Happy Father’s Day Dad. After spending a year


Happy Father’s Day Dad. After spending a year of being 100% bipolar, I sometimes wonder how you made it 50 years, seemingly without support of any kind. I have all the support I could ask for and I think I’ll look like an old war horse by the time I’m 50. 

You provided, but weren’t always emotionally there. I understand that, now. I forgive you and I know you forgive me for not understanding. I’m sorry I didn’t praise you for being a good father when you were alive. All I saw were your short comings. I didn’t understand your struggle. 

I wish I could say it loud enough that I know you’d hear it, 

I LOVE YOU

From: Your Dead or Alive Mother


I feel like a human science experiment. I felt that way when I was pregnant…wasn’t hoping to feel that way again. Ever. But in my search for the perfect “cocktail” of meds, I find myself swinging (in moods, not in partners!), and exhausting my mind and body in trying to keep up with my real world responsibilities and not look like a total nut case.

Shit has to get done, and poor Pillars can’t do it all himself. I *could* just sit on the couch and look like a total wreck all day, I have before, but that’s not something I want my children remembering me for. I want them to remember me as a fighter who put them first, no matter how badly I felt. A mommy who had a lot of patience even when going through the worst moods. I fail a lot of times at this, and I always find myself caught up in wondering how they will remember me when they are older, after they find out about my illness.

I KNOW they will look back on their childhood and try to fill in the blanks. I’m always looking through  their eyes at me, viewing what I’m doing, and there are many times when I don’t feel like it’s good enough. I know I should be showing them that no one is perfect, and how to be accepting of yourself and of others, blah blah blah. Shut up, don’t say it, readers!

I really think most of this is caused by the fact that I look back on my childhood at my Dad and try to figure out who he really was and what he felt. I’m projecting that onto my children, and in turn back to me, and I’m just wasting time. I keep telling myself there is a difference. I’m going to be around to show them who I am, and I’m going to be around to tell them how it feels to suffer this. Unlike my Dad, I will be here in 20 years for them.

It all circles around to my fear of ending up like my Dad. What if I’m not here in 20 years? This morbid part of me actually bought little notebooks to write letters to them for them to read in the future and know how much I love them, because I wish I had something like that to read from my Dad. I’ve written in them a few times, but every time I pick it up, I wonder if I am admitting to myself that I don’t think I’ll be around in 20 years. Don’t get me wrong, it’s also a sweet idea. Who wouldn’t love having handwritten letters from their parent talking about what they’ve done that day as they’re growing up and how much they love them?

I got seriously depressed a couple weeks ago and I’ll tell you the only thing that made me feel like life was worth living was having my kids lay on top of me. Like a mommy-pile. Their weight, their energy, their scents, their giggles, it all gave me a little more energy and a little more hope.

Anyways, I just saw my new psych (because my other one is retiring) and we’re tweaking my meds. We added Zoloft just over a week ago and it certainly brought me out of my depression I was feeling, but it sent me into a hypomanic state. Not a big deal, as long as I’m not bothering anyone. My old psych is the one who started me on Zoloft and he wanted me to double the dosage to 100mg a day after a week, but I told my new psych that I’m just not comfortable doing that right now considering how drastically I felt the 50mg had already affected me. I’ve felt that my hypomanic state has declined a bit, into a more normal than hypomanic area.

Sorry for the morbid title. Nope, no, I’m not sorry. And BTW, don’t google an image for “morbid”. That shit is REALLY morbid.

XOXO (I love Gossip Girl)

A month of normalcy


*Disclaimer* Sorry, as I am writing, I realize Im using some inappropriate language that some may find offensive. But if you like to curse, read the fuck on!

October 1st marked the beginning of me no longer working nights. I had been working nights for 11 months, and had been (I believe) consequently suffering from some of the worst mood swings, depression, anxiety, and mania I had ever experienced.

I think there were some life changes that took place in October that alongside my current medicinal cocktail proved to help me become more stable.

Well, mainly just 2. A set bed time of 10pm (alright, so I had a few nights that I stayed up late), and a new attitude.

