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