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.}

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.

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.