)
When I was in the throes of being The Most Unhinged Person Who Ever Lived (more like when I was out of my effing mind), I didn't care about anyone or anything but myself. And to be fair, I don't think I really cared about me either. There were exactly two people I worried about hurting: my girl and my grandmother. My adorable S didn't do anything to deserve a loser of a mom, and I wanted to die (Not exaggerating here. Not even a little bit.) at the thought of setting her on a path to turn out like me. I couldn't bear the thought. My grandmother loves me unconditionally and has been my biggest fan since forever. I would walk through fire for either one of them and would do anything to protect them both - including protecting them from me. But it stopped there.
The effects I had on anyone else were totally immaterial to me. I wasn't blind to it - I saw the damage I was doing, but there was a disconnect somewhere between the knowledge and understanding and the part of me that should have been ripped to shreds about it. I felt plenty of guilt, but it always came too late. It was never the kind of guilt that was rooted in sincerity or remorse - it was the kind that was really just because I got caught. I hated the mess I made, and I always promised to clean it up and to never let it happen again. I always did my best to keep that promise - for a little while at least. I minded my manners and behaved myself and did exactly what everyone else wanted me to do until the storm blew over enough for me to gradually slip back into my comfort zone and get back to my old tricks. I'd be really conscientious at first and work really hard at keeping myself in check, but that would soon start to fade along with the guilt. Then the whole sick roller coaster started all over again. Each successive trip down that highway to hell did more damage than the last, and it was progressively harder to dig out from under the debris each time it happened. I never really cared; I wasn't paying any attention to the cumulative stresses I kept putting on my relationships. I knew it would all catch up to me eventually, but I was such a narcissist that I figured I could say some pretty words and cry some pitiful tears and make it all go away.
The only thing that really ever bothered me about the way I behaved and the way I treated the people who loved me was what would happen if someone found out - As long as people thought I was a good person then it didn't really matter if I was or not, right? I was the Queen Mother Hypocrite Emeritus - or something like that. I could lecture kids about integrity and honesty all day long and keep a straight face the whole time. There was zero reconciliation happening in my head. I was awesome at totally compartmentalizing my emotions (or lack thereof) and very rarely felt conflicted. When I finally hit a wall and checked into the hospital, I was forced to unpack every sin and every dirty little secret I had locked away so tightly.
The grief and the guilt and the humiliation started pouring out everywhere. The misery hung heavily around my shoulders and forced the air out of my chest. I was buried under an avalanche of sadness and remorse that morphed into hatred and disgust. I wanted to die - not because I was too sad to live but because I was such a sad (as in, pathetic), sorry (as in, waste of space) piece of trash. I didn't deserve to come out on the other side. I didn't deserve to get my life back. I didn't deserve to get my people back. I didn't deserve anything except to be drawn and quartered in a public place. I couldn't look at my own face in the mirror without wanting to put my fist squarely in the middle of it.
I'm more than making up for the lack of guilt and sincerity I never felt before because I was too self-absorbed to see past the end of my own nose. I hope it's true that I'll come out stronger on the other side, because right now I feel like I'm suffocating.
xo.
The First 48 is my jam. Dead Again and Intervention are way up there too - along with Stalker, Criminal Minds, The Killing, The Following ... and the list goes on. I am completely fascinated by psychopaths and true crime stories. It's nice to see that there are actually people out there more messed up than I am (even if they're fictional). Rainbows and sunshine make me angry - that's not life. Watching or reading the sweet and sappy stuff legit turns my stomach. It's not an accurate portrayal of how the world usually works, and all the happily ever afters only make me feel like even more of a pariah. (I say that while I'm sitting here watching You've Got Mail for the thousandth time. There is an exception to most every rule, and that's mine. Thou shall not speak ill of the greatest movie ever made while in my presence.)
When I was in the throes of being The Most Unhinged Person Who Ever Lived (more like when I was out of my effing mind), I didn't care about anyone or anything but myself. And to be fair, I don't think I really cared about me either. There were exactly two people I worried about hurting: my girl and my grandmother. My adorable S didn't do anything to deserve a loser of a mom, and I wanted to die (Not exaggerating here. Not even a little bit.) at the thought of setting her on a path to turn out like me. I couldn't bear the thought. My grandmother loves me unconditionally and has been my biggest fan since forever. I would walk through fire for either one of them and would do anything to protect them both - including protecting them from me. But it stopped there.
The effects I had on anyone else were totally immaterial to me. I wasn't blind to it - I saw the damage I was doing, but there was a disconnect somewhere between the knowledge and understanding and the part of me that should have been ripped to shreds about it. I felt plenty of guilt, but it always came too late. It was never the kind of guilt that was rooted in sincerity or remorse - it was the kind that was really just because I got caught. I hated the mess I made, and I always promised to clean it up and to never let it happen again. I always did my best to keep that promise - for a little while at least. I minded my manners and behaved myself and did exactly what everyone else wanted me to do until the storm blew over enough for me to gradually slip back into my comfort zone and get back to my old tricks. I'd be really conscientious at first and work really hard at keeping myself in check, but that would soon start to fade along with the guilt. Then the whole sick roller coaster started all over again. Each successive trip down that highway to hell did more damage than the last, and it was progressively harder to dig out from under the debris each time it happened. I never really cared; I wasn't paying any attention to the cumulative stresses I kept putting on my relationships. I knew it would all catch up to me eventually, but I was such a narcissist that I figured I could say some pretty words and cry some pitiful tears and make it all go away.
The only thing that really ever bothered me about the way I behaved and the way I treated the people who loved me was what would happen if someone found out - As long as people thought I was a good person then it didn't really matter if I was or not, right? I was the Queen Mother Hypocrite Emeritus - or something like that. I could lecture kids about integrity and honesty all day long and keep a straight face the whole time. There was zero reconciliation happening in my head. I was awesome at totally compartmentalizing my emotions (or lack thereof) and very rarely felt conflicted. When I finally hit a wall and checked into the hospital, I was forced to unpack every sin and every dirty little secret I had locked away so tightly.
The grief and the guilt and the humiliation started pouring out everywhere. The misery hung heavily around my shoulders and forced the air out of my chest. I was buried under an avalanche of sadness and remorse that morphed into hatred and disgust. I wanted to die - not because I was too sad to live but because I was such a sad (as in, pathetic), sorry (as in, waste of space) piece of trash. I didn't deserve to come out on the other side. I didn't deserve to get my life back. I didn't deserve to get my people back. I didn't deserve anything except to be drawn and quartered in a public place. I couldn't look at my own face in the mirror without wanting to put my fist squarely in the middle of it.
