I Love Visitors!

You'll recall a blog post of mine a week or so ago on the Having Bipolar vs. Being Bipolar topic, where I referenced a post from another blog, "salted lithium". Imagine my surprise when I woke to an email this morning notifying me that the author (Gabriel) had left me a comment on my post. I felt like a kid whose favorite rock star had just made a surprise visit. Seriously. Of course...typical me...I then had a flood of insecurity. Did he think I was too harsh? That I had nothing but total respect for his work, even if we differ on semantics? Was he pissed? Breathe in, breathe out... I probably should have told him that I was linking to his blog in the first place, just like I overlooked putting the link to his blog in my original post. [Smack to the forehead.] Durrrr. See...just like the kid with the rockstar.

He left great comments, clarifying some of the points I didn't understand. It is very satisfying to me, because it keeps me thinking. I enjoy good discourse. I always want to hear others' ideas and opinions. That's why I love visitors. If people are reading, then maybe someday I will write something that moves someone enough to comment and the exchange of ideas will flow. I love reading other people's blogs, I learn so much. The interactive ones are fascinating. Then again, I could just be a mental voyeur, because I don't usually comment. [Translation: I'm shy. Shhhh. Don't tell anyone.]

One of the comments Gabriel left me had to do with a statement I made about my Bipolar knowing it's place in my life. He made the very insightful point that it's place is to cripple. Most certainly it causes me a fair share of torment and then some. On the other hand, I also try to bitch slap it back every time. I can't change my DNA or my genetics, but I can fight for all I'm worth. Recently, it's been a battle royale. I've had to confront some very serious issues as to how Bipolar has impacted my life and my family. My primary focus in this blog is about how Bipolar and how it affects my life. It's only been 2 years since I was first diagnosed, and only 4 months since that diagnosis was changed from Type 2 to Type 1. That brought with it a whole new host of implications that I did not have cause to learn before. I struggle mightily. More than ever, I refuse to concede. It tempts me to go off my meds, it tempts me to fail in all sorts of ways, but fuck that noise in my head. I've suffered enormously for far too long. Kapowww! Get back down, you little shit. I'm the boss here and you're annoying me.

Gabriel also clarified his point about how saying I Am Bipolar vs. Being Bipolar lends a certain mystique to the illness-he sees it as a way of explaining away behavior caused by the disorder to other people and themselves. (At least that's what I took away from it.) I imagine many people do. Since I've never viewed it this way, I think I'm finally pickin' up what he's puttin' down. I didn't get it because I haven't tried to pass off my behavior. For one, I don't out myself to most people. I've educated my family and close friends who are receptive to learning about it; those who truly have my best interests at heart. Secondly, the only other times I've had cause to say I'm Bipolar is when asked about my medical history. For example, when seeing a doctor for a medical exam. I've always had a heightened, if not overly developed, sense of responsibility, so I take responsibility for how I behave. The way I see it, if you are inclined to abdicate responsibility, there is no distinction between saying you are or you have Bipolar. Either will suffice as a crutch to excuse yourself from learning about your disorder and being unable to accurately explain it. However, if saying you "are" keeps you weak and locked into fealty to your illness, you're suffering unnecessarily and being irresponsible.

I'm not trying to hammer my point home, nor trying to persuade Gabriel to my side of the fence because I still think our ultimate conclusion is the same. Like I said earlier, I just like intelligent discourse. I also enjoy playful and/or witty banter. I like jokes. Hell, I just like people.

Did I really just say that last thing? [Shhh. Don't tell anyone that, either.]

Ready to Move Forward

THANK GOD I feel better today. Three down days of feeling sorry for and beating the shit out of myself has not been a cakewalk. For whatever reason, I have returned to a semblance of the status I had previously achieved.

The big move is this weekend, and I'm back to being at least a little productive. It will be hard to leave the home that held so many dreams for us...the only real home our kids have known (we moved here before our 2nd child was born). We had planned to stay here pretty much for the rest of our lives. After 6 years, all that is over. The move will be good for us, it will relieve us of a large financial burden, not to mention adding to the warmth to our every day family life with my Aunt's presence--she is our kids' self-appointed grandmother. Nevertheless, there is a sense of melancholy at leaving our former dreams behind.

