Category Archives: mania

July 13, 2019 · 12:49 PM

Bipolar II – A Day in the Life

It’s really beautiful, the view from the top. So beautiful I want to cry. I’m flying. I’m invincible. I’m full of grand ideas and grand plans and grand words. So very many words. The world is my proverbial oyster, and dammit I’m going to hold onto that slippery little sucker with all of my might. And I do. I do hold onto it.

Until I don’t. Until something weird starts to creep in. It’s unpleasant and frenetic and exhausting, like a million neurons are firing at once. I can’t get comfortable in my own skin. I can’t sleep, because it’s more important that I research opening up my gym. Or coffee shop. Or buying the church that’s for sale on the corner.

I can’t sleep because my skin is crawling. Because my heart is pounding. Because I’m drowning in my own thoughts, and feelings, and words. Because there’s just not. enough. time. I’m scared and I’m exhilarated, all at the same time. I text a friend at 2:00 in the morning and then get my feelings hurt when she doesn’t respond.

And then my feelings are hurt all the time. My feelings are hurt by what you said, by what you didn’t say, by what I thought you meant. My feelings are hurt by my own active imagination and it is EXHAUSTING. It strangles me. I see what’s happening, I see it like I’m looking at a stranger, but I’m powerless to stop it. I don’t blame anyone for deciding they can’t be my friend, for deciding they hate me. I hate myself.

I’m not flying anymore. I’m sinking. Sinking and sinking and sinking. I could claw my way up, but the walls are slippery. The darkness is enticing. It swallows me whole. There’s no more color, there’s no more joy. There is blackness. Like a cloud that I carry with me everywhere I go. I go through the motions, but I’m not there. I’m ensconced in the ugly safety of my cloud. I’m oblivious to everything that isn’t darkness. I’m crying but I’m not SAD, and I’m offended by anyone who uses the word. I’m nothing. I’m a shell.

I have to force myself to shower, to leave the house, to see people. My God, people. I convince myself that I’ll never connect with another person as long as I live. Who’d want to connect with someone so broken? So dark and so lifeless? Who’d want to connect with someone who isn’t even connected to herself?

I’ve forgotten the view from the top. I’ve forgotten how beautiful it is.

And then, for a blissful and limited period of time I’m “normal.” My life is normal, my relationships are normal, my feelings are normal.

Until one day, without warning, I’m flying again.

8 Comments

Filed under bipolar, depression, mania, mental health, Uncategorized

March 15, 2019 · 2:19 PM

Seven Things Not To Say To a Friend With Mental Illness

I have been open about mental illness since the very beginning. As I tested the water here on my blog, I received nothing but support, and it encouraged me to continue to write about it, continue to talk about it, and continue to be vulnerable about it. I’ll gladly talk to anyone about my experiences, and I’m always up for answering questions.

The problem with such transparency? The well-meaning (and truly, I do believe deep in my heart that they’re all well-meaning) comments intending to help, but which ultimately hurt.

Here are a few such comments, in no particular order.

Cheer up/Don’t be sad/Just think positively. Oh were it that easy! The biggest problem with comments like that is that they assume the problem is a choice. Just try harder! Just choose to be happy! That’s not how it works, and it’s condescending and insulting to imply otherwise. No one CHOOSES depression. No one chooses mania. No one chooses anxiety. And if it were that easy to stop, no one would suffer from them in the first place.

But you have so much to be thankful for. Yes, someone’s life might appear to be problem free. Great job, great marriage, healthy happy kids, etc. I would say first of all that no one knows what happens behind closed doors, and even if someone’s life was as picture-perfect as it seemed? Mental illness does not discriminate. It crosses all borders, and doesn’t care about your gender, race, religion, or socio-economic status.

I know just how you feel. No, you don’t. If you’re fortunate enough not to be affected by mental illness, you have no idea how I feel. Please don’t believe otherwise. If you are one of the unlucky ones, chances are you really can relate…. but even then, I think there’s a risk in assuming that we completely understand how another person feels. No two situations are alike, no two people are alike. Ask questions, share experiences, but tread carefully with phrases like, “I know how you feel.” Never say you understand unless you truly do.

Everyone feels that way sometimes. One of the most disheartening experiences I’ve ever had when it comes to sharing my experience was about a year ago. I’d hit a bump in my recovery, my meds were being all switched up, and my diagnosis was being expanded to include Borderline Personality Disorder. I was a mess, I confided in a friend, and she asked me to describe what it all meant. I did my most vulnerable best, she looked at me with almost a shrug and said, “Oh. We all feel that way sometimes.” Oof. It is extremely minimizing to dismiss a very difficult mental illness as something that we all experience from time to time. I worked, and continue to work, hard – HARD – to do the things I need to do to be well. It’s hurtful for that work to be rejected with a flippant refusal to believe that there was even a problem in the first place.

You need to exercise/get outside/heal your gut/eat these foods/take these supplements/use these oils/try this product. I know that you want to help. I do. But it’s highly likely that anyone dealing with a mental illness has done his or her homework, knows the options that are out there, and has made decisions and determinations about what does and does not help as well as what they do or do not want to do about it. They’re also (one would hope) working with a team of professionals whose job it is to help them get well. What your friend needs from you is friendship, not advice.

My brother has bipolar too. He’s in jail. I used this as an example because it was something that was said to me once. (And by the by, how was I supposed to respond to that? I still don’t know.) But it speaks to a larger issue of making assumptions and comparisons. Not everyone who has bipolar ends up jail. Not everyone with schizophrenia is violent. While those things certainly are the reality for some people, every illness is different, and every individual is different. Yes, there are patterns of behavior, and there are shared symptoms… but it’s a slippery slope when you start to believe that the character you saw in Silver Linings Playbook is the epitome of mental illness. Everyone is different.

You just need to turn to God. I saved this one for last, because I think it’s the most damaging on the list. Too many people think that if you just believe hard enough, if you just pray hard enough, that God will take away your illness. This belief is so, so harmful for believers. It leaves those struggling with mental illness feeling as though it’s their fault, that they’ve fallen short, that their faith isn’t strong enough, and that they’re just not TRYING. It is NOT their fault, it is not a sign of weakness, and it can affect anyone. Anyone. Regardless of where they do or do not stand with God. Regardless of how much they believe, regardless of how hard they try.

It can be a delicate thing, dealing with mental illness – dealing with any kind of illness – when it comes to your friends or family. And while it’s true that there are missteps that can easily be made, there are things to be said that can help, immensely.

I’m thinking of you.

I love you.

I’m here if you need me.

I hear you.

I see you.

Simple words that go a long way to let someone know you care, that you don’t think it’s their fault, and that you know they just can’t “snap out of it.” When all else fails, you can never go wrong with just Being There.