I'm more than making up for the lack of guilt and sincerity I never felt before because I was too self-absorbed to see past the end of my own nose. I hope it's true that I'll come out stronger on the other side, because right now I feel like I'm suffocating.
xo.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
i had a point - i promise.
I really hated the time I spent in the hospital in November. I really loved it too. In the end the good outweighed the bad by a long shot. Most of the aggravations were superficial - no hair dryer, no bobby pins, no hairspray, no makeup, no razors, no cell phone ... ohhhh wait. Let's go ahead and move each of those on over to the win column.
Except maybe the lack of Instagram. I did truly miss whiling away my day scrolling (creeping?) through everyone's filtered offerings. There's no telling how many photos of pumpkin spice lattes and riding boots and Zara scarves I missed. It was like a little piece of my basic white girl soul died that week. As soon as I got my discharge papers and was allowed to go get my stuff (contraband the nurses took away from me when I checked in) out of the locked storage room, I fired up my phone and went straight for Instagram. Seriously. I let the 500+ emails gather a little more dust and was tempted to delete the 200+ text messages without even reading them (I didn't really need any fake well wishes from so-called satellite friends who heard where I was and were more interested in the gory details than how I was actually doing.), but there was no effing way I was letting another second go by before I got my Insta-fix.
Being forced to be still and spend the entire week focused on me and only me was glorious. I missed my people so much it hurt - I had never been away from my girl for that long, and it was the one thing that nearly took me out. I couldn't deal with it. It took me a couple of days before I could keep from sobbing uncontrollably every time I heard her voice. - but it was the first time in a long time (quite possibly the first time ever) that I quit giving a damn about anyone except myself. It was also nice to be the center of everyone else's attention for once. (Don't lie. We all want/need it at some point. I don't believe you if you say otherwise.) I relished the fact that everyone spent that week putting me first. I knew it wasn't a permanent state of affairs, but it was still nice.
I've mentioned before that coming off the high of being home and the holidays and the constant attention has been hard. Trying to find a happy medium will always be hard for me. Today I feel defeated and angry. I can't decide if it's directed at myself or if it's directed outward instead. The truth is that it's probably a little bit of both - whether it's justified or not.
I walked out of that hospital a different person. Everything about me changed. I've been holding onto that feeling with a death grip ever since because I'm so afraid of losing it. I don't want to end up back where I was then. I'm just not sure anyone else got that memo. Let me stop you before you start in on me with the lecture that only I am responsible for how I feel and that only I am responsible for my life and what happens in it and that no one can make me feel or do anything unless I allow it. My rational brain gets that. My rational brain knows it to be true. I'm just not in the mood to be rational right now.
During our family session and during our hour-long visits at night, my people were all asking what I needed from them. What did I need them to do to help me get better? What did I need them to change at home so I didn't feel so alone and isolated? What changes did we all need to make so my treatment and recovery could continue at home? What were they doing that was contributing to how I felt? How could they change it? What could they do better? I felt like I came home to a hero's welcome. Things were different. Things were better. They had actually listened to me. I felt like I could breathe at home. There had been some major changes to our living situation about six months before I lost my marbles; what started as minor kinks had morphed into full-blown rats' nests that were gnawing holes in my insides.
It's probably not realistic to expect them to feel as changed as I do. I get that, but it doesn't mean I'm still not wishing for it. Spare me all the rational, upbeat advice here. I'm deep into my own little bubble and plan to marinate here a little longer. I'm allowed. I don't really know where this post was supposed to go, but I'm pretty sure it's not there.
I'm afraid they're forgetting where we were - where I was - five short months ago. It terrifies me to think I could be headed back down that road to hell and the powerless feeling that comes with it. I don't feel like it's happening, but I know it can happen FAST. I wake up scared every day.
I didn't go to the hospital for a broken leg that heals and doesn't have to be treated ever again. I went to the hospital for something that can be managed and treated but never cured. I came out with a treatment plan that is permanent. I won't look up one day and be free of my issues. I won't ever leave it behind. I'm doing my best to manage my meds and maintain my mental health, but it's a struggle every single day.
I don't know how to start that conversation without coming across as an ungrateful bitch. I guess maybe I am an ungrateful bitch. I just feel like they forgot. And I'm scared to see where that road will take us. I hope and pray this is just another bout of me being overly dramatic and overly sensitive and not a gradual erosion of my progress that will end in a total bipolar crash and meltdown. Such is life, right?
xo
Thursday, March 5, 2015
raw.
Well it's snow day number three around these parts. In March. Which I can kind of appreciate. It seems Texas weather is also bipolar. I get it. And it oddly makes me feel like I'm not alone in the fight.
I'm not in the mood to craft a post today.
I'm not in the mood to pore over sentences and paragraphs until they're just right. I'm not in the mood to obsess over how many times I used the same word or how many sentences began the same way. I'm not in the mood to care about how polished or eloquent it sounds. I'm not in the mood to worry about whether or not anyone will be offended by what I say.
I'm just writing. I'm not entirely sure what I'm writing about or the direction I'm going. I'm just putting it all out there. Consider yourselves warned.
I checked into a hospital last fall. I've been mulling the best way to talk about it and really planned to write an insightful and witty recap that would be titled "a corn dog with no stick." Because when I was there that was one of the things they fed us for lunch. Corn dogs. With no sticks. Apparently those little wooden sticks were BIG violations - Contraband! - for psychiatric patients. It was both one of the funniest and one of the saddest moments of my entire stay. If I ever write a book (It's my dream.), I want the cover photo to be a half-burnt corn dog sans stick with a big glob of mustard. I can totally see it.
I was so unhinged that I was dangerous. My family and my doctor were clueless as to the next steps they should take. I was done living and done caring. I went to the doctor and she convinced me to self-admit.