Moving forward allows a new beginning for us all. We're moving to a town with a better school system. A bigger house. It will afford me the opportunity to stay home with less worry about finances should my disability suddenly be terminated or not be approved for the long term. I'm eager to move forward and start a new phase in our lives. I don't want to look back. I want to look forward and begin anew.

So, come Saturday, I will begin a metamorphosis of sorts. I don't intend to look back (if I can help it.)

My Own Personal Prison

The last few days seem to have set me back quite a bit. In some ways, I'm better today than I was yesterday and the day before (and definitely the day before that), but in some ways not. I feel hollow. I saw my therapist last night and went over Sunday's events, and my resulting feelings. The ultimate answer is that time is going to be the greatest factor in healing this divide, his pain, anger, sense of betrayal, and my shame, guilt, unworthiness and everything else that I feel. There is no interim panacea.

Despite all that I have done, Mr. PolarBabe is still willing to open himself wide and love me as freely as he always has. He only wants the same from me. Problem is, my shame and guilt, my feelings of unworthiness lock me up inside. I can barely look at him, barely look at myself. What is there to give that is not tainted and ugly now? His love and honesty humbles me, but I also sink straight through the floor. The more loving he is, the more I want to die. I feel like clawing my skin off with my fingernails, tearing myself apart until I am raw and bleeding the way he is inside.

I talked with my therapist about redemption. I told him that I feel like I should not try to redeem myself, forgive myself and move on in anyway until he is healed. While he suffers, I will suffer. It does not seem right to me that I should have any relief before him. Maybe as time passes, we both will begin to feel better; things will feel more natural. From where I stand at this moment, there is nothing on the horizon.

While I sit and type this, I feel selfish for even allowing myself these feelings. Who am I to wallow in my own pain? To think of myself when he is haunted by my deeds this very minute? He will be mad when he reads this. I may feel like the worst person in the world, but he will again say that I'm not. He will say that I didn't kill anyone. I will again say that I might as well have.

The only thing I can do to prove to him that I still love him and always have is to show up every day and be consistent with my love for him. Being locked up inside such as I am, I fear that I am going to do a miserable job of that. How am I going to provide what he needs to heal? There is nothing of value inside me.

Redemption. It seems nothing but a dream to me.

There is so much to do, so much preparation for this move of ours this weekend. I was on track until the blow up on Sunday. Now I am lost and back to being barely able to function. I am afraid of angering him, of letting him down. I am locked up inside in so many ways. I think I am the most selfish person I know.

A Life and Mind in Shambles

I'm still a mess over Sunday's events. Mr. PolarBabe is a bit more steady, having released the pressure that had built from choking back his emotions over time. He's an amazing man, still committed to mending our relationship, moving forward and believe it or not, helping me through my own anguish over the damage I have done. I should be overjoyed and amazed that I am so fortunate--the vast majority of people who commit the same sins as I, are left in the dirt. It is what I deserve...each time he tells me that he remains madly in love with me and that I still deserve his love, I feel a knife twisting in my gut. He is too good for me.

Intellectually, I understand his statement that I am a good person who made some very bad mistakes. I do not feel like a good person at all. I asked him to think about what any good friend of his would say were he to tell them about what I did. What would they say? What advice would they give him? How would they look upon me after that? Take it a step further, what if one of his friends were in the situation and came to him for advice? He remained quiet, because he cannot deny the unworthiness that is mine. Ultimately, he said he didn't care what other people think, that all the other things about me are what makes me deserving of his love. I don't know what these things are. I never quite understood that during my so-called normal periods.

At any rate, I don't know that I will ever be able to live with myself. My focus is on him, of course. He is the one who has been hurt and maligned. My feelings are unimportant and can be dealt with at any time. The only focus on myself is to try to remain healthy during this difficult time. That's going to be quite a challenge. I'm back on the sofa with no emotion, no motivation during the day. All I want to do is take away his pain but I know I'm helpless to do anything.

I'm such a fucking loser. Pity...party of one...your crying towel is ready.