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Filed under bipolar, depression, mania, mental health, Uncategorized

September 13, 2018 · 2:35 PM

I Take A Pill

Every day, I take a pill

Actually I take a few different pills, but for the sake of brevity….

I take a pill

The pill is not a happy pill, nor is it a magic pill

It’s not an “easy out”

It’s not a substitute for taking care of myself

Or for eating well, or getting enough rest, or getting out into the sun

It’s not (no matter how much others try to make you believe otherwise) a sign of my ignorance, or my lack of research

It’s not (no matter how much others try to make you believe otherwise) about blind faith in a flawed and corrupt system

Are pills over-prescribed? Yes

Do pills come with risks? Yes!

But still I take a pill

I take a pill because I value my life

I value the quality of my life

I take a pill because without it my life was the very last thing I valued

I take a pill because for some reason (or two reasons or a hundred reasons) my brain just doesn’t quite work like yours

And it’s okay! This weird, different, twisty brain of mine is okay

But not when it’s lying to me

Not when it’s telling me I’m not enough

Not worth the space I take up

Not when it’s overcome with darkness, or mania, or anxiety

So I take a pill

And the pill doesn’t fix me

But it allows me to fix myself

It allows me to function

It allows me to enjoy instead of just exist

It allows me to see colors where there was once only black and white

It allows me to move when I was once immobilized

I take a pill

I take a pill for me, but also for ALL the people who are shamed away from seeking help

Shamed away from saying it out loud

Shamed away from pills

Or doctors

Or therapists

Shamed away from putting a label on something that is NOT shameful or bad or ugly…. but just different

I take a pill because I need the help

I take a pill because all the fresh air and exercise and essential oils and kale in the world did not fix the broken

And I’ll say it again..

The pill doesn’t fix the broken either

But it allows me to fix the broken

It allows me to believe that the broken is fixable in the first place

It allows me to believe that the broken is WORTH fixing

So despite the voices

The voices from family, from friends, from strangers

Dear Lord the constant voices

The voices that yell DO NOT TAKE THE PILL

Every day, I take a pill

And every day I’m thankful for it.

There is no shame in doing what you need to do to stay well.

3 Comments

Filed under about me, anxiety, bipolar, depression, mania, mental health

June 20, 2018 · 10:02 AM

What If You’re Wrong About Depression?

Depression is a mind game. If you stop thinking about it then it will eventually go away.

I read that on Instagram this morning, but I see the same comment in various iterations on a daily basis.

Just think positively!

Look at all you have to be thankful for!

Step out of the darkness and into the light!

Well meaning, to be sure, but it’s not as simple as that. It’s just not.

And we could debate all day about the causes and treatments of depression, and whether or not it’s even a real thing. It’s a chemical imbalance. No, it’s all in your head (side note, I saw a cute meme that retorted with something along the lines of, “Well where do you expect it to be, in my kidney?”) It’s all just a state of mind. It can be fixed with diet. You just need more sunshine. You just need drugs. Drugs make it worse. You need therapy. Psychiatry is just a bunch of pseudo-science quackery. Just stop thinking about it.

Etc

But the thing is, for the purposes of my point here, none of the above really matters. It doesn’t. Because just pretend for a second, just for a second, that you’re wrong, and that the person in question truly CAN’T just positively think their way out of depression. Do you know what comments like yours do to a person with depression? They minimize them. They invalidate them. They make them feel – when they are already at their most desperately lowest point – that they’re doing something wrong. They make them feel worthless, and they make them even less likely to seek help.

At best, comments like these are annoyances… thinly veiled insults wrapped in a pretty bow of concern.

But at their worst? They can be the very last thread on someone’s already rapidly fraying rope. This is going to sound harsh, but your comment could literally mean the difference between a person’s choosing to tread water another day, or letting the rope slip through their fingers.

I think that of all the ways we hurt each other as human beings (and boy howdy, are we good at hurting one another), one of the worst is simply when we don’t see each other. When we don’t listen. When we tell each other, through actions and inactions both that we don’t matter. That our feelings and experiences are not valid. Are not real.

IT HURTS TO BE MINIMIZED.

In fact, at this moment in time, I can think of few things that hurt more. I’ve always known that I was more sensitive to this feeling than most people, and I only recently learned why. In a lovely twist of irony (because what is life if not a giant example of irony?) deciding to open up about this painful facet of my life earned me nothing more than more flippant dismissal. “Pfft. Oh, that. We all feel like that. That’s just being a human.” So now? Once again, I feel unsafe sharing.

IT HURTS TO BE MINIMIZED.

Be kind.

If you’re wrong about this (and hell, even if you’re right), you need to know your words matter. Your words hurt, not help. Because even IF you’re right? Even if the depressed person CAN just think they’re way to happiness? At that moment, that moment that they’re choosing to invite you in… they’re not okay. What they feel is real. They need your friendship, they need your love, they need your support. What they do not need is for you to tell them that they’re wrong to feel what they feel, that they’re wrong to not have pulled themselves up by the bootstraps and fixed it already.

If someone had (fill in the blank with a physical illness – cancer, diabetes, meningitis, asthma) would you tell them it would go away if they would just hurry up and stop thinking about it already? I’m guessing you probably wouldn’t. You know that illnesses, from the common cold to leukemia, are complex. That they’re unique and multi-faceted and require different approaches for each individual person. You realize this. You respect this.

It’s 2018. Can we please start giving mental illnesses the same consideration?

I have written a lot about mental health, especially over the past two years, but this issue is one of the most important, and one of the most personal. Ironically (see above comment about irony), I’m doing well at the moment. I’m in balance. Which is… unexpected, given everything that I have going on right now. I feel good. But when that changes – and it will change, because that’s the beautiful cyclical nature of mental illness – please don’t tell me I just need to stop thinking about it. Please don’t minimize me. Please don’t tell me what I’m feeling isn’t real.

As anyone with depression can tell you, it’s real. If nothing else, it starts and ends with being REAL.

P.S. I just posted an update over on Patreon if you want to know what’s going on in my 3D life at the moment. 🙂 It is set to public, so you don’t need to be a Patron to read it.

1 Comment

Filed under bipolar, depression, kindness, life, mania, mental health, rant

March 6, 2018 · 3:25 PM

Therapy Ends. Chapter Two Begins.