It was the best and worst 10 days of my life all rolled into one. The culture shock of being admitted was the worst part. No makeup, no phone, no shoes with laces (unless I was willing to have the laces cut out and replaced with zip ties - BIG FAT NO - I opted for my Uggs for the entire stay. I just couldn't handle the zip ties. They were worse than the corn dogs without sticks.), no clothes with strings of any kind, no razor, no hair dryer, no bobby pins, no mechanical pencils (We could only use the tiny little golf pencils. They didn't even have erasers!), no outside food or drinks (The coffee was less than stellar, and the vending machines didn't have Sour Patch Kids. Bummer to say the least.), and for the first night, no pillow. I sobbed for the first 48 hours. I was humiliated and lonely and had no idea how I was going to survive it. I finally got to call my mom the next morning, and that helped more than anything. I could have visitors for an hour every evening, and I lived for that hour. I went down there under the impression that I was just checking in to get my meds straightened out and would be home in 72 hours, but that wasn't even close to how it all went down. I refused to participate in any of the group sessions or therapy for the first couple of days because I was convinced I didn't need it. I needed the right pills and nothing else. It was seriously like going through the stages of grief. I went from shock to anger to hopelessness and finally accepted the fact that I did need to be there on about the 4th day. I started participating in the sessions instead of counting minutes until I could use the phone or going to sleep in my chair to avoid having to talk. I hated to admit it, but the more I put into being in treatment, the more I was getting out of it. I dug down to some deep junk that I had done my best to bury, and I took the time to be honest with myself about my triggers, my destructive behaviors, and the damage I had caused to myself and my family. I didn't hold anything back, and I didn't sugarcoat anything. I was open and honest and raw. I cried so much my eyes were bloodshot and almost swollen shut. Guilt, anger, and fear started to give way to relief, hope, and grace. I learned that the meds are only a small piece of what it takes to cope with bipolar depression. I left that hospital humbled and hopeful and with a battery of coping skills that I was committed to using.
I was on a serious high for the first few weeks I was at home. I was released the week before Thanksgiving, so I got to come home to all the holiday fun. We decorated the tree, watched parades, shopped for Christmas gifts, and got ready for our trip to Disney. Everything was perfect. That scared me. My family was so relieved I was home that everyone doted on me and fawned over me and tried to cater to my every whim. I struggled with deciding whether it was just because they had missed me so much and were so happy to see me doing well for a change or because they were slightly afraid of what might happen if I got upset. (The crazy girl got home from the nut house. Let's keep her happy so she doesn't go off the deep end again! - I know that wasn't what they were thinking, but I had created that little narrative in my own head.) It was easy to be okay when everything was so light and fun. I was anxious about going back to work after being out for a few weeks, but I survived it just fine. There were only three weeks until Christmas vacation - and Disney! - so it was mostly holly jolly fun. It was a total breeze.
We had the most amazing week EVER at Disney World, and when we came home I was ready to start the new year. I felt ready to tackle being back at work and getting back into a routine. The first couple of weeks were okay, but that was all I could say. I had settled in with a new therapist and was working through some of my anxiety during those sessions. I woke up every day and recited my mantra - Nothing changes if nothing changes. I was doing the best I could to make the changes I needed to make to get myself back to being healthy and functional. Everyday life got back to being everyday life, and I was handling it well. Pretty much.
Fast forward nearly nine weeks, and here we are. I'm still okay, but that's really all I can say. I'm just okay. I'm struggling with my purpose. I'm struggling with a direction. I'm struggling to find something I'm excited about doing. I feel guilty admitting it after everything I put my family through in November. It's barely March. I haven't told them much of this because I'm afraid of the reaction. We all went through hell, I spent a week in a hospital, and just as we're all starting to feel normal again, I decide I'm lost. I don't have the heart to tell them. If I actually knew what steps to take next, I might consider sharing a little bit of it all with my people. But I don't, so I can't.
I totally judged the people in college who drug their feet and were always going on and on about taking the time to find themselves and not being in a rush to graduate and get to the real world. I considered myself to be in the completely opposite camp and couldn't wait to graduate and move on. Knowing what I know now I really wish I had taken some of that time then. Maybe I wouldn't be in this spot right now. Or maybe this is just something we all experience and I'm (once again) being overly dramatic about it.
I need to be honest with myself and with my people, even though it's probably going to get quite uncomfortable for all involved. The last time I tried to fight the fight by myself, I ended up admitted to a psychiatric hospital after deciding the only way out was taking my own life. When those thoughts come around, it isn't necessarily just about wanting to be dead. I'm hesitant to say I never wanted to be dead, because I know that's a lie. I had some of those days. But the kind of black hole I'm afraid of now doesn't end with wanting to be dead. It ends with the thought that it's just too hard to figure everything out. It ends with feeling like I'm not able to make a decision or pick a path or like I'm too tired to figure out any of the hard stuff. The hard stuff scares me, and like a true coward, I end up thinking how much easier it would be to quit and avoid the hard stuff completely. Total loser move. I hate it, and I'm not too fond of myself for thinking it.
There has to be more to life than just muddling through the days, and I'm determined to find it. I put pen to paper in my planner and wrote out some goals that I hope will inspire me to put one foot in front of the other and get busy finding that out.
xo.
p.s. - I'm not proofing this post at all. I don't want to edit any of the thoughts or feelings I put out there. So y'all will just have to forgive any mistakes you may find. I told you it was raw.
j
I'm not in the mood to craft a post today.
I'm not in the mood to pore over sentences and paragraphs until they're just right. I'm not in the mood to obsess over how many times I used the same word or how many sentences began the same way. I'm not in the mood to care about how polished or eloquent it sounds. I'm not in the mood to worry about whether or not anyone will be offended by what I say.
I'm just writing. I'm not entirely sure what I'm writing about or the direction I'm going. I'm just putting it all out there. Consider yourselves warned.
I checked into a hospital last fall. I've been mulling the best way to talk about it and really planned to write an insightful and witty recap that would be titled "a corn dog with no stick." Because when I was there that was one of the things they fed us for lunch. Corn dogs. With no sticks. Apparently those little wooden sticks were BIG violations - Contraband! - for psychiatric patients. It was both one of the funniest and one of the saddest moments of my entire stay. If I ever write a book (It's my dream.), I want the cover photo to be a half-burnt corn dog sans stick with a big glob of mustard. I can totally see it.
I was so unhinged that I was dangerous. My family and my doctor were clueless as to the next steps they should take. I was done living and done caring. I went to the doctor and she convinced me to self-admit.