I’ve wanted a new attitude for a long time, but lacked the tools and medication to come by one. I know its vulgar, and probably rude, but it’s important for me and my mind. Are you ready for it?? My new mantra??

I don’t give a fuck what you think. I’ll only do what I want, and when I want to do it. I just don’t give a fuck.

Yes folks, you too can have a new attitude – all by creating a cheeky new motto.

Naturally, its not a blanket statement:

>I do give a fuck about my family, my husband, my life, etc etc. What I don’t give a fuck about anymore is how clean my house is, getting called out by a boss because my shirt isn’t pressed enough, or my mother calling and passive aggressively attacking me. And other stupid shit like that.

>Clearly, I have responsibilities: poppy diapers need to promptly be changed, laundry and dishes need to be done so we are at least clothed and fed, I have to be at scheduled appointments, etc.

So, my new way of thinking is really another way of determining what’s important in my life. Taking away all this energy Im allowing these trivial people and things to be draining from me, and putting that energy back into myself.

I kinda feel like Donald Trump, sticking my finger out – “Your’e fired.”

To my old life – you’re fired

To my old obsessions – you’re fired

To letting my mom hurt me – you’re fired.

To the part of me that doesn’t think I deserve to be forgived – you’re fired.

To those ignorant fucks at work who call me slow and try to intimidate me – you’re fired.

So October has been my first normal month. Im skeptical. But it looks nice on paper.

I hate you, you hate me, we’re a hateful family…


Dear motherofgod.

I don’t like a lot of people.

I hate when Im in a mood that I look at someone/read something they write, and instantly want to start yelling at them about how stupid they are/how bad the suck at life. It gets so bad that I get short of breath and my hands start to shake.

I hate it! That’s not what nice people do. I want to be a nice person!

I know its a bipolar thing. Please tell me that you all rage like this!

I have a secret.


I did it!

I got my ass out of the house and ran around the neighborhood – without crying!

Pillars suggested that I go a different route than when I went when I was manic, because it always seemed to make me cry. I thought about it, and decided that I was going to go the routes I liked and risk the tears. I haven’t ran them for a couple months, and I have changed a lot in that short time.

I found myself starting to think obsessively about my illness, and arguing stupid points in my mind over and over…like I can actually argue my way out of what has happened to me, what I’ve done, and what I am. I caught the negative thinking and told myself I was going to stop, and I did!

I got back home and had a sudden urge to continue. That was really surprising, given my inclination to sit down at every step and bench I came across. So I ran a little more. 🙂

It was made that much better to see my 2 year old staring out the window looking for me when I made it back home.

I’m feeling more comfortable with myself. I realized that I’m a fighter, and that I’ve been fighting for many years. The difference now is that I know my opponent, and common sense says that if you know what you’re fighting, you have a better chance at beating it. You can prepare yourself.

So yeah, I feel stronger…but I expect to be knocked back down again. Shit I might knock my own self down. I might stay down for a while. But I’ll never stay down forever. And I expect to cry again. Probably tomorrow. But that doesn’t make me weaker. Every time it knocks me down and I get back up, I’m stronger. I win that one.

I’m starting to realize that this didn’t beat me. That I control whether or not it does.

And I’ve got news for you…I’m a stubborn bitch!

I have a secret robot crush on Optimus Prime. Although I guess it’s not a secret anymore…

Bipolar Support Groups


What’s your experience? I’ll be having my own experience this Friday…

It’s being held at a hospital, and is 2 hours long. When I had previously been told about the meeting, I was still working nights and was sure there was no way I’d ever be able to actually GET to one. But now that that’s changed, looks like I’ll have the pleasure. Or not?

I mentioned the meeting to my therapist at our meeting a couple days ago. A concerned look immediately crossed her face, and the warnings started spewing out:

  • “Watch out for any men attending. Lots of people go to pick up someone.”

I said “Whaaattt?? People do that??

Her response: *shrugs* “They’re bipolar.”

Palm-To-Forehead. Yep. Of course. I was that way only months earlier, why didn’t that occur to me? I have been that. ((insert a butt load of shame here))

  • “They might ask for your number, get that kind of information. Be careful…”

I assured her that I don’t like people anyways, so that’s not a problem.