The beauty is I’m learning how to face my beast
Starting now to find some peace
Set myself free

Today, I don’t have to fall apart
I don’t have to be afraid
I don’t have to let the damage consume me,
My shadow see through me

Fear in itself
Will reel you in
And spit you out over and over again
Believe in yourself and you will walk

Fear in itself
Will use you up and break you down
like you were never enough

I used to fall but now I get back up

~Fear, Blue October

On May 23rd, 2016, I walked into therapy for the first time. I’d seen a doctor, been diagnosed, and started meds just a few weeks before that, but it’s that first day of therapy that I really remember. Partly because I’d spent the better part of my adult life actively hating the very idea of therapy (I thought therapy was WEIRD. I still think therapy’s weird. My mind reels at the fact that there’s this human just walking around out there knowing my deepest darkest secrets, the ugliest parts of my psyche, my biggest fears, and my greatest aspirations. All the big things, and all the little things, and everything in between.) But even more than that was just the fact that, well, I was terrified. Like, more terrified than I’d ever been of anything. Ever. The end.

I wore my “Coffee is My Spirit Animal” t-shirt that day, because it was a favorite, and it made me less nervous. I also had on pretty much every beaded bracelet I owned, for the same reason. They gave me as much confidence and courage as possible on a day when I was having trouble mustering either one. My fingernails were painted a very dark brown, a new favorite color (aptly) called Espresso.

I was scared. So, so scared.

And now, I’m remembering. Remembering it all with a detail and acuity that is making it hard to breathe. You know how people say their life flashes before their eyes right before they die? Well, it’s kind of like that, but … the opposite. I’m not about to die. I’m about to live.

Therapy obviously wasn’t my whole life, but it was a very big part of it, at least for the past 21 months.

And I hated it. I did. I hated therapy. And I don’t feel bad saying that, because I never exactly made it a secret (to anyone, but least of all to my therapist). Therapy was hard. It hurt. It brought me to my knees. I spent more time being mad at my therapist than I think I’ve ever been at anyone that I wasn’t related to in my entire life. Usually just because he was right, and said what I needed to hear but didn’t want to hear… but very occasionally for reasons that I felt were justified. I got my feelings hurt. I got my toes stepped on. I constantly feared I was doing it “wrong”… that I’d say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing, and that I’d screw up this professional relationship just as adeptly as I’d screwed up my personal relationships. I wanted to quit so badly. I wanted to quit all the time. I fantasized about just not showing up one day, and sometimes accompanied said fantasy with a scathing letter just for good measure. Some weeks, making myself drive to therapy took every single ounce of willpower in my body. And some weeks? Some weeks I had no willpower left. I had nothing left.

Because it had broken me. Make no mistake: therapy broke me.

But.

It also put me back together. It healed me. It made me stronger. It taught me things (about myself, about the people around me, about life) that no self-help book in the world ever could. And it was cyclical, in that it made me filled with gratitude – SO VERY MUCH GRATITUDE – and then frustration, and then stubbornness, and then anger, and then gratitude some more.

Last summer was my first try at leaving, but it didn’t take. The timing was …. off, I was spiraling into a deep depression even as we were trying to pick an end date, and my whole life just crashed and burned in what very nearly culminated in a hospital stay.

And I’m glad it happened.

I am. I’m glad for it, and I’m glad for the hard, and for the very very hard, sessions that followed. I just had more things to learn. And I needed that time, and I needed those lessons. It was all part of my story.

Because the thing is, I’m not afraid of the darkness anymore. Therapy taught me not to be afraid anymore (Full disclosure: Certain things do still touch on that fear. When a celebrity dies by suicide? It breaks that most tender part of my heart like none other.) But I’m stronger now. I have tools now. I know – like really, truly, deeply in my soul know – that even when the darkness comes, that I’ll eventually see the light again. That I can keep putting one foot in front of the other. That I can keep breathing. That I can keep myself grounded in the moment. That I can ignore and question and re-frame all the negative thoughts in my head. That I am NOT those thoughts…. no matter how much my brain or the world or the other people in my life try to make me believe otherwise. That those are just old stories, and that I can choose not to listen to them. I can choose not to give them power.

I’m okay now. But you know what? I’m better than okay. Because for the first time in my life, in my whole life, I accept me. I like me, warts and bruised broken bits and all. And really, those warts and bruised broken bits? They’re beautiful, because they’ve made me “me”. They’ve brought me here. They’ve made me strong.

I believe I can do the thing now. And it doesn’t even matter what the “thing” is. I believe I can do it.

I believe in me.

I believe I’m enough.

I’ve learned about the importance of self-compassion in these past 21 months. And of the importance of self-forgiveness (sweet baby Jesus, that’s a big one for me.) I’ve learned what awareness looks like, and what a huge step that is in and of itself. I’ve learned to take responsibility for me, and for MY issues, and leave everyone else to deal with their own. I’ve learned to say, “no”, and I’ve learned to stop trying to please everyone else. I’ve learned to respond with curiosity, openness, acceptance, and love (or C.O.A.L., just one of many such tidy little acronyms that I used to decry as cheesy, but now turn to again and again.) I’ve learned practical steps for panic attacks, for those negative voices that just. won’t. shut. up., and for taking care of myself even when I really really really don’t want to. I’ve learned to question the validity of what my brain is trying to tell me at any given time, I’ve learned to stop taking everything so seriously, and I’ve learned that no matter how many times my brain fights me on this: IT IS NOT ALWAYS MY FAULT.

Therapy didn’t cure me, this much is true. There’s no cure for bipolar. But there’s also no cure for… life. It’s going to have its hard moments, and it’s going to have its REALLY hard moments. It’s going to have its “No. Screw you. I’m not getting out of my bed/putting on my pants/stopping feeling sorry for myself” moments. But my God, it’s also going to have its beautiful moments! Its exquisitely perfect-in-all-their-imperfectly-gloriousness moments. I think of those moments sometimes. Of those perfectly beautiful moments of the past two years that I quite literally could have missed had I not kept going to therapy. I’m still here. I’m still here on the planet. Which is a multifaceted accomplishment to be sure, but therapy played such a big role in that puzzle. A role so big, that fills me with a gratitude so great that I almost don’t know what to do with it. What are the words? There can’t possibly be the right words, can there?

My life tends to be one big example of irony, so now, right at the moment of the end of therapy, I’m finding myself in a bit of a downward rather than upward swing. But unlike last summer, I’m not afraid of it. I’m not. I know that I’m strong. I know that I will see the light again. And if I have to come back to that sentence a million times to remind me, I will. I’ll see the light again.

I’m excited for it.

I’m hopeful.

I’m optimistic (which, by the way, is a word that was not in my vocabulary for.. oh, 44 years)

I owe that, and so very much more, to therapy. And while I’ve consciously used the general term “therapy” rather than the more personal, and more accurate, “my therapist”, I can’t close this out without correcting that. I mainly kept things generic because I didn’t feel like crying just yet, and there was zero chance at all that I could write this without crying.