It was the best and worst 10 days of my life all rolled into one. The culture shock of being admitted was the worst part. No makeup, no phone, no shoes with laces (unless I was willing to have the laces cut out and replaced with zip ties - BIG FAT NO - I opted for my Uggs for the entire stay. I just couldn't handle the zip ties. They were worse than the corn dogs without sticks.), no clothes with strings of any kind, no razor, no hair dryer, no bobby pins, no mechanical pencils (We could only use the tiny little golf pencils. They didn't even have erasers!), no outside food or drinks (The coffee was less than stellar, and the vending machines didn't have Sour Patch Kids. Bummer to say the least.), and for the first night, no pillow. I sobbed for the first 48 hours. I was humiliated and lonely and had no idea how I was going to survive it. I finally got to call my mom the next morning, and that helped more than anything. I could have visitors for an hour every evening, and I lived for that hour. I went down there under the impression that I was just checking in to get my meds straightened out and would be home in 72 hours, but that wasn't even close to how it all went down. I refused to participate in any of the group sessions or therapy for the first couple of days because I was convinced I didn't need it. I needed the right pills and nothing else. It was seriously like going through the stages of grief. I went from shock to anger to hopelessness and finally accepted the fact that I did need to be there on about the 4th day. I started participating in the sessions instead of counting minutes until I could use the phone or going to sleep in my chair to avoid having to talk. I hated to admit it, but the more I put into being in treatment, the more I was getting out of it. I dug down to some deep junk that I had done my best to bury, and I took the time to be honest with myself about my triggers, my destructive behaviors, and the damage I had caused to myself and my family. I didn't hold anything back, and I didn't sugarcoat anything. I was open and honest and raw. I cried so much my eyes were bloodshot and almost swollen shut. Guilt, anger, and fear started to give way to relief, hope, and grace. I learned that the meds are only a small piece of what it takes to cope with bipolar depression. I left that hospital humbled and hopeful and with a battery of coping skills that I was committed to using.
I was on a serious high for the first few weeks I was at home. I was released the week before Thanksgiving, so I got to come home to all the holiday fun. We decorated the tree, watched parades, shopped for Christmas gifts, and got ready for our trip to Disney. Everything was perfect. That scared me. My family was so relieved I was home that everyone doted on me and fawned over me and tried to cater to my every whim. I struggled with deciding whether it was just because they had missed me so much and were so happy to see me doing well for a change or because they were slightly afraid of what might happen if I got upset. (The crazy girl got home from the nut house. Let's keep her happy so she doesn't go off the deep end again! - I know that wasn't what they were thinking, but I had created that little narrative in my own head.) It was easy to be okay when everything was so light and fun. I was anxious about going back to work after being out for a few weeks, but I survived it just fine. There were only three weeks until Christmas vacation - and Disney! - so it was mostly holly jolly fun. It was a total breeze.
We had the most amazing week EVER at Disney World, and when we came home I was ready to start the new year. I felt ready to tackle being back at work and getting back into a routine. The first couple of weeks were okay, but that was all I could say. I had settled in with a new therapist and was working through some of my anxiety during those sessions. I woke up every day and recited my mantra - Nothing changes if nothing changes. I was doing the best I could to make the changes I needed to make to get myself back to being healthy and functional. Everyday life got back to being everyday life, and I was handling it well. Pretty much.
Fast forward nearly nine weeks, and here we are. I'm still okay, but that's really all I can say. I'm just okay. I'm struggling with my purpose. I'm struggling with a direction. I'm struggling to find something I'm excited about doing. I feel guilty admitting it after everything I put my family through in November. It's barely March. I haven't told them much of this because I'm afraid of the reaction. We all went through hell, I spent a week in a hospital, and just as we're all starting to feel normal again, I decide I'm lost. I don't have the heart to tell them. If I actually knew what steps to take next, I might consider sharing a little bit of it all with my people. But I don't, so I can't.
I totally judged the people in college who drug their feet and were always going on and on about taking the time to find themselves and not being in a rush to graduate and get to the real world. I considered myself to be in the completely opposite camp and couldn't wait to graduate and move on. Knowing what I know now I really wish I had taken some of that time then. Maybe I wouldn't be in this spot right now. Or maybe this is just something we all experience and I'm (once again) being overly dramatic about it.
I need to be honest with myself and with my people, even though it's probably going to get quite uncomfortable for all involved. The last time I tried to fight the fight by myself, I ended up admitted to a psychiatric hospital after deciding the only way out was taking my own life. When those thoughts come around, it isn't necessarily just about wanting to be dead. I'm hesitant to say I never wanted to be dead, because I know that's a lie. I had some of those days. But the kind of black hole I'm afraid of now doesn't end with wanting to be dead. It ends with the thought that it's just too hard to figure everything out. It ends with feeling like I'm not able to make a decision or pick a path or like I'm too tired to figure out any of the hard stuff. The hard stuff scares me, and like a true coward, I end up thinking how much easier it would be to quit and avoid the hard stuff completely. Total loser move. I hate it, and I'm not too fond of myself for thinking it.
There has to be more to life than just muddling through the days, and I'm determined to find it. I put pen to paper in my planner and wrote out some goals that I hope will inspire me to put one foot in front of the other and get busy finding that out.
xo.
p.s. - I'm not proofing this post at all. I don't want to edit any of the thoughts or feelings I put out there. So y'all will just have to forgive any mistakes you may find. I told you it was raw.
j
Saturday, February 21, 2015
mama drama.
Being a mom is hard. All the time. Every day.
Any one of us can attest to that. (If you happen to disagree and feel that it's a total breeze, please go away and never come back. You can't sit with us.)
Coping with mental illness absolutely makes this job more difficult (There are days I can't manage to take care of myself, much less my girl.), but it absolutely does not make my job any more difficult than anyone else's. Understand this: My issues don't make me any different from any other mom. I have a child. I do the best I can to raise her to be a happy, healthy, functional human being. I love her so much it hurts. I would do anything for her, including laying down my own life. Isn't that the same for all of us?
I was sick enough at one point to believe that my baby would have been better off without me. I was messed up and out of control. I was headed for a collision. And I would be damned if I was going to let her suffer the same fate. I was (and to be honest still am) terrified of permanently damaging her. (That's another one of those worries we all share in the mommy club. Our circumstances may not be the same, but our fears are.) I didn't want her to see her mom self-destructing. So the obvious next thought was that if I was out of her life then she would be able to grow up without being completely ruined by me. Stupid. So very, very stupid.