Living with the Aftermath

During some of my manic episodes, I engaged in some destructive behavior. My husband and I were going through some very difficult times, and my anger and resentment led me into some bad situations. Yes, I recognize my judgment was clouded as happens with mania. Nevertheless, I take responsibility for my actions. I did things that have caused pain and have nearly destroyed my relationship. In the long run, it may very well have; who can say? Our relationship is more strained than it has been, and my every word, every action is called into question. I am under a microscope, and deservedly so.

Having been on the other side of this coin in the distant past with others, I understand the pain he is feeling. I know what it is to be drawn and quartered inside, to be shredded, to be ground into a nothing but a pile of raw meat. I know the vulnerability, the fear, the agony. I also know how long it takes to recover, and that the it is quite likely recovery may never be complete.

I went through one of the harder periods of the aftermath last night. It is one thing to live with the simple shame of knowing what you did to yourself, to compromise your own values and let yourself down. It isn't easy and it is sickening. To see the person you have loved and adored, no matter what difficulties you may have had in the moment, in such torment, to see the anger and hatred in their eyes in the heat of the moment, is quite another. Having that mirror thrust in your face, makes any other pain I might feel an insult to his. I cannot defend myself, I cannot try to relate. I cannot effectively express my true love, because my words ring hollow. The only thing I can do is lay myself bare and listen quietly, because his anger is righteous.

Last night, I didn't do so well at this. I tried to make him understand what was happening to me at the time, but it only exacerbated the situation. It ended with me on my knees begging him not to leave. I've never begged anyone for anything before, but no one and no thing has ever mattered to me this much before. I don't know how to make this situation better other than through time; as he once said to me "Time is the great equalizer". I am terrified that nothing will ever be enough.

I think of all the other bad things I could have done. Why did it have to be this one? Why was this my compulsion and not all the other things that other people do? It doesn't really matter anyhow. I did these things, and the result is mine to own. I do not and will not abdicate responsibility. That's not what I'm trying to do. My statements only indicate a predisposition to that weakness. How I wish it had been a different one. Nevertheless, he thinks it was intentional, spiteful behavior. I can't explain it to him, there's no way he can possibly possibly understand. All he knows, all he thinks is that I didn't and still don't love him. I don't blame him one bit. I wouldn't be able to think anything else either, if roles were reversed.

Nothing could be further from the truth, though. Even in our worst moments, I have loved him with all my heart. As strange as it sounds, he has always been there with me in my mind and my heart.

Martha Stewart Can Kiss My Ass

I hate that bitch and everyone like her. Mostly, I'm just jealous. Not because of her money or the fact that she has a TV show, a magazine, and all the various other things that made her a celebrity or sorts. (I bet her house arrest ankle bracelet thingy was cool looking, though). What I hate is that she can do everything. Moreover, she likes doing it. I have none of this.

I am not "crafty". At least not in a scrapbooking, potpourri sachet-making, hatbox decorating, birdhouse building, sort of way. (Do they make birdhouses at the funny farm anymore? If so, I might someday develop a talent for that. I do like birds, anyhow.) I am secretly envious of anybody who actually likes doing this kind of stuff. They don't even have to be good at it. It's just nice to have a hobby to enjoy.

I do not crochet. I do not knit. I do not latch hook rugs, I do not make lanyards, hand-tool leather belts, do ceramics, stained glass windows, sculpt or oil paint. I do like redecorating rooms, but I have to be manic and have a whole week to kill myself doing it and be willing to leave part of it undone for a couple years. My one hobby was salsa dancing, which I adore. It's very, very fun. Problem now is that I can't stand being in public places, crowds especially. I don't think I'm going to find a salsa place that will close down for me. My meds prevent me from eating or drinking enough to make that a lucrative option for any club proprietor.

What do other people "do"? I don't watch much TV. I read when I can. Mostly, I just interact with the kids. This is not a bad thing, of course. I just feel like I should be doing something, too.

Man, I am just one lost puppy. I need me a map, some directions and maybe a compass. Screw that, I want a GPS. I like things to be easy. Maybe that's the problem...