Tony. My therapist’s name is Tony. He taught me more than anyone’s ever taught me. And he taught me the most important things, because, I mean…. what’s more important than LIFE? I was a slow study sometimes too, and a stubborn one, and a… well, did you get the part about how angry I was all the time? It must be noted though, that despite all the hard work, and the frustration, and the yuck factor, that there were days I actually enjoyed. A lot of them in fact. It feels important that I note that, lest you get the idea that it was 21 months of utter misery. It wasn’t. There were days we laughed, often at ourselves. Days we bonded over silly things like Seinfeld. Days I was allowed to see little bits of Human Tony instead of just Therapist Tony (those were some of my favorites). Days we celebrated one of my small victories. Days we celebrated my really big victories. Days that I truly felt and knew and believed that he believed in me, that he believed I could do it, and that he believed that I could do it well. Not because it was his job, and not because I was paying him to be there, but because human to human, he just DID. I told him not too long ago that I wished that privacy laws didn’t preclude him from having a wall of success stories… because I really wanna see my face up there. I want him to be able to tell people (again, in a vague way because… laws): here was this girl who didn’t think she could do the thing …. BUT SHE DID.

It was a Very. Big. Deal. It was all a big deal. It was a big deal that I did it, and it is a very, very big deal that it has ended. Because the whole point has always been to get me to a place where I didn’t feel I needed therapy anymore.

And we did that. I’m there.

Today, on March 6th, 2018, I walked out of that therapy office for the last time.

And I got in my car, turned on my music (which is always on shuffle), and in one final, serendipitous, post-therapy gift from the universe, the song that started playing was, “I’m Not Broken Anymore.” I was fully prepared to cry… but all I could do was smile.

And now? Now I take what I learned – and what I worked so hard at; and will continue to work so hard at – and I move forward. Move on to the next chapter of my life, and whatever that may bring. And I’ll do it with the deepest and sincerest and most life-long gratitude to Tony, who not only helped me learn how to have a good quality of life, but who quite literally also saved it.

____________________________________________

If your mental health isn’t what it should be please know when to seek professional help

If you’re having thoughts of suicide, call the crisis helpline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

You can also text START to 741-741 if you’d rather text than speak with someone on the phone

If you’re in imminent danger to yourself, PLEASE go to the ER.

You’re loved, and you’re worth it.

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Filed under about me, anxiety, bipolar, depression, gratitude, health, mania, mental health

February 18, 2018 · 9:59 PM

The Conversation About Mental Illness

People have often asked me how I can stand writing about controversial things, and/or how I can handle the negative comments when I write something that’s widely read … especially the people who know how very sensitive I am (which is anyone who’s known me longer than about 90 seconds). The truth is, sometimes I do get my feelings a little – or a lot – hurt. And sometimes I wonder why I keep doing it. And sometimes I want to just take my ball and go home.

But in many ways, it is far easier to be brave on my blog, where it has the potential to reach many people, than it is on a smaller forum. Or than it is with people I know – even if you’re using the word “know” in the loose, Facebook-era kind of way. I like to keep my own little personal Facebook bubble generally light and happy and controversy-free. Partly because that’s just who I am when I’m not railing about my various causes, but also because I can’t handle the heat. I can’t. Every time, EVERY TIME, I think I’m brave enough to post something that’s going to garner mixed opinions … I regret it, I end up crying, or both. That’s just the way I’m wired, for better or worse. My blog is different, because even though there’s the potential for a much larger group of people to be much meaner to me, there’s also anonymity. There’s safety behind the curtain. There’s the “imagine everyone in their underwear” mind-tricks to keep things in perspective. In small groups though, there’s just so much raw vulnerability. For a person whose greatest blessing and biggest curse happens to be vulnerability, it can be a lot to handle.

Sometimes I forget, though. And sometimes I post something controversial. And then I regret it. And then I delete it.

I did that very thing tonight in fact. I posted the thing, a respectful conversation followed, and still I panicked and deleted. I felt an immediate sense of relief …. promptly followed by whatever the opposite of relief is, promptly followed by bawling in the bathtub (the kind of crying where you feel like you’re never going to stop), and texting my friend to talk me down.

The thing is, I wish I hadn’t deleted it. Because I think it’s an important conversation to be had. I think it’s one of the MOST important conversations we should have. So I’m bringing it over here where I feel brave. Where I won’t feel the need to delete.

Like all of you, I was horrified by the news of another school shooting. Like most of you, I have strong opinions on what I believe should and should not be done to hopefully help solve the problem. Like a lot of you, I’ve been saddened and frustrated and angered by many of the memes I saw floating through my Facebook feed.

For reasons that are obvious to any of my regular readers, I’ve felt particularly stung every time I saw a meme screaming, “Mental illness! MENTAL! ILLNESS!”

I finally saw one that flipped a switch in me that turned off all reason, and I posted this:

I have a mental illness. It is currently well-managed. When it is not well-managed, the only person – THE ONLY PERSON – I’ve ever thought of harming is myself.

As I said up above, what followed was a respectful conversation. No one was mean, no one called me names. The comments were, even from the people who disagreed and/or didn’t understand the point I was trying to make, pretty benign. “There are lots of different kinds of mental illness.” “Different people are affected differently.” “There are many factors at play.”

Yes. Sure. All true.

I feel like I shouldn’t have to say this, but for the sake of clarity: I am not at all suggesting that the shooter was not mentally ill. People who are of sound mind don’t typically go on shooting sprees. The fact that people are suggesting he’s mentally ill isn’t actually my problem.

My problem is that we’re perpetuating a stereotype. My problem is that we’re feeding a stigma. My problem is that we’re taking this tiny percentage of those with mental illnesses (you guys, this is a TINY percentage) and using it as a scapegoat. As a way to explain something away. As a way to make ourselves more comfortable with a situation in which there IS no comfort. “Oh, well he was MENTALLY ILL. Of course.” My problem is that we’re holding this one, extreme, violent person and saying: This. This is what mental illness looks like.

I hate to break it to you, but mental illness FAR MORE OFTEN looks like the guy sitting next to you on the bus minding his own business. Like the co-worker you’re joking with next to the water cooler. Like the person who sold you your house, or cut your hair, or did your taxes. Like the girl in the bare feet and the owl pajamas. The who falls and keeps getting back up again. The one who isn’t going to bed until she hits “publish” on her blog post.