When I finally realized how sick I was and how desperately I needed help, it hit me like a truck that no matter how bad I thought life was, it was life. I didn't feel like anything would ever get better, but as long as I was still here there was hope. Making any other choice would have robbed my girl of the rest of her life. It would have blown a hole in everything she did for the rest of forever. I gave myself some therapy homework to look up what happens to kids whose parents commit suicide. I have no words. My heart broke to pieces to read about the unending hell I was so close to putting her through because of my own stupidity and selfishness and cowardice. I have forgiven myself for a lot of the damage I did, but I will never forgive myself for that.
I could throw up.
The only thing that allows me to look at myself in the mirror in the mornings is that she never realized what I was so close to doing. I pray she never does. I talk about it now using vague words and general statements because going into anymore detail isn't something I can do. This brutal honesty thing is hard. Joking about being sick and twisted is one thing (I do that a lot. It makes me giggle.), but putting the ugly out there in the open for everyone to judge is another. I want to be a good mom in spite of the ugly. These days I'm finally starting to feel like one.
And lucky for me, my precious girl loves me, ugly or not.
xo.
Any one of us can attest to that. (If you happen to disagree and feel that it's a total breeze, please go away and never come back. You can't sit with us.)
Coping with mental illness absolutely makes this job more difficult (There are days I can't manage to take care of myself, much less my girl.), but it absolutely does not make my job any more difficult than anyone else's. Understand this: My issues don't make me any different from any other mom. I have a child. I do the best I can to raise her to be a happy, healthy, functional human being. I love her so much it hurts. I would do anything for her, including laying down my own life. Isn't that the same for all of us?
I was sick enough at one point to believe that my baby would have been better off without me. I was messed up and out of control. I was headed for a collision. And I would be damned if I was going to let her suffer the same fate. I was (and to be honest still am) terrified of permanently damaging her. (That's another one of those worries we all share in the mommy club. Our circumstances may not be the same, but our fears are.) I didn't want her to see her mom self-destructing. So the obvious next thought was that if I was out of her life then she would be able to grow up without being completely ruined by me. Stupid. So very, very stupid.
When I finally realized how sick I was and how desperately I needed help, it hit me like a truck that no matter how bad I thought life was, it was life. I didn't feel like anything would ever get better, but as long as I was still here there was hope. Making any other choice would have robbed my girl of the rest of her life. It would have blown a hole in everything she did for the rest of forever. I gave myself some therapy homework to look up what happens to kids whose parents commit suicide. I have no words. My heart broke to pieces to read about the unending hell I was so close to putting her through because of my own stupidity and selfishness and cowardice. I have forgiven myself for a lot of the damage I did, but I will never forgive myself for that.
I could throw up.
The only thing that allows me to look at myself in the mirror in the mornings is that she never realized what I was so close to doing. I pray she never does. I talk about it now using vague words and general statements because going into anymore detail isn't something I can do. This brutal honesty thing is hard. Joking about being sick and twisted is one thing (I do that a lot. It makes me giggle.), but putting the ugly out there in the open for everyone to judge is another. I want to be a good mom in spite of the ugly. These days I'm finally starting to feel like one.
And lucky for me, my precious girl loves me, ugly or not.
xo.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
plans.
I'm a planner. I always have been. I love making lists and filling out my (monogrammed - duh) calendar. I love feeling prepared and knowing exactly how things will play out.
Except that's not always how life works.
My world was getting increasingly messy pretty much by the day, and I was getting more out of control by the day as well. I felt like I was hanging on by my fingernails. I couldn't control how I felt, what I thought, or how I behaved. (Let me clarify - those were the days I believed there was nothing that I could do to get better. I felt like a lost cause. I felt weak. I felt like I would never be able to overcome feeling so powerless and isolated. I didn't think I was strong enough to take back my own life. I thought the only answer was taking my own life.) I was obsessed with making plans and finding things I could control. I didn't know how to change the direction of the ride, but I knew I could bring the whole thing to a screeching halt.
So I started making plans.
I spent a lot of time daydreaming (I use that term loosely.) and planning my, ummm, exit - for lack of a better word. As far as I was concerned, daydreaming wasn't dangerous or sick or cause for worry. (I was wrong.) I didn't consider myself to be at real risk for suicide because I didn't feel brave enough to go through with it. (Brave. That was always the word I used. Now it breaks my heart to think about it.) But that didn't stop me from being swallowed up by the thoughts.
Without going into too much gory detail, I'll say that I kept a list. The obvious out was always pills. Being such a wuss, one of my most major concerns was that something would hurt. As in physical pain. (Please don't try rationally comprehend those thoughts. It won't work.) Honestly - it's that fear of pain that I think kept me alive.
I was consumed with reading about suicide - I searched books, blogs, message boards, and social media sites for anything related to the subject. I was obsessed.
I got close to going through with suicide several times. I'm not at a point yet that I can relive those episodes play-by-play; it's still too fresh. And I don't mean fresh as in it's too painful to recount. I mean fresh as in - recovering addicts can't spend their days hanging out with their old dealers, and those death and dying thoughts were my dealer. I'm so much better than I was a few months ago, but I don't think they will ever completely disappear. I don't wake up every day wanting to die. (I haven't always been able to say that.) These days it's very much the opposite. I'm finally happy to wake up in the mornings.
Until I'm not.
I try every day to keep myself from falling back down the rabbit hole, and the thoughts of how I would hurt myself are at best a slippery slope and at worst a one-way ticket back to the days of wishing to die.
That statement is absolutely dramatic and also absolutely true. Part of my disorder means lacking the ability to find or maintain an even keel. I don't know when, where, or how to stop the downward spiral after it starts, so I'm doing everything I can to avoid it. I'm not dumb enough to believe I'll never have another crash, but I'm not inviting it in any sooner either.
My days of obsessive planning are over. I still love to make lists, and I still love to monogram them. I just don't let them revolve around my funeral anymore.
xo.
Except that's not always how life works.
My world was getting increasingly messy pretty much by the day, and I was getting more out of control by the day as well. I felt like I was hanging on by my fingernails. I couldn't control how I felt, what I thought, or how I behaved. (Let me clarify - those were the days I believed there was nothing that I could do to get better. I felt like a lost cause. I felt weak. I felt like I would never be able to overcome feeling so powerless and isolated. I didn't think I was strong enough to take back my own life. I thought the only answer was taking my own life.) I was obsessed with making plans and finding things I could control. I didn't know how to change the direction of the ride, but I knew I could bring the whole thing to a screeching halt.
So I started making plans.