Hide and Seek

There are times when I feel so detached from situations, it's like being an invisible observer to my life. I watch people talk, hear them, can reach out and touch them, but am totally unable to participate in any meaningful exchange. I often want to speak, but can't. Is it me, or can I just not get a word in edgewise? I sit and grumble to myself; exasperated by the rudeness of some people. Don't they see me? Why don't they want me to be a part of the conversation? Don't they care that I'm here? Aren't they interested in anything I have to say? Am I that boring, or worse yet, dumb? When I try to interject, it all but goes unnoticed. Why does this phenomenon occur? Is it just me?

It occurs on the Internet, too. I've tried to reach out on forums, to make contact with people. Often there is no response, or very little. I'm opinionated, yes. Belligerent, no. I'm open-minded, not argumentative nor insulting. Am I just not engaging? On Twitter, I've tweeted to people without response. (Almost always without response). Should I be bothered by any of this? I'm definitely puzzled.

The neat thing about mania, at least in the beginning, is this phenomenon goes away. Bipolars feel absolutely fascinating when they're manic. In my mind, everyone hangs on my every word, follows me around like I'm the Pied Piper of Hamlin. If they don't know me, by God they want to know me. I'm surrounded by the white light of angels, and one can't help but notice me, if not be seduced by me. Anyone who has been manic knows this feeling. It's the most delicious bag of nuts in the world.

I suppose once you've sampled the pecans, anything else is just a peanut by comparison. When you don't feel quite as magnetic, when you aren't charged up with that energy, what else is there to feel but invisible? What is the in between? What is it that a non-Bipolar feels? When you don't know what to seek, what do you do? It's tempting to chase the mania like a hungry vampire looking to feed. We just want to be filled up, up, UP.

Connecting with other people is important; I know I need to do this. I just really don't know how. Other people seem to have connections, even those who seem to be lonelier than I. I know "seem" is probably the operative word, but they're talking with others and I "ain't". So, what is this mysterious thing that I lack? It's alien to me, I was never socially inept. Now I feel totally inadequate, totally impotent, 100% boring, worthless and uninteresting. I don't have much occasion to connect with anyone outside my home right now, and with my depression (although subsiding through the marvels of chemistry) lending a hand to prevent it, I thought the cybersphere would be a good alternative. Now it seems like I'm trying to break into a clique. Why does it feel like that to me?

Am I somehow causing this? Have I found a way to somehow hide behind my words and prevent people from connecting with me? Am I not open enough? Am I sterile? Too needy? Not needy enough?

Oh great. I just realized this post sounds like I'm begging for friends. Somebody slap me, please. Wait, that probably sounds like I don't want to be friends. Really, I do. Oh for God's sake, just shoot me.

Losing My Best Friend

I have avoided this subject for a long time. It's a very difficult and painful topic, filled with so many emotions...I always bawl my head off when I get to thinking about it too much. This is probably gonna run long.

When I had my major episode in April (the one where I went stark raving mad and thought my husband was trying to kill me), I lost my best friend of 35 years in the process. She had been our nanny for the last year while I was working, and it had worked well for both of us. We got to see each other every day. We would gossip and giggle like we did when we were kids while I finished getting ready in the morning and the kids were eating breakfast. She really was like a sister to me--we met in Kindergarten. We started spending the night at each other's houses in the 5th grade. We pretty much alternated weekends at my house and hers after that, until an unplanned pregnancy prompted her to get married at 16. We knew each other inside out, backwards and forwards, including where the bodies were buried. No matter how different our lives became, that never changed. Thelma to my Louise, Ethel to my Lucy, we have have always been inseparable. Nothing and no one came between us. Believe me, there were girls in high school who tried to break our bond. We just laughed at their attempts, and even went so far as to play mean practical jokes on them.

When I went deep into my delusions, "Ethel" was here. Mr. PolarBabe had gone to the store, and I went to her to say that I knew it sounded crazy, but I thought he was trying to kill me. I told her I thought he had replaced my antibiotics (I'd just had a surgical procedure) with methamphetamine. She didn't question me. She helped me search for the prescription leaflet to see if they were supposed to be capsules, and when we couldn't find it, she helped me flee. She took the kids and me to my aunt's house and promised to stay the night with me. I was out of my head, the hallucinations cresting over me like waves. I caught her glancing at me once with worry, but I dismissed it.