A few fast facts about mental illness and violence:

People with mental illnesses are far more likely to be victims of crimes than perpetrators. (source)

The absolute risk of violence among the mentally ill as a group is very small. (source)

The public is largely misinformed about any links between mental illness and violence. (source)

These inaccurate beliefs lead to widespread stigma and discrimination. (source)

Someone in my since-deleted Facebook post asked me, “Are you saying that you think talking about mental illness is harmful?” And what I think is very much the opposite. I think we need to be talking about mental illness. I think we need to know what mental illness is (and is not!). I think we need to have more compassion. I think we need to harbor less judgement. I think we need to demand true information, and real awareness. I think this conversation needs to happen openly, honestly, and in an ongoing fashion. Because what’s happening in the media right now? That’s not a conversation about mental illness. It’s fear-mongering. It’s sensationalism. It’s perpetuating a stereotype, it’s increasing stigma, and it is HARMFUL.

Let me say that again: Make no mistake. What’s happening right now is harmful to those with mental illnesses, and making those who suffer even less likely to seek help when it’s needed.

I’m going to close with something I wrote on the thread on my Facebook page before I deleted. It was responses to this comment that were what eventually led me to delete the post. Because it was so, so deeply personal. And if you don’t feel heard when you write something so personal … I don’t know. I think it’s one of the most painful things we can experience. This is what I wrote, and the kernel from which this whole post was born.

There are so many people, so so many people, who’ve had or currently have suicidal ideation, who are afraid to get help for various reasons. I think the stigma is a huge one, as well as the fact that there is so much judgment attached (ie: How could anyone do something so *selfish*?, etc). But I also think that talking about it just makes people so damn uncomfortable that they’d do anything to avoid it. I get it. It’s uncomfortable. No one’s even mentioned it in this entire thread, despite my having led with it. But my life is valuable too, as is everyone’s who suffers from a mental illness. The problem is, it seems like no one wants to talk about mental illness until someone commits some horrific crime. This tiny, tiny segment of mentally ill people is literally the only exposure that people are getting. And by sensationalizing it, and using it to explain something away (something that is obviously multi-faceted) so many people are hurt. The feeling that one gets, from this side of it, is that your average, run-of-the-mill person who has a mental illness – which is SO many more people than most are aware of – is unimportant. If they take their *own* lives, oh well, as long as they’re not violent towards others. So sure, let’s have a conversation about mental illness, but that conversation needs to include the vast vast majority of people who live/work/exist without ever harboring violent tendencies. Otherwise, it’s just propagating stereotypes and increasing stigmas.

Let’s do better. Please.

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Filed under about me, bipolar, depression, headlines, mania, mental health, rant

October 8, 2017 · 9:09 AM

Making Peace With Self-Care (Again)

Last night, someone was mean to me on the internet.

And when I say someone was mean to me, what I really mean is: I got my feelings hurt. In a big way. Because they were not “mean.” Incredibly condescending, but not mean. I’ve (mostly) learned to deal with it when people actually are mean. When they swear at me, I can laugh it off. Tell me I should I die? Cool. Tell me that my kids are going to grow up to be ax murderers and drunk drivers and rapists because I don’t spank them? Whatever.

But admonish me, however politely, for not being a good enough human? To use patronizing language to call my character into question? To tell me, as a stranger, that I need to do better, to be better, no matter how well intentioned… holy hell. HOLY HELL, does that cut deep. I’m pretty sure that I have the years of damage from my fundamental Christian upbringing to thank for that. The great irony (because my life is one big example of irony) is that I was being chastised for not having enough grace for people. That I never knew what someone else was going through – which, of course, is absolutely 100% true – so I shouldn’t judge them based on one unkind and nasty snippet on the internet. What I wonder is if this person would have shown me more grace if they knew more of my story? Because yeah, I overreacted. But there was a reason. It doesn’t excuse it … but there was a reason.

I haven’t been sleeping lately.

It’s only been 3, 4 weeks now I think. Usually it takes a couple of months before it causes a complete mental break, which means if I can get on top of things, there’s still time to catch it before I end up where I was in July: suicidal and threatened with involuntary hospitalization.

Anyway, I haven’t been sleeping. First because of mania, then because of anxiety, then … I don’t know. And I’ve learned that nothing, nothing, unravels me faster than lack of sleep. I could eat nothing but junk food for months on end, sit on my couch like a sloth, ignore everyone and everything and still manage to function (relatively) normally. But take away my sleep? I start to slip. Like rapidly, rapidly, down-the-rabbit-hole free-fall. If I’ve learned nothing in this past year and half, it’s that I need to watch my sleep. You’d think that I would have learned that sooner, having been a chronic insomniac on and off since my early twenties, but… sometimes I’m a slow learner.

So I haven’t been sleeping, and I got my feelings hurt on the internet, and last night I found myself rather violently cleaning the kitchen at 9:00 PM, just to give myself something to do with my angst. It was the second night in a row that I’d gotten swept up (Swept up. Ha. See what I did there?) swept up in the act of rage-cleaning before bed. Second night in a row that I’d gotten into bed depressed, and anxious, and jumping out of my skin. I’d deleted the offending post and all its comments on my Facebook page, but I still felt gross about it. And I realized as I was slamming the sixth plate into the dishwasher that it was at least the fourth time this week that I’d deleted something because I’d gotten my feelings hurt. Or felt shamed, or embarrassed, or angry. Which made major alarm bells go off, because I only start doing that when I Am Not Okay. Or at a very minimum, on the verge of Not Okay.

And rather than trying to push through – which never works. Which never, ever works – today I’m sitting with my not-okay-ness. I’m admitting it; I’m saying it out loud. And I’m breathing, and I’m being gentle with myself, and I’m working out what has to change in order for me to start sleeping again, in order for me to start interacting like a reasonable human again. Letting go of my own self-care, letting myself get swallowed by the Big Black Hole, and then couching it in, “It’s not my fault; it’s the bipolar!” helps no one, least of all myself. Or my kids. Or my husband. Or anyone who has the (mis)fortune of being within a 50 foot radius when I am as jacked-up as I am right now. Whenever I feel myself starting to slip, self-care is the very first thing to go…. and the very first thing that I should turn to. I know this. I know this. And yet, here I am, once again.

It’s time to make peace with self-care. If I can’t do it for myself, I can at least do it for my kids.

And so, to the person who (rightly) reminded me of the importance of giving people grace last night: Thank you. You were right. I absolutely do need to give people more grace.

But today I have to start with myself.

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December 5, 2016 · 9:07 AM

10 Things I Wish People Knew About Bipolar

sittingonbuilding

It’s been nearly seven months since I first walked into the behavioral health clinic and basically said, “I need help.” I wasn’t surprised to hear the words, bipolar disorder, that day (I knew. You can read my story from the beginning here), but I was surprised by much of what followed. Treatment has been both harder – so, so much harder – and more rewarding than I thought. I’ve found unexpected encouragement from some people in my life, and unexpected absence from others. I’ve found a lot of support and information… and even more misunderstanding and judgment.

