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.

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

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