turf burn.

It's no secret that I am a firm believer in finding the right drugs to treat mental illness.

The flu isn't treated with a dose of Suck It Up, Buttercup, and pneumonia doesn't go away just because someone tells you to Snap Out Of It. Treating mental illness is. the. same. way. Depression and bipolar disorder are real illnesses that require real medicine to treat.

(Disclaimer: I think I've said this before, but I don't discuss my specific drugs or doses. What works for me very likely won't work for someone else, and more than that I am not an expert or qualified in any way to do anything even remotely related to being involved in those conversations as they pertain to anyone else.)

I've been on one of my meds since before I was in the hospital without needing to change anything other than the dosage. (I have no problem telling you that it's been increased - more than once. And it will probably continue to be increased at some point in the future. That doesn't bother me in the least.) My other meds have changed a couple of times since then. We started with increasing my dose but recently switched to a different drug when nothing we did was working. I'm going into my third month on the new one, and it's so far so good. I also pop a biotin tablet every night in hopes of not going bald and a multivitamin just for good measure. 

I have one other prescription that I keep on hand specifically for the times that anxiety and panic start swallowing me. I don't take that one every day or every time something unpleasant happens, but I'm not afraid to take it when I feel myself losing control. Anxiety attacks put me on the fast track to a living hell, and I know I have to avoid that at all costs. So if you're keeping count, add another pill.

I hate taking all the pills, but it is what it is. Bottom line -  I need them, so I take them.

Meds aren't everything, though.

I guess in theory you could keep throwing pills down your throat until you became so numb that nothing - good or bad -  would faze you, but I can tell you from experience that is no way to live.

Coping mechanisms and stress relievers and their related benefits are always hot topics during my counseling and therapy sessions, and I don't disagree. I've tried all kinds:

I learned to crochet, but then I stopped because you can only give handmade (read: homely) infinity scarves as gifts so many times before it gets a little weird.

I colored in those adult coloring books, but then I stopped because you can only give your husband a picture you colored and ask him to hang it up at work so many times before it gets a little weird.

I read more books, but then I stopped because you can only gush to your therapist about how much you identify with the psychotic protagonist in your favorite dark and twisted storyline so many times before it gets a little weird.

I looked for projects on Pinterest, but then I stopped because you can only leave half-finished projects and glitter and yarn and sticks from the woods all over the dining room of your new house so many times before it gets a little weird.

I tried cooking more, but then I stopped because you can only destroy an entire crock pot and everything in it so many times before it gets a little weird.

I even tried going to the gym, but I stopped that too. Listening to the same songs on the same playlist while I was on the same treadmill every day did absolutely zero for me. And doing all of that at 5 a.m. during the week was actually making me crazier than I was at first. So no. Just no. ALL of the no. I wasn't even a little bit all about that gym life.

And then I met my #fitfam.

I lucked into a gym owned by a good friend of my sister and brother-in-law by going with them to a class on a Sunday afternoon. There were medicine balls and burpees and box step-ups and hurdles to jump and Russian twists and push-ups and all kinds of other things that I didn't understand. I ended up with turf burns on my knees that took two weeks to heal (There are still scars!), and more importantly, I ended up hooked.

I've been training there since the end of February, and I feel better than I have in a long time. The workouts are intense, but I actually love them. I'm sure I make a complete fool out of myself most days, but I'm the only one who seems to notice. The friends I've made are ridiculously amazing. I have no idea how I've done life so far without them.

Whether it's your first day or whether you've been there for years, everyone is full of encouragement and positivity and will literally cheer you on from the sidelines when you feel like you can't finish. And if that isn't enough to make you feel like part of the family? Then they'll just jump right in and finish it with you.

My trainer refuses to let me quit and finds something positive about each workout even when I think I bombed it. The rest of my #fitfam always makes me feel like one of the cool kids even when I know I'm not. Being part of this group does just as much for my mental health as it does for my physical health, and THAT is why this place is so incredible.

I've gotten acquainted with things like kettle bells and resistance bands and goblet squats and crazy lunges and deadlifts and planks and flutter kicks and bear crawls, and I'm always looking forward to making progress even if it's small.

I have to tell myself out loud every day that even small progress is still progress. Every. Single. Day.

I get excited about being sore when I get out of bed in the mornings. It makes me feel like I accomplished something the day before. The same goes for turf burn and random bruises and callouses on my hands and little scars on my knuckles - I'm actually really proud of those. They represent things I never thought I could ever do.

I'm even learning to run. Without being chased by a venomous animal. And I think I'm going to like it. (The jury is still out on this one, but I have high hopes.)

{Please note: I was not unconscious or dead. I was just too sweaty to sit on the furniture. Then the dogs decided to use me as a salt lick. I was too exhausted to care.}

One of my toughest struggles is dealing with all of the self-loathing and negative self-talk I'm so prone to doing. I've gone home in tears some mornings because I was so sure I cost my team the win in that day's competition or because I was so sure I had totally sucked at everything we did that day. I've gone home telling myself how stupid or worthless I am because I felt like I didn't push hard enough that day even though I had given it all I had during the workout. I would get in my car still sweating and out of breath from training and already be ripping myself to shreds over being a loser at it.

Sounds crazy, right?

Well that's because it is.

My trainer and the rest of my #fitfam remind me of that daily.

We'll add ditching that one to my goal list.

That list is a long one, but that's okay. I've already come this far, right?

xo.

when you just can't get it together. (alternately titled: stream of consciousness.)

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.

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.

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.

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.