Ever since that day, I’ve been devouring every related article, website, and social media account that I could get my hands on. The relief of knowing that someone else gets it, and the feeling of validation and comfort that comes with, “Oh my gosh, this is describing ME!” is immeasurable. At the same time, there is so much information out there, much of it repetitive and/or of dubious quality, that it’s hard to know where to begin if you’re a loved one wanting to understand.

Here then are ten of the top things I want people to know, and misconceptions I’d like to dispel. It’s by no means an exhaustive list, but merely a place to start.

1. It doesn’t look the way it looks in the movies.

A quick Google search will yield you a nice little list of a handful of movies with characters with bipolar (or characters with unnamed mental health issues that present a lot like bipolar.) I think I’ve watched them all. And while some are of course better and more accurate than others, in general they’re full of stereotypes, and/or appear as if someone was just going down a checklist of symptoms, trying to hit them all. Also, what movies tend to portray the most is unmanaged bipolar, not the day-in, day-out, un-sexy business of taking meds, going to therapy, and making a concerted effort to get enough sleep. Movies are meant to entertain and shock and awe, so it only stands that they’re going to emphasize the wildest and the craziest extremes. It’s important to remember though that the face of bipolar may also be the guy minding his own business next to you on the train. Your doctor. Your neighbor. Your mild-mannered mail man. It won’t sell movie tickets, but it’s also me… cross-legged on my couch in my furry pajama pants, drinking tea, and watching the Cardinals lose (again.)

2. It is different for every person.

Like any illness, mental or otherwise, bipolar is not one-size-fits-all, and can manifest itself in many different ways. Just because your brother is prone to violent and angry outbursts when manic, it doesn’t mean that that same symptom applies to every other person with bipolar. Yes, there are common symptoms used for diagnosis (more on that in later points), but the intricacies and variations are infinite. It is both unfair and inaccurate to presume to know exactly how bipolar presents for any one individual, unless you are intimately involved in the day-to-day life of said individual. Even then, so much of bipolar is intrinsically wrapped up in a person’s inner psyche, and not something you can see anyway. Don’t assume.

3. Depression doesn’t necessarily mean not leaving your bed all day.

Depression, the first half of a bipolar diagnosis, is often portrayed (again, think of the movies) as a person who is nearly catatonic. Unable to leave bed, unable to eat, unable to really do anything but exist in a haze of sleep and crying jags. And yes, absolutely, this version of depression is very real. But equally concerning, and equally real, is something called “functional depression.” I am intimately familiar with this form of depression, as it’s the type of depression in which I most often find myself. With functional depression, the person is able to go through the motions, albeit in a fashion that is greatly hindered. Depending on how brave of a face this person can muster, you may not even know anything is wrong. People who are functionally depressed may still go to work, take their kids to dance class, and show up at church every Sunday. Outwardly, they may be doing everything they need to do, while inwardly they are completely withdrawn, immobilized, disconnected, despondent. They might have lost all pleasure, and all interest, in life. Last spring, just before I’d bottomed out and finally decided to seek help, I was in the middle of taking my daughter to lengthy dress rehearsals several times a week for a theater production she was a part of. I was contemplating suicide, and no one had any idea. Even now, seven months later, seeing that sentence terrifies me.

4. Mania doesn’t necessarily mean wild flights of out-of-control fancy.

mrjones

There’s a scene in the movie Mr Jones where Richard Gere’s character dances on a 2×4 (sans harness), high above the ground, in the midst of an manic episode. I think this is the sort of thing that people think of most often when they think of mania (the second major piece of a bipolar diagnosis): extreme, dangerous, and devil-may care. And it happens, to be sure. People experience euphoria. They may have hallucinations. They may become sexually promiscuous. They may engage in any number of risky behaviors. A lot of times someone’s manic episode will be the thing that lands them in the ER for the first time, leading to a proper diagnosis. But mania doesn’t always equal danger. It doesn’t have to mean amazing and exciting. It doesn’t have to mean wild and out of control. For me (and for a lot of people) it’s somewhere in between all of the above. It’s staying up all night to write, or create, or plan, because sleep suddenly isn’t really needed. It’s feeling like you can be anything, or do anything, or experience anything. It’s feeling that the world is at your fingertips. It’s bursting with great ideas and big plans, and spending lots – and lots – of money to make them happen. It’s talking too fast, because you’re just too excited, and your mouth won’t keep up. It’s motivation; motivation to do more projects than most people do in a decade. It’s a whirling and swirling and unending rush of adrenaline. It’s crying every time you go for a walk because the trees and the sky and the cracks in the sidewalk are just so. damn. beautiful. So is it a good feeling then, some might ask? I’ll be honest: it does sometimes feel like a positive in that it does bring euphoria. It does bring such a rush of ideas. It does bring so much creative energy. The problem is that along with that creative energy comes restlessness, and racing thoughts, and a feeling of wanting to crawl out of your own skin. And through it all, no matter how good it may feel in the moment, it’s all happening with the knowledge that the crash is coming. Like a tidal wave it’s coming, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

5. It’s not just about depression and mania.

Depression and mania of course get the most air time, but the symptoms don’t end there. There are actually a lot of different symptoms, many often occurring at the same time. There is something called a “mixed episode”, which as the name implies means that elation and depression are present at the same time. There’s the propensity for addiction. All or nothing thinking. Irritability. Impulsiveness. Sleep disturbances. Memory issues. Racing thoughts. Agitation. Sexual symptoms. Anxiety (this is currently the most debilitating piece for me, particularly in the “bridge” phase between depression and mania). There is lack of – or too much – energy. There’s fatigue, both mental and physical. There’s physical pain. Symptoms can last for weeks or months at a time, or they can be rapid cycling, meaning that you’re never quite sure what may be coming when.

6. It is more than just “ups and downs.”

“We all have ups and downs. Why would you feel the need to label it as bipolar?” Well first, I didn’t label it bipolar, medical professionals labeled it bipolar. Second, yes, absolutely… we all have ups and downs. When I’m doing really really well, I have ups and downs. Bipolar is a very different thing than “ups and downs” though. It is completely, 100% normal to have ups and downs. It is NOT normal to have “downs” so low that you no longer see the point in living, and to have “ups” so high that you no longer feel the need to sleep, or to make prudent decisions. When I first heard this comment, several months ago, I felt frustrated and insulted. Today I recognize that it just comes from genuine ignorance, and I feel happy (really) for this woman who does not have to experience the actual and extreme “ups and downs” that bipolar brings.