I spent a lot of time daydreaming (I use that term loosely.) and planning my, ummm, exit - for lack of a better word. As far as I was concerned, daydreaming wasn't dangerous or sick or cause for worry. (I was wrong.) I didn't consider myself to be at real risk for suicide because I didn't feel brave enough to go through with it. (Brave. That was always the word I used. Now it breaks my heart to think about it.) But that didn't stop me from being swallowed up by the thoughts.
Without going into too much gory detail, I'll say that I kept a list. The obvious out was always pills. Being such a wuss, one of my most major concerns was that something would hurt. As in physical pain. (Please don't try rationally comprehend those thoughts. It won't work.) Honestly - it's that fear of pain that I think kept me alive.
I was consumed with reading about suicide - I searched books, blogs, message boards, and social media sites for anything related to the subject. I was obsessed.
Part of that obsession included this spot. I drove by here on a particularly bad day, and the only thing I could think was to wonder what would happen if I drove my car full speed into the barrier. I let the scene play out in my head a few different ways - all with the same ending. I always wondered what it would feel like. The scary part is that I found myself driving out of my way almost daily just to pass The Spot. I kept driving by it thinking that one day I would finally have enough nerve to go through with it.
These sick games of chicken never took place when my girl was in the car with me. Ever. I was terrified of hurting or damaging her. I only wanted to hurt myself. I was so sick at the time that I didn't realize any damage I did to myself - whether physical or emotional or both - would have been magnified in its effect on her. A good chunk of the time I spend in therapy these days has to do with how my mental illness has affected (and will continue to affect) my daughter. I learned in treatment that I have to get better for me, but if I'm honest I have to tell you that she is my why. She deserves a mom. She deserves me. It's always in the back of my mind that she may have to fight her own battle with bipolar depression at some point in her life, and it scares the hell out of me. I don't ever want this for her, but I want to know that I can face it if it comes.
Thinking about it all now, it hurts. It breaks my heart to think that I was so close to taking away my little girl's mama. And it makes me angry to think that I was so selfish. My short-sighted thought was that taking my life would mean an end to the misery that was always waiting for me when I opened my eyes in the mornings, but in reality, killing myself would have only created misery for everyone else in my world. And while the misery I felt didn't have to be permanent, theirs would have dragged on forever - along with guilt and anger and resentment and a myriad of other horrible feelings that wouldn't have died along with me.
Until I'm not.
I try every day to keep myself from falling back down the rabbit hole, and the thoughts of how I would hurt myself are at best a slippery slope and at worst a one-way ticket back to the days of wishing to die.
That statement is absolutely dramatic and also absolutely true. Part of my disorder means lacking the ability to find or maintain an even keel. I don't know when, where, or how to stop the downward spiral after it starts, so I'm doing everything I can to avoid it. I'm not dumb enough to believe I'll never have another crash, but I'm not inviting it in any sooner either.
My days of obsessive planning are over. I still love to make lists, and I still love to monogram them. I just don't let them revolve around my funeral anymore.
xo.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
the crazy crutch.
So I said that being bipolar doesn't mean I'm crazy.
And it doesn't.
But I was sure quick to use it as a crutch whenever it was convenient.
Such as ...
I promised to be home by 5 and didn't blow in until 7 with zero explanations or apologies? You can't be mad at me for it. I'm crazy. I can't help it. I shouldn't be held responsible for my actions because it will make my crazy worse. I'll have a meltdown and end up wanting to kill myself.
I spent $300 on various monogrammed goodies (Holla, Etsy. Don't worry - we're still besties. Can't stop, won't stop.) after I promised to chill out on the money for a while because I went on a Target/Etsy/Gap binge during a manic episode? Confronting me isn't fair. I'm crazy. Yelling at me will make me want to kill myself.
I lied about where I was and wouldn't answer calls or texts for hours because I didn't want anyone to question me about how I was behaving? I have psychiatric issues. I should get a pass. If not, I may want to kill myself.
I yelled and screamed at someone and had a meltdown because I didn't want to be honest about my destructive habits? Leave me alone. You don't understand. If I don't get my way and can't continue to take off on irrational fits of rage just because I feel like it, I'll have thoughts of killing myself.
It sounds ridiculous. And it was. I was completely off the rails. I was destructive to myself and to my family. I threw sharp words and hateful barbs at the people who loved me the most, and I left wreckage in my wake wherever I went.
It sounds exaggerated. But it's not. I took complete advantage of the fact that my people were concerned about me and used my depression to demand full immunity from my bad decisions and hatefulness.
I'm not ashamed of mental illness. I'm not ashamed of telling my story. But I am ashamed of the way I treated the people who love me the most. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I was so hollow inside that I didn't care. I figured if it got too bad, I would check out. Taking all my pills and leaving it all behind - that was my fallback plan for everything. I knew I was headed full speed toward a day that my recklessness would pass the point of no return and that I could end up doing something so unforgivable that I pushed my family to be done with me. (To be clear - I never got up in the mornings with a previously planned agenda of screwing up. But once something kicked off my downward spiral, there was no stopping it.) I had decided the easiest way to avoid the consequences or the unpleasantness of taking responsibility for myself was to kill myself. I was that sick.
I used my depression and bipolar disorder to justify a sense of entitlement to do whatever I felt like - spending money, flaking out on plans, shirking responsibilities at home and at work, picking fights with anyone I could engage, playing the victim whenever I felt wronged (meaning whenever I didn't get my way), refusing to acknowledge that I was out of control, refusing to let anyone help me. I was that sick.
The days of being sick aren't gone, but gone are the days of using being sick as a crutch. I have a lot of wrongs to make right, and I'm okay with that. I can't fix them overnight, and I'm okay with that too. I'm finally owning all the damage I caused, and if it makes sense, I feel good about it.
It's time to put on my big girl panties, deal with the fallout, and start rebuilding what I tore down. I'm fortunate enough to have a support system so incredible that I don't have the words to do them justice. They haven't wavered. Ever. They kept coming back every day for more abuse (Brutal honesty alert. The way I treated them was emotionally and psychologically abusive. I'm appalled by that and absolutely mortified to admit it here, but burying it under layers of denial won't erase it.) no matter how much I had heaped on them the day before. No one has demanded restitution or apologies, but they all deserve it. Getting help saved my life, and it saved my family too.
I don't care if it takes the rest of forever to show my people that the days of the Crazy Crutch are over; they're so worth it. And so am I.
xo.
And it doesn't.