  • “Being as it’s in a hospital, it’s probably safer and more legit than other support groups I’ve heard of.”

Great. Then I only have to worry about manic, predatory bipolar men asking me for my number and then following me home.

  • “You’re probably going to see people………a lot sicker than you.”

Maybe this should scare me, but my only thought is that it’s going to make me paranoid that I’ll eventually get that sick.

So all in all, she’s just made me paranoid. To top it off, I mention all this to Pillars, and he’s like, “Yeah, that’s what I read…”. Everyone knows more than me about this! Gah!

Someone? Anyone? Give me a glimmer of hope that this will be a good thing? That I’ll see more than straight jackets, alcohol, and someone trying to bite me or some crazy shit like that?

Who am I, anyways?


I always had this clear vision of who I was, who I wanted to be. I was a dreamer growing up. Not the distracted dreamer, but I had big

plans for myself and I was confident about them. I knew that if I wanted it bad enough, I would get it. Something drove me inside; I felt strong inside. I attributed some of that strength to religion. Times got rough, as they do, but something always happened to pull me out of it. I was confident in my SELF.

The indecision and confusion that has been plaguing me for a few days reached it’s worst point yesterday. Thankfully I was off of work. I seem to be in a better place today. I don’t work again until tomorrow, so it should be gone by then. Thankfully, it never seems to last more than a couple days. It’s a slow slide into it, and then I have a virtually nonfunctional mind for a day or so, and then I wake up on the upside. Maybe still a little foggy, but I can think clearer, and make a decision easier.

Lucky for me, not only did I have yesterday off, but Pillars took the day off. Not because of my incapacity. It was nice. It’s always nice to have him around of course. 🙂

My self esteem hits rock bottom when I’m trying to do something simple like make a box of mac n cheese for the kids and I have to read the instructions 5 times before I even understand the first step. I don’t like looking like I’m stupid in front of my husband. I know he knows I’m not…and he thinks my mind is beautiful. But when he talks to me about what we’re going to do, and my head is EMPTY, and his words flow in, swirl around, and flow right back out – none of them finding a place to stick – I have to say “I’m sorry, what are we doing after that?”.  Or worse yet, “Just tell me what to do.”, because my memory isn’t on. I’m a body. I’m breathing. I can smile. I can laugh. But I can’t hold any information, and can only perform small, easy tasks. And even then, it takes me forever.

It’s those days that rubs my nose into the fact that I’m not “normal”.

On to happier news, I think I’ve gained more weight. I say “think” because I’m avoiding the scale. I know it’ll only upset me more. I’m trying to avoid things that upset me. I’m in a sensitive enough place as it is, and have had despairing thoughts and more suicide ideation than I care to admit. So, no, I’m not stepping on the scale. It’s not a surprise that I have…I used to run A LOT (while manic, of course), and now I just want to sit in a ball on the couch.

I don’t need a scale to tell me that I’ve packed a little on. So I decided to go running yesterday evening. As before, it started off fine, and then I ended up angry and crying about half way through. I realized I didn’t want to be running. But that 5 months ago, it was all I could think about. I’m drained of energy. But 5 months ago, I felt like I was busting at the seams with it, and had to restrain myself from doing jumping jacks all day. I cried because I want that energy back. At least some of it. At least enough to be able to feel alive, because right now, I don’t.

I said to myself, “I want myself back!”. But then I realized that that wasn’t myself. Then, who am I? When were my “normal” periods between episodes? When? I don’t think I have any way of knowing. So does that mean I have to figure that out now? Then my inner voice started screaming that I didn’t ask for this. I don’t WANT THIS. This isn’t how I was SUPPOSED TO BE.

Bipolar isn’t want I dreamed of being 15 years ago. 

We live across from a church, that has a nice little water fountain, and benches. I took my angry bipolar self over there, thinking it would calm me down. I sat on the bench, still crying a little bit, and asked if this is what life is for me. All the flowers there are bloomed,  and beautiful, and I wondered when I would be able to find my internal passion, hope, optimism, and beauty again.

Will I only know my “normal” when there is a absence of symptoms? I’ll realize I’m “normal” when I’m not checking anything off of my nightly symptom chart?

 

Because of me


When I left work tonight, I was a little frustrated with how the night ended. And I am so upset at how upset my husband is right now – [because of me.]

Needless to say, I ended up screaming “I hate you!” at myself in the car…just before seeing a bar roll into sight. I was starving, and thought I might get something there. Mainly a drink though.[ because of me ]

Turns out I had missed the kitchen by about 5 Mins, but they were still happy to give me me rum and coke.  Some poor older woman beside me tried asking me a question, but it just came out as mumbles. I did what I normally do in situations like that and just nod. I downed that drink quick (whoops) and got out and headed to the nearest open fast food place – conveniently located yards away from my old work place – where my affair partners work.[because of me]

I saw a friend  sitting outside with a manager, and then realized that was the manager I CAN’T see[because of me], so I drove past and ordered my food. Luckily, my friend was being picked up by her ride when I was coming back and I saw they were going to the gas station across the road so I followed.

It was nice seeing her, catching up. She asked how my Meds are going, etc. She said everyone misses me and wishes I would come back. I told her it’s not possible [because of me]. We said bye, I promised to text, etc.

And I realized how DRUNK I was. And how GOOD it felt. How much of a RELEASE it was. I started shoveling fries and chicken sandwich down my face but it didn’t help.

I parked in our driveway and happily (and by that I mean that I had a huge grin on my face) threw all the water and diet coke I had out into the grass. That’s when the thought hit me that I feel so good right now :):):):)[because of me]

I stumbled up the stairs, came in, and got a glass of water. In bed now…because of me.

Working While Bipolar, Dealing with Stigma


I work at a seafood restaurant that has a nice big lobster tank in the lobby. When I’m done for the night but can’t leave (we have to leave in groups of 3), I sit next to the tank and fiddle on WordPress my phone. That’s right, I read all your lovely blogs while I’m chillin after work.

I’ve never had anyone – much less a stranger to me – sit down pressed against me and lean over and peer onto my phone before…but a guy from the kitchen did a couple months ago. He’s nice enough. For some reason, he sticks up for me when people start to pick on me in the kitchen. I much just look like a little lost kitten.  But then again, when I’m “normal” and not in any form of mania, a little lost kitten is exactly what I come across as. So, whatever. It’s a side of me.

“Whatcha twittering?”

“Oh, I don’t twitter. I’m reading blogs.”

“Oh, you blog?!”

…shit. I know where this is going…

“Yeah, I do.”

“Oh! What do you blog about?”

—pause—

—pause—

—pause—

“I’m bipolar. So I blog about that.”

“Oh really? I never would’ve guessed. That has to be really difficult. How does it affect you at work?”

“I’m still kinda new at it, and I’m not quite sure yet. But I don’t think it causes me many problems.”

 

 

It ended there. And he’s still very sweet to me. We’ll hold the occasional 1 minute conversation you’re allowed in a restaurant.

But ever since then, he’s had me considering just how this affects me at work. I’ve become more mindful of how productive I am, how confused I get, how well my memory is, etc.

I’ve come to the conclusion – and this is still a study in progress – that I am at my worst times (normal mood – luckily, I haven’t had a depression while working outside of the house), just an average worker. Forgetting stuff here and there, a memory that is about as hard to catch as a feral cat, not too social with the guests, not very fast, not very vocal.

At my best times (which would be hypomanic/manic episodes), I am amazing. Super productive, very fluid movements, very vocal, conversing with the guests, memory like a steel trap, etc. I love working like that. I make more money like that. I don’t get in trouble with my bosses for forgetting stuff, etc. Its much less stress free.

I’m on the down side of my last hypomanic episode, and worked last night. I’m losing all of those lovely qualities I just mentioned :(:(

I kept forgetting stuff. Losing stuff. Having a hard time concentrating. Damnit.