7. In order to be managed, it first requires treatment.

Bipolar treatment may include any combination of: medication, natural therapies, lifestyle changes, psychotherapy, etc. I carry no shame in saying that my treatment currently includes medication (a cocktail of three different meds at the time of this writing), though many people certainly try to shame me. Some comments are overt, and others are more subtle about it, but the judgment is still there. I won’t defend or excuse my own choices, but I will simply say that for me, I have absolutely zero doubts about the path that I’m on. I tried all the supplements, the herbs, the oils, changing my diet, getting enough exercise… and for me, it wasn’t enough. Taking the right medications at the right time quite literally saved my life. As did therapy – which I fought tooth and freaking nail at the beginning, but that ended up becoming one of the most important things I’ve ever done. Without appropriate treatment – no matter what that treatment ends up looking like – people tend to either self-medicate (with things like alcohol, drugs, compulsive behaviors) OR they continue to cycle through the elation and the depression, going through lengthy periods of dysfunction. I have done both, and I recommend neither. Bipolar doesn’t go away on its own. It doesn’t go away by force of sheer will power. It doesn’t go away by talking about it with a friend, no matter how understanding that friend might be. One of the most insensitive things someone said to me in the early days of diagnosis came in response to my confiding in her that I’d had to admit to the psych doctor that I’d been suicidal. “But didn’t the feeling go away once you said it out loud?”, she asked me. It doesn’t really work like that. Saying things out loud was what served as my impetus for getting help, but it for sure didn’t help in and of itself. Admitting you need help is hard. Doing the actual work needed to help yourself is even harder. If your friend/family member/loved one is seeking professional help, support them. Support them like crazy.

8. Managing bipolar is a full-time job.

There’s no “cure” for bipolar. It can be managed, but it doesn’t go away. Dealing with bipolar is a lifelong, 24 hours-a-day job. There are good days and bad days, good weeks and bad weeks. At the time of this writing, I’ve been in a dip for the past couple of weeks, and am trying to give myself lots of gentleness and grace as I work my way through it. Medication helps. Therapy helps. But they’re just the beginning. The day-to-day management, the will-I or won’t-I make the commitment to stay as well as possible is all on me. And it’s hard. And it’s tiring. And it would be SO EASY to let myself slide back into the safety of the darkness of depression, or into the numbness of a strong Captain and Coke (or five). I know I can’t skimp on sleep. I know I need to regularly take my meds and my supplements. I know I can’t skip appointments. I know I need to keep up with exercise and eating right and doing all the effing hard inner work that I complain to my therapist about every week. And ~~sometimes~~ a lot of the time, it pisses me off that it’s all so much work right now, but I do it. Because I owe it to my kids. I owe it to my husband. I owe it to MYSELF.

9. You don’t understand it… unless you do.

I think a lot of the time we so badly want to be supportive that we say things with the best of intentions that just aren’t truthful. Or helpful. Or kind. At the top of this list is “I understand.” Please, please don’t say this if you don’t in fact have personal experience. Having a bad fight with your husband or going through a funk because you can’t lose those last 10 pounds sucks, and I’m really sorry you’re experiencing that. Truly. But it’s not the same thing as living with a mental illness. It’s just not. Like so many other things, you can’t understand it unless you live it. I’m living it myself, and I’m still figuring it all out. Being supportive doesn’t need to (and shouldn’t) include words like, “I know how you feel.” To this day, the best thing anyone’s said to me about it all was this: “That sounds really hard. I’ll be thinking of you and sending you love while you work through this.”

10. It doesn’t define who a person is.

It always makes me cringe a little every time I hear the word bipolar used as a major descriptor. Especially since it’s so often used in a negative way. Ie: “My bipolar brother just went to jail again.” “My stepfather is such a jerk. He’s bipolar.” People with bipolar can go to jail, sure. And yup, they can also be jerks. But so can anyone else. Having bipolar doesn’t need to be a negative, nor does it excuse negative behavior. It is one piece of a very big, very complicated, very intricate whole. I’m not a “bipolar person.” I’m still ME. I’m creative and dorky and love my pets more than I love most people. I like coffee and movies and office supplies. I love the smell of the desert when it rains, and laughing till I cry around the dinner table, and getting new tattoos. I get excited when there’s a new episode of my favorite TV show. I’m me. I’m you. I’m all of us. A unique, imperfect, multi-faceted human. Not a diagnosis.

____________________________________________________

Bipolar (and mental illness in general) still very much comes with a stigma, largely due to misunderstanding and/or fear. It’s why I continue to talk about it, and write about it, despite the people who tell me not to, or are uncomfortable with hearing about it. I’m here to ask you to get comfortable with your discomfort. It’s not just that I think it’s okay to talk about it… I think that we need to talk about it. So many people are afraid to mention it, afraid to ask questions. But I’ll tell you what: when I know that you know, and the topic is deliberately avoided? It is so much more awkward than even the most awkward of questions. It’s an illness, not an elephant.

I have learned so much in the past seven months. So, so much. Bipolar has forced me to learn, and to grow, and to do all those hard and adult things that productive people are supposed to do. Calling it a blessing doesn’t seem quite right, but there is a greater good to be found, and I think that’s okay.

But some days? Some days it just really, really sucks. And I think that’s okay too.

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August 25, 2016 · 9:32 AM

Broken: How Therapy’s Destroying Me

art-broken-explosion-glass

I recently whined to a good friend about having to go to therapy. It was the morning of my appointment, and I wanted – with every little fiber of my being – to stay home. “I know it’s hard,” she said. “But don’t you feel better afterwards?”

“No,” I told her. “Most of the time, I feel worse.”

Having no basis for comparison, I have no idea if it’s it normal or not, but I dread it. I do. I sort of leave one appointment, and immediately start stressing out about the following one.

And I mean, there are positives. I like my therapist… he is warm and good at what he does. There are those rare times I leave feeling good, having made some big breakthrough or something. Sometimes I gain a deeper appreciation of the absurdity of it all. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes I leave with a helpful new tool for dealing with worry or anxiety or any of the other perks that come with being me. Sometimes I go home having learned something really huge about myself, or about life, or about how the mind works.

But… yeah, it’s still pretty much breaking me. And even on the good days, it’s all just so MUCH. So exhausting. So emotionally and mentally draining.

The other day, I realized something (In the shower, because that’s where I do my best thinking. I also tend to do a lot of thinking in my car, but there are so many things to distract me when I’m driving. There’s not much to distract me in the shower, unless I’m running out of conditioner, and have to keep reminding myself for the rest of my shower – conditioner, conditioner, conditioner – so I won’t forget to write it on the shopping list when I get out.) I realized that my brokenness, my feeling raw and ripped open and vulnerable, no matter how unpleasant it is, serves a real purpose. It’s a precursor – a necessary precursor – to healing. Sort of like how doctors sometimes have to re-break a bone in order to set it so that it can heal correctly. I’m the broken bone.