I had moments of doubt, where I thought maybe he wasn't trying to kill me, maybe just have me put in the hospital so he could take my kids away. She said this was more likely, but never told me I was out of my mind (although in retrospect it was evident that I was). Mr. PolarBabe came to the house, and he, my Aunt, and she tried to explain that I needed help. I went in and out of my hallucinations, alternately agreeing with them and then saying I was fine. At the end of the day, I decided to go home, even though I was still secretly convinced I was going to die. I knew I couldn't take care of my kids in my state, but if they were going to die (I thought he was going to kill them, too) I was going with them. After making sure that I didn't want her to still stay with me, she went home. She had been there for me.

Sister Ethel came the next day to watch the kids again. By this time I was convinced she was in on it, that she was having an affair with my husband and wanted my kids to be hers. I also thought my Aunt was helping, that she wanted me dead because of a physical altercation we had had a few months prior. I took an opportunity to flee again on my own, calling 911 from a neighbor's house. Ethel came to talk me down, but I told her to "get the fuck away from me." She walked away; told my husband she wasn't coming back. I've never seen or talked to her again.

Once I was stable again, I was furious. How could my best friend desert me when I needed her most? Without making sure I was ok and safe? I'd have been by her side through it all, if roles were reversed. My children were devastated and thought she hated them. They're too young to understand. If nothing else, I would have made sure her kids were comforted emotionally! What hurt me most was when she removed me from her Facebook page about a week later. I felt like I was garbage to her now. It proved to me that she really wanted NOTHING to do with me. It was a message: I don't love you anymore. You really ARE crazy.

It took some time for me to see that she really did try to be there for me. I can't imagine how hard it must have been for her to see me like that. It had to be scary and heart breaking. How would I have felt? I'd have died inside. No, I wouldn't have run away from her, no matter how hard it was, but she and I have always been different that way. I am the bolder one. She has always been sheltered; protected. First by her parents, then by her husband. (They are still together after all these years). The important thing is that she tried.

I can't help what happened to me or what it did to her. I didn't even know this could happen to me, or I would have warned her when I first learned I was Bipolar. Even after I realized all that she did--that she didn't abandon me--I haven't tried to contact her. I know her. She isn't going to stop being afraid. She isn't going to be able to forget what happened. She is never going to be comfortable around me again. She probably isn't comfortable with how she handled it, but then again she may think I'm just a nutjob and I should be locked up. I am sure her family has told her to stay away from me. (I know them well, too. I introduced her to her husband when we were 11.) I'm also scared to death. I'm pretty sure she won't respond. She tends to avoid difficult things. Even on the off chance she did respond, I'm sure she would say that she doesn't want to be friends. Since I can't promise her it will never happen again, there's no hope to ever bridge the expanse that is now between us.

There is another reason I don't contact her. One thing I have learned about being Bipolar, is that although we can't always help the things that happen to us during an episode, we are responsible for the aftermath, whether it's the bills we have after shopping too much, or the pain we inflicted from an angry outburst, or the havoc wrought by destructive behavior. In this situation, I can't help what this episode did to her, or what it cost me. I do have to respect her desire to not want to be my friend. It cost her emotionally too, and it's a price she can't pay again should another major episode occur. I long to write to her, to talk to her, but I don't even know what to say other than I'm sorry. Even if she wanted to remain my friend, the elephant would always be in the room.

Bipolar Disorder hurts a lot of people. I'm sorry it hurt her, too. I just don't know if I'm going to adjust to this loss. 35 years, and now it's gone. Just like that.

Whistle While You...What? Whaddya Mean I Don't Work???

I got my first job when I was 15. I've worked ever since. I learned very early that when you made your own money, you had a certain amount of freedom that couldn't be taken from you. I liked making my own way, and making my own rules. I had a need to do that at an early age. Ergo, the notion of college was left by the wayside. I bought a brand new car at 18, and moved into my first apartment at the same age. I was on my way.