But I was sure quick to use it as a crutch whenever it was convenient.
Such as ...
I promised to be home by 5 and didn't blow in until 7 with zero explanations or apologies? You can't be mad at me for it. I'm crazy. I can't help it. I shouldn't be held responsible for my actions because it will make my crazy worse. I'll have a meltdown and end up wanting to kill myself.
I spent $300 on various monogrammed goodies (Holla, Etsy. Don't worry - we're still besties. Can't stop, won't stop.) after I promised to chill out on the money for a while because I went on a Target/Etsy/Gap binge during a manic episode? Confronting me isn't fair. I'm crazy. Yelling at me will make me want to kill myself.
I lied about where I was and wouldn't answer calls or texts for hours because I didn't want anyone to question me about how I was behaving? I have psychiatric issues. I should get a pass. If not, I may want to kill myself.
I yelled and screamed at someone and had a meltdown because I didn't want to be honest about my destructive habits? Leave me alone. You don't understand. If I don't get my way and can't continue to take off on irrational fits of rage just because I feel like it, I'll have thoughts of killing myself.
It sounds ridiculous. And it was. I was completely off the rails. I was destructive to myself and to my family. I threw sharp words and hateful barbs at the people who loved me the most, and I left wreckage in my wake wherever I went.
It sounds exaggerated. But it's not. I took complete advantage of the fact that my people were concerned about me and used my depression to demand full immunity from my bad decisions and hatefulness.
I'm not ashamed of mental illness. I'm not ashamed of telling my story. But I am ashamed of the way I treated the people who love me the most. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I was so hollow inside that I didn't care. I figured if it got too bad, I would check out. Taking all my pills and leaving it all behind - that was my fallback plan for everything. I knew I was headed full speed toward a day that my recklessness would pass the point of no return and that I could end up doing something so unforgivable that I pushed my family to be done with me. (To be clear - I never got up in the mornings with a previously planned agenda of screwing up. But once something kicked off my downward spiral, there was no stopping it.) I had decided the easiest way to avoid the consequences or the unpleasantness of taking responsibility for myself was to kill myself. I was that sick.
I used my depression and bipolar disorder to justify a sense of entitlement to do whatever I felt like - spending money, flaking out on plans, shirking responsibilities at home and at work, picking fights with anyone I could engage, playing the victim whenever I felt wronged (meaning whenever I didn't get my way), refusing to acknowledge that I was out of control, refusing to let anyone help me. I was that sick.
The days of being sick aren't gone, but gone are the days of using being sick as a crutch. I have a lot of wrongs to make right, and I'm okay with that. I can't fix them overnight, and I'm okay with that too. I'm finally owning all the damage I caused, and if it makes sense, I feel good about it.
It's time to put on my big girl panties, deal with the fallout, and start rebuilding what I tore down. I'm fortunate enough to have a support system so incredible that I don't have the words to do them justice. They haven't wavered. Ever. They kept coming back every day for more abuse (Brutal honesty alert. The way I treated them was emotionally and psychologically abusive. I'm appalled by that and absolutely mortified to admit it here, but burying it under layers of denial won't erase it.) no matter how much I had heaped on them the day before. No one has demanded restitution or apologies, but they all deserve it. Getting help saved my life, and it saved my family too.
I don't care if it takes the rest of forever to show my people that the days of the Crazy Crutch are over; they're so worth it. And so am I.
xo.
Monday, February 2, 2015
i'm not crazy.
I suffered in silence for entirely too long.
A very limited number of people knew I was dealing with The Thing, but no one - including me - really knew what The Thing was. There was so much more to The Thing than just being sad.
I was always sad - even when I was manic. I was angry. I was volatile. I was hateful. I was unreliable. I was reckless. I was selfish. I was invincible. I was withdrawn. I was dishonest. I was hollow.
It didn't matter what I did to try to fill the hole that The Thing left in my chest - nothing worked. I wasn't sleeping, and I was either eating everything in sight or eating nothing at all. (It ran - wait for it - in cycles.) I was spending money like it was going to catch on fire if I left it sitting in our checking account. I was finding reasons to get out of the house because I felt like I would come out of my skin if I sat still. I had anxiety attacks almost daily - sometimes more than once in the same day.
I sat alone in my car at the cemetery where my precious Papa Shu is buried and sobbed so hard that my entire body shook. Sometimes I could name the reason why I was so distraught, but many times I couldn't. I just was.
I got overwhelmed at the thought of getting out of bed every day. By the time I got up, took a shower, and got dressed, I had used every bit of everything I had. To quote basic white girl terminology - I couldn't even.
I've been attached to some kind of antidepressant (I figure that's nicer than saying I've been on drugs.) since I was 19. (I'm 31. And 31-19 is 12. As in years. Trust me. I'm a math teacher.) I honestly couldn't name each one if I tried; there have been that many. Each one ran the same course: I'd start the medicine. I'd have a couple of off weeks while it built up in my system. I'd try to convince myself it was working even a little bit when it obviously wasn't. I'd lie to my family and try to pretend that I wasn't falling farther and farther down the rabbit hole as the days wore on. Then I'd have a crash. A big one. Many of those crashes ended with me crying for days and wishing (sometimes silently, sometimes aloud) that I could go to sleep and never have to wake up. Following those epic meltdowns, I'd go back to the doctor, and we'd go back to the beginning. New drug, same story. It was exhausting. And disheartening.
I felt absolutely broken. Not even chemical alterations to my brain could make me functional. I spent a long time (think several years) believing there was truly nothing that could be done. I survived each day - I wasn't living. I was (barely) surviving. - and looked forward to each one ending. I really believed I would have been better off dead. I remember more than one desperate plea to God that He would just let me go. I couldn't make it anymore. It was too much.
When I finally found the right doctor (I completely adore her. And my nurse is the most fabulous nurse on the planet. I refer to them as the Dream Team. They saved my life. Seriously.) and she finally found the right diagnosis, I finally felt validated. I know it seems counter-intuitive, but being labeled with bipolar disorder meant one thing: I'm not crazy.
The more I learned about my diagnosis, the more I felt relieved to know I wasn't some freak whose life was a lost cause. The antidepressants? They weren't effective at treating my disorder when used alone. (At least this was the case for me according to the expert advice I got from my doctor. Please do not use my experience as a measuring stick for your own. Every brain is different. Every personality is different. This is simply my story.) I needed a mood stabilizer more than I needed a straight antidepressant. (In some cases, the particular antidepressant I was taking at the time I was diagnosed has been known to compound the effects of bipolar disorder. So I had been taking a drug - in large doses - that was working against me and doing more harm than good.) I needed a different antidepressant than the ones I had tried before. It was all about the perfect cocktail. It took several months of trial and error, but thanks again to my Dream Team, we finally found a combination that started to work for me.