And I hate it. I hate everything about it. I hate uncovering more broken bits that need attention. I hate talking about myself. I hate worrying that I’m being too ______ (fill in the blank). Too annoying, too crazy, too whiny, too narcissistic. I console myself with the fact that maybe to a therapist it’s like I was when I was teaching yoga. All the new people worry that they’re not flexible enough, or that they’re doing the poses wrong, or that they’re being judged. And I – and every other teacher I’ve ever known – think they’re rock stars just for showing up. Every single one. Every single time. It would make me feel a lot better if I could think of myself as a rock star, just for showing up.

But I’m not a rock star. I’m a human. A human who’s working and fighting but raw and bruised and bloody from the battle. A human who’s broken. And sweet baby Jesus, I didn’t think I could get more broken than I was when I first walked into his office three months ago. I was wrong.

It’s a weird thing, therapy. Did you ever think about it? It’s just an odd, odd thing. Baring the most shameful, embarrassing, painful parts of your psyche to … a stranger? And there’s a professional rapport there I guess, and a certain amount of trust, but … you know NOTHING about this person. And for all the sharing you do, for all the emotional gut-wrenching stripping, you might as well be completely naked. Now that I think about it, because I’ve really never looked at it in that way before, I’m pretty sure that I’d find being physically naked preferable. I’m not even kidding.

So this is me, naked. Barenaked (anyone remember that song by Jennifer Love Hewitt in the early 2000’s??). I’ll be okay. I will. I WILL. But right now, I’m not too okay. I’m naked and afraid and vulnerable and would legitimately be contemplating drinking right now – at nine in the morning – if I hadn’t given up drinking, one of my favorite things, in my quest to face my issues and finally be well.

This is hard you guys.

A dear friend recently, and aptly, described it like this:

It’s like cleaning my damn house

Every time I think “surely I’m almost there”

Some new closet of junk appears

The closets are killing me. So very many closets.

I know my online presence has been a little scarce lately, but I’m still here. Still plugging. Still learning. Still broken. And naked and…. in a closet, apparently? (Sorry, way too many metaphors for one blog post.) But I’m here. And after all the hard work and time and tears I’ve invested in myself over the last three months, I feel confident in saying that I’ve no plans to go anywhere.

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June 17, 2016 · 7:00 AM

And Then My Husband Made a Joke – Part Six

bipolar June 2, 2016

Yay, you made it to the end! If you’re confused by that, and you’re coming here for the first time, you might want to go back to the beginning.

I started writing these last several posts for two reasons (and I realize that it would have made much more sense to mention this at the beginning of the story, instead of the end. But I’m doing it at the end. Let’s just make peace with it.)

I started writing them for two reasons:

To process. This part was entirely selfish (a healthy kind of selfish, I believe). I was dealing with a lot of new information, thoughts, and feelings, and once enough time had passed that those thoughts and feelings starting cohering themselves into words, I needed to start putting them down and getting them out of my head so I could move through them, and

To connect with others. A lot of people don’t understand the need/desire to open up about stuff like this. There’s a definite segment of society with an attitude of “We’ve all got issues, so what? Doesn’t mean you need to blab about them all over the internet.” Or “Why would you want to share something so private?” Or “Why do you think anyone would care about your problems?” And this is why: First, I think it’s important to stand up and say – again and again – that there is no shame in mental illness, and no shame in seeking help. Second, no one wants to feel alone, especially when they are struggling. When all of this peaked for me, it helped me in ways I can’t even express to see others telling their stories, being open with their struggles, and giving hope about recovery. Hope!! And so, whether this is shared with 10 people or 10,000, if ONE is helped in some way, if ONE feels a little less alone, if ONE finds a new sense of solidarity, if ONE feels a little more hope…. it’s worth the vulnerability it took to share it.

Having said all that, I have no intentions of turning this into a mental health blog (and the people cried, “Amen!”) I don’t want to start writing about bipolar all the time, and I don’t think anyone wants to read that. I know I’ll write about it from time to time as it’s part of my life, but …. I want to get back to talking about parenting, and unschooling, and the current ~~mess~~ state of American Christianity, and current events, and all the other things that tick people off on a daily basis.

This was just something I had to write about until I felt done. And as of last night, for now, I feel done.

Because last night, my husband made a joke. Aimed at me. And bipolar. I feel like I shouldn’t actually repeat the joke, out of respect for the people who are raw and sensitive (and/or who don’t use wildly inappropriate humor as a coping mechanism like we do in my family), but to set the scene: we were all eating dinner, talking about what we perceived must be the pros and cons of long term RV travel as a family. I said something about nobody wanting to be in that close proximity with me for too long because I’m crazy, he made his joke…. and there was Dead. Silence.

It was only a fraction of a second, but I felt it. I felt the silence, I felt all four kids look at me, and I felt the unspoken question of, “Wait, is this okay to joke about???”

And then I laughed, because it was funny. And then the kids laughed.

And then we all breathed.

*UPDATE*

It’s now been two weeks since I wrote this last installment (and over 5 weeks since I started treatment), and I didn’t feel right posting it without giving one final little update on where I am today. The problem is that I don’t really know how to explain where I am today. I’m…. working on it. I’m making strides. I’m celebrating small victories. I’m taking my medication faithfully, and building routines, and getting exercise and forcing myself to go to therapy even when I don’t feel like it.

Therapy by the way, is very different than I thought it’d be. I thought I’d hate it, and it turns out that I DO sort of hate it, just for different reasons than I anticipated. I like my therapist. He is kind and knowledgeable and really good at what he does. But therapy is REALLY FREAKING HARD. Facing your issues and figuring out your shit when you’ve had the lies of bipolar yelling in your ear for 20 years is excruciatingly painful (especially when you’ve taken looking for answers in the bottom of a bottle of Captain Morgan off the table). Like, one of the most painful things I’ve ever done kind of painful. I told my therapist last week that for every issue I’m learning to manage, I unveil another 50 issues that I’ve been avoiding. A veritable Pandora’s Box of dysfunction. But I’m doing it. And I’m learning. And I’m taking baby steps. I have some tools now, rudimentary though they may be, and I’m adding to them every week.

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I had a rough couple of days earlier this week, the worst I’ve had since I started treatment. I panicked. I braced myself for the downward slide. And I did slide. But I didn’t slide all the way. Instead I stopped, and I looked around and I clawed my way back up. Today is Friday, and today I’m smiling. And I’ll tell you what. Depression that lasts for three days is a hell of a long way from depression that lasts for six months. I will take it. I will celebrate the heck out of it. I have no doubt that there’ll be more bad days, but I also have hope that I’ll be increasingly equipped to handle them when they come. Good days are out there somewhere, too. And they’re so, so close.

I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.

Thank you, for reading, and for being so awesome.

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