I took a job in what was to become my career field at 21. It was an entry level clerical job, but I loved it. (I have always had a secret love of completing forms. Weird, huh?) I quickly worked my way through the ranks. In less than 20 years, I was in a high ranking regional management position for an international insurance company. (At least it was commercial products, not health insurance). Impressive only because I have high school diploma, whereas most people in lower ranking positions had degrees, many of them advanced degrees. I was very proud of myself. The work itself never really brought me much happiness over the years. There was just too much stress, too much pressure, real and perceived. I have a strong work ethic and am a perfectionist of the highest order. Good enough is not good enough.

Now, I am disabled. Whether temporary, long term, or permanently, remains to be seen. I don't understand what I am supposed to be doing. I'm lost without a job to do. (Sorry, being a stay-at-home mom and the idea of doing housework doesn't qualify). I don't know what to do with myself. I know I'm supposed to be recovering. I don't know how to do that. I know I'm supposed to set up some kind of structure for myself; I had to do that once before. It's coming slowly to me this time. I am overwhelmed and find it very hard to summon the will to do it. I find myself thinking more and more about going back to work.

I have to face it. My old job(s) made me sick. Literally. The stress slowly unravels me. It starts with one mistake, or being unable to answer one small question. Then I start feeling incompetent. Then I'm paranoid that I'm going to lose my job. I stop sleeping well. I get up later and later. I get to work late. I stop putting on make up. Then I fall apart. I'm leaving out a few symptoms, but you get the picture.

I think of going into a new field, but I'm not really qualified to do anything that would produce a steady income. I could retrain, but I wouldn't make enough money to afford the child care bills we'd have right now. That stumps me. I have no idea what I'd do anyway.

I realized today that I'm trying to skip steps by thinking about going back to work. Rather than doing the work to get (and keep) myself healthy, I want to create a false structure by working. I'd have to get up at a certain hour and go somewhere everyday. I wouldn't have to think about being Bipolar, I wouldn't have to do anything but take my meds and earn my money. I wouldn't have to think about all the things that overwhelm me. I could hide behind my title and wait for my next breakdown.

Been there, done that. Now what?

Ooops, My Bad (Link Attached)

Mr. PolarBabe pointed out that I should have posted the link to the blog post I referenced in my 2nd blog from yesterday. HUGE oversight on my part.

It really is a well written post. Enjoy...

http://bit.ly/L6fkt

Feeling Better, But Still Avoiding Public Places

I'm finally noticing some significant improvement in my depression after being on the Zoloft at the higher dosage. I've had several successive days of feeling good, but the idea of being in public places or talking on the phone fills me with dread. I can't quite explain this or see the logic in it. Maybe it will come in time, or maybe I still need a higher dose. I fear another increase because of the possibility of spiking into a mania (afraid of hallucinating again). If I could be assured of having a "typical" mania, I'd secretly be hoping, but now...well it's a whole new barbecue. (Emphasis on the smoke and flames imagery). Anyway, the idea of increasing the dose appeals to my laziness, as I'm tired of splitting pills. Filling up my pillboxes requires enough effort as it is.

I have a great therapist. He's Bipolar, too. He has been episode free for 25 years, but there is no sense that his memories have faded. We spent a good deal of time discussing my anxiety over interacting with people last night. He asked if I've always had an aversion to social situations. I'm generally outgoing, except for my low tolerance for stupid and/or ignorant people. For example, trips to Costco inspire homicidal ideation under any situation, mood disorder or not. Especially on sample days. It's not brunch, people!!!!! Sorry. Apparently, just the thought of it works me up. Back to the subject at hand...

Going to fill my prescriptions is a trip I dread. I am fully compliant with taking my meds. I accept this. It still doesn't motivate me to go get them. I need to go see my psychiatrist regularly. I like her. I am compliant. I hate going. What's up with that? Aside from going to see my psych, it's not like I have to have a conversation with anyone. Sheesh. You have no idea how relieved I was when my son got out of school for summer break. Now that there's only a month (a whole month) left, I'm filled with dread at taking him (and now my daughter too) to and from school every day. Oh, and let's not forget back to school shopping. Once. Sigh. One weird thing, I don't mind going to therapy. That requires in depth conversation. Go figure.

Whatever the case, I hope it resolves soon. I hate depending on Mr. PolarBabe for everything. He does everything but breathe and sleep for me. He practically eats for me. I don't do much of that, other than a protein bar in the afternoon and whatever he puts in front of me in the evening. Not the best way to lose weight, and my meds aren't even the kind that put weight on. (Thank God).