There is so much more to treatment than just the meds, but it was a beginning. The right meds helped my head start to clear so I could start to deal with all the junk I had tried to bury. Knowing what we were really dealing with also meant knowing what we could do to start putting my pieces back together.
Being bipolar doesn't mean I'm damaged or defective. It means I'm not crazy.
xo.
I was always sad - even when I was manic. I was angry. I was volatile. I was hateful. I was unreliable. I was reckless. I was selfish. I was invincible. I was withdrawn. I was dishonest. I was hollow.
It didn't matter what I did to try to fill the hole that The Thing left in my chest - nothing worked. I wasn't sleeping, and I was either eating everything in sight or eating nothing at all. (It ran - wait for it - in cycles.) I was spending money like it was going to catch on fire if I left it sitting in our checking account. I was finding reasons to get out of the house because I felt like I would come out of my skin if I sat still. I had anxiety attacks almost daily - sometimes more than once in the same day.
I sat alone in my car at the cemetery where my precious Papa Shu is buried and sobbed so hard that my entire body shook. Sometimes I could name the reason why I was so distraught, but many times I couldn't. I just was.
I got overwhelmed at the thought of getting out of bed every day. By the time I got up, took a shower, and got dressed, I had used every bit of everything I had. To quote basic white girl terminology - I couldn't even.
I've been attached to some kind of antidepressant (I figure that's nicer than saying I've been on drugs.) since I was 19. (I'm 31. And 31-19 is 12. As in years. Trust me. I'm a math teacher.) I honestly couldn't name each one if I tried; there have been that many. Each one ran the same course: I'd start the medicine. I'd have a couple of off weeks while it built up in my system. I'd try to convince myself it was working even a little bit when it obviously wasn't. I'd lie to my family and try to pretend that I wasn't falling farther and farther down the rabbit hole as the days wore on. Then I'd have a crash. A big one. Many of those crashes ended with me crying for days and wishing (sometimes silently, sometimes aloud) that I could go to sleep and never have to wake up. Following those epic meltdowns, I'd go back to the doctor, and we'd go back to the beginning. New drug, same story. It was exhausting. And disheartening.
I felt absolutely broken. Not even chemical alterations to my brain could make me functional. I spent a long time (think several years) believing there was truly nothing that could be done. I survived each day - I wasn't living. I was (barely) surviving. - and looked forward to each one ending. I really believed I would have been better off dead. I remember more than one desperate plea to God that He would just let me go. I couldn't make it anymore. It was too much.
When I finally found the right doctor (I completely adore her. And my nurse is the most fabulous nurse on the planet. I refer to them as the Dream Team. They saved my life. Seriously.) and she finally found the right diagnosis, I finally felt validated. I know it seems counter-intuitive, but being labeled with bipolar disorder meant one thing: I'm not crazy.
The more I learned about my diagnosis, the more I felt relieved to know I wasn't some freak whose life was a lost cause. The antidepressants? They weren't effective at treating my disorder when used alone. (At least this was the case for me according to the expert advice I got from my doctor. Please do not use my experience as a measuring stick for your own. Every brain is different. Every personality is different. This is simply my story.) I needed a mood stabilizer more than I needed a straight antidepressant. (In some cases, the particular antidepressant I was taking at the time I was diagnosed has been known to compound the effects of bipolar disorder. So I had been taking a drug - in large doses - that was working against me and doing more harm than good.) I needed a different antidepressant than the ones I had tried before. It was all about the perfect cocktail. It took several months of trial and error, but thanks again to my Dream Team, we finally found a combination that started to work for me.
There is so much more to treatment than just the meds, but it was a beginning. The right meds helped my head start to clear so I could start to deal with all the junk I had tried to bury. Knowing what we were really dealing with also meant knowing what we could do to start putting my pieces back together.
Being bipolar doesn't mean I'm damaged or defective. It means I'm not crazy.
xo.
monograms & madness.
Once upon a time, I had a blog. And once upon a time, I let that blog die a slow and neglectful death.
I have high hopes that this blog won't suffer the same fate, but I'm not making any promises.
If I'm being brutally honest - and let me warn you now that brutal honesty is one of the foundations on which this blog is being created - then I have to tell you that part of the reason I let the other blog go was that it didn't feel genuine anymore. All of the photos and anecdotes I posted were true, but they were such a small part of my world. Much of what I lived every day was intentionally omitted because I convinced myself that those experiences were things to be ashamed of or kept under wraps lest the world think I was crazy or broken or ungrateful for my life.
I felt fake.
So I quit.
Fast forward about 18 months (and a few trips to hell and back), and here I am.
I can't say exactly what this blog will become, and for now I think that's just fine. (I can, however, say exactly what it won't become, and I think that's even more important.)
My world is a mixture (sometimes equal parts and other times not so much) of monograms and madness, and it's my goal here to include just as much of one as I do the other. To illustrate - I made a list of potential blogging topics I didn't want to forget in the back of my monogrammed planner after I made today's to-do list on a separate monogrammed notepad. That list included getting my bipolar meds refilled and keeping an appointment this afternoon with my counselor.
Some days are funny, and some days are sad. (Isn't that the case for all of us?) Some days I can barely make myself get out of bed, and some days I feel so great I start to think I don't need the meds anymore. There are times when I cycle so rapidly that it makes my own head spin; and there are other times that the highs or lows would stretch out for weeks (or months) on end. Each scenario is equally taxing - mentally and physically. I was deluded enough for a while to think I could manage it on my own, and it nearly killed me.
There came a day that I was one hopeless decision away from a choice that could never be undone. It scared my family (and me - even though I wouldn't admit it) to a point that I couldn't explain my behavior away anymore. I wasn't convinced that anything would help, but I went through the motions and made an appointment (mostly just so they would leave me alone).
I've never been a fan of roller coasters. The sudden drops and feeling so out of control terrify me. I remember sitting in my doctor's office and sobbing the first time she mentioned bipolar disorder. It finally clicked. I don't ride roller coasters because I live on one.
Two years later - I'm still learning to live with it.
xo.