 

My therapist was insistent that I not tell anyone at work about my illness. But, I don’t think I can do that. It would feel too much like hiding, like I have something to be ashamed of, like there is something wrong with me.  And that’s just not the truth. She thinks (heck, maybe she knows…she’s been doing this for over 20 years) that people will use it against me. Maybe they will. But the naive side of me (which I didn’t even know existed any more) thinks that I’d like to prove to them just how awesome I am so that when they find out, it will help them understand that we can be productive.

Oh, Oh! Another funny story from work concerning mental illness…I was dropping dishes off with another server, and he said something about schizophrenia, and then “Can someone even work with a condition like that?”. My reply:

“Yeah, actually. We can. I’m bipolar.”

—silence—

“Well, I’m tri-polar.”

“I’m quadrupa-polar.”

Then we both laughed and walked off to finish working.

Since then, I’ve noticed he’s a little softer to me. He usually is very sarcastic and picks on me a lot. Maybe related, maybe not.

I guess something really bad is going to have to happen before I stop fighting the stigma. I am awesome. I am bipolar. Therefore, bipolar is awesome. Sometimes. 

 

Control through sex?


Today sucked. I woke up to see my cell laying on the bed next to me, and I know I didn’t leave it there, which means one thing. My husband looked through it. No biggie. But it signified to me that he is suspicious and uncomfortable. Just knowing that alone makes me nervous.

It makes me nervous because I know I’m not in a normal zone right now, and he knows I’m not in a normal zone, which makes him a nervous wreck – which in turn makes me a big ball of guilt.

I step into a non-depressed or non-normal state and he freaks. Understandable, for sure. I’m not complaining about that. But it still sucks. I don’t want him to feel so insecure.

Well, I guess maybe you shouldn’t have slept with 2 men who weren’t you’re husband, huh.

Sigh.

Face Palm.

Banging head against the desk.

You get the picture.

I know I’m not totally in control of myself. He does too. And he knows what “I’m” capable of, so it’s like he’s just waiting for me to “do it”. I don’t want to do it, but I am scared. That’s what I have to tell the psychiatrist tomorrow. I don’t know what he’s going to do, but I don’t want to sit around and wait for this to happen…we can’t live like this.

Yesterday during therapy, the therapist and I briefly discussed my 2 “affairs”. She asked, that if I had no personal attachment, what was it all about? Why did I do it? If I had a husband who was ready and willing to have sex whenever I wanted, why go to anyone else?

I told her that above all, I wanted to be desired.

She said that’s nothing out of the ordinary, everyone wants to be desired, that’s normal. Then why the sex?

I said it was the ultimate desire. A natural progression from the flirting, and knowing that I’m desired. Not really my first thought…just something that came after I got what I wanted.

Very similar to having a big tasty meal and then having a big nasty poop.

I had a bout of childhood abuse that I’m not really ready to get into here yet, but she know that it can contribute (or cause completely) hypersexuality problems. She asked if maybe this is about vengeance?

Certainly not my first thought when I do what I do.

Maybe it’s about control? Being able to control a man/men?

I do like that idea.It feels like a comfortable thought. There’s a chance that might be right.

Honestly, I think my husband is the only man who has ever treated me right in my entire life (THANK YOU BABY). I was ignored and forgotten by my Dad, abused by my Grandma’s husband (not my bio Grandpa), and the usual crap that goes with dating “bad boys” – a little bit of emotional abuse, cheating, being used, etc.

So, yeah, maybe I want to be in control.

But I am in control of my husband. I’m not being a bitch. I know he desires me. I know I can have him whenever I want. He tells me so. He tells me that I am worth all of this trouble, and that I am beautiful and smart. I truly have a one in a million. And when I’m “normal”, I know this. I know it deep inside, and I am at peace.

You know what’s so frustrating about all this? Is still being lucid. Having just enough control over everything to know that something isn’t right. IT MAKES YOU FEEL CRAZY.

I’m still here. I’m still inside. But I can feel myself slipping. Like sliding down a slide on your belly, trying to grab the top again to pull yourself up, but just not being strong enough yet. I can see it, I can feel it, but I can’t do anything about it. I think my mindfulness and the lithium is helping me to not fly off that slide and land face down in the mulch.

God that doctor has to help me tomorrow.