Anyone else have any experience with this and ways to overcome?

Self Check: Yep, I AM Still Bipolar

I follow a number of blogs. One led me to another blog, which was intelligent, and thoughtful. It was about one of my favorite subjects, the notion of having Bipolar vs. being Bipolar. Of course, he was in the other camp. I'm always interested in this debate and looking for something that might sway me to the other side. Food for thought is good, and I'm an open-minded thinker. Most of the time. Or I try to be. At least this week. I digress...

This person essentially wrote that thinking of oneself as being Bipolar as, in my interpretation, a resistance to accepting the disorder and thereby hampering a proactive approach to managing the illness or one's life with it. Interesting.

He wrote that recovery is easier when your family gets involved. He means that having a supportive family that is willing to be educated, of course. I agree. He states the importance of taking the initiative to get them involved. I agree with this, but you also have to know when to stop. He bought "An Unquiet Mind" for his mom. I bought a book for my mom too, but being the narcissist she is, she thought of how it applied to herself. (Even though she's not Bipolar, just a narcissist.) I'm not going to get anywhere with her. Fortunately, I have Mr. PolarBabe and my Aunt and they are great.

He talked about adhering to your medical regime, or in his words, just taking "your fucking pills." I agree with that, too--I like the way he puts it. No bullshit there. Just do it. You need them.

Now, down to the key elements; where we reach our different conclusions.

He writes that the "disease" has been "...romanticized in [various forms of art]". I don't know for sure, but I think I can safely assume that I don't romanticize Bipolar Disorder one iota. It sucks. Get over it.

"...that we have deluded ourselves" into thinking it is something to be "perversely proud of" or ashamed of. Well, we may all start out fearful, and I guess shame can happen. I am ashamed by some of the things I have done. Am I ashamed of the illness? Not so much. Do I fear rejection? Who doesn't? Am I proud of being Bipolar? Hmmm. I guess I'll get to that in a minute.

"You are not your disease." He states it's a "trap" we all fall into. I disagree on both counts. My disorder is part of ME. My brain doesn't quite work properly. I don't say "I have this brain here that isn't running right. I gotta get it fixed." I can't fix it. I could try to say I need some additives in the old tank to keep it running on an all (or most) cylinders but it's not like I can trade it in for a new one either. I AM Bipolar. My brain is a tad out of whack.

I'm summarizing here, but he made a statement that saying he was Bipolar was an excuse he could offer as one ignorant to another. That it "worked", that it sounded like it should mean something "Important". (Huh?) "So the people around us do not fear for us. So the people who care about us, the people who care for us, just shrug their shoulders and give no reaction because those people have no idea what manic depression even means… " I'm missing this point. How does this translate to not educating someone else or oneself or not being compliant with their treatment?

He goes on to say it's basically something we just don't understand. Ok, I can agree that lots of people, Bipolar and not Bipolar alike, don't understand and some don't try to understand. I do understand. This Bipolar thingy here is not all that I am, as I have said before, but it is indeed a facet of who I am. So, I guess this is where the pride comes in. I'm proud of who I am. If that extends to my Bipolarity, well then so be it. But my Bipolar knows it's place in my life.

What's really important, and where he and I agree the most, is that a Bipolar person has to accept his/her diagnosis, follow his/her treatment plan, accept reality and move the hell on. Don't put the back of your hand to your forehead, wallow or use it as an impediment to living a full life. Whether you say you "are Bipolar" or "have Bipolar," don't fight your diagnosis. Like he says, take your fucking pills.

Compassion, Judgement, Understanding, Contemplation

This weekend I did a lot of introspection. Mostly on my rejection of people who seem to whine over everything. I went back to how I felt over the the two women I mentioned in my last blog post--the very dark woman vs. the woman I wanted to slap. I wondered why I felt such derision to the one woman since I am, in reality, a (mostly) tolerant and compassionate person. However, I have heretofore made no secret of my impatience with people who bemoan their situation. I asked myself the big question of...Why? It took a lot of thinking, and a long conversation with Mr. PB and my Aunt to come up with the answer(s). Or at least some possibilities.

I don't really understand why some people point fingers at other people for their problems. Well, maybe I do somewhat. We are all scarred one way or another by our pasts, and that's usually at the hands at other people. It totally sucks and the road to recovery isn't easy. One is never going to get anywhere by pointing fingers, though. While those who caused the problems should be and can be held accountable, they can't take responsibility for cleaning up the mess, even if they want to do so. Sadly, that can only be done by the one who has been harmed. We have to own the fallout. The resultant feelings are ours, not theirs. While this blows goats, it doesn't change the unfortunate reality: life isn't fair.

I guess this all comes from my relationship with my mom. I've long wanted to blog about that, but it's a tough subject for me. I'm probably afraid of being very whiney, myself. She's been terrifically depressed her entire life, but she clings tenaciously to her misery. She's also a narcissistic person, wholly wrapped up in herself. Nothing is ever worse than what she goes through, in her mind. For example, any struggles I went though as a teen, her standard response was that it could be worse, that it wasn't nearly as bad as something she was going through at the time. I harbor a lot of resentment towards her for other reasons, but that's something for another blog. I recognized her folly at a fairly early age, and made a conscious decision that I was not going to be like her. I have always wanted to be happy. Some how, some way, I was going to do that. My depressive episodes have blocked me a large majority of the time, but it's still a goal that I strive to reach.

I have this fight in me. Where is the fight in these people? This particular woman, from her description, her mom was trying to help her but was at her wit's end. The woman was furious, her mom didn't respond the way she thought she should (which seemed to be to coddle her and provide nothing but weeping sympathy) and was angry. Now, I'm sure she wants to be happy on some level, but is more devoted to feeling sorry for herself. I had to stop and think about that. I understand feeling sorry for oneself. I've had a few pity parties, but they haven't been uber-fiestas. At best, (or worst, depending on how you look at it), they've been semi- or bi-monthly anger-fits at my circumstances. Then comes my need to fight back. I can't bend lay down and take it.

My next question was: What if this woman were my friend? How would I react? Hmmm. Depends on how close we were. If we were not so close, I'd simply listen and be supportive, but if it got to be too much, I'd probably avoid her after awhile. If we were close, I'd listen and be supportive, but after some time, I'd be honest but delicate. I'd tell her that she needed to get up and fight back, that the power was hers, if only she could reach inside and take charge. I'd be supportive and tell her how I understood how much it sucked, but that I'd always be there to help her through.

So, the end result is that I am being judgmental. I have a lot of work to do. I'll never entirely understand why someone doesn't see that they contribute to their own problems. There will always be people like my mom; it's a lot easier to cling to what you know than it is to take responsibility and change. That will probably always frustrate me and maybe feel like an insult to me since I work so hard at not being that way. However, since I'm committed to being happy, that also means I have to be the best person I can. So, here's a change I'm adding to the list. I apologize to that lady. She doesn't know how I felt or what I thought, but I'm still sorry to her. I sure hope she finds her way, though. This time, I'd only slap her to snap her out of it. Just kidding.

PolarBabe

The Inertia of Moving Forward

So we're moving. We've had the luxury of doing it slowly, so it hasn't been too bad in terms of packing and hauling stuff. Well, certain circumstances have contributed to us doing it slowly, but there is obviously an upside to it. There is a downside to it, and that is the effect it has on my Bipolarity.

The anticipation of such a large change causes me some anxiety. A lot, actually. The fact that we are doing it slowly is, in many ways, an exercise in mild torture. I feel a little paralyzed by it, and plays into my favorite weakness: Procrastination. There is a lot that I could be doing during my week at home with the kidlets, but I don't. I find the whole prospect very overwhelming. I could make a list and tackle a little each day, but I don't know where to begin.

The move is a good one for us. We are going to be living with a relative of mine who needs some help, and likewise she provides some help to us with the children. She also gives me an anchor during the times when I feel lost and alone during my days. She has tried to learn more about Bipolar Disorder and has become more patient with me now that she understands that I can't help the fluctuations in my moods. (Previously, this was not the case.)

It was a relief to learn that I haven't been completely lazy all my life. Don't get me wrong, I am lazy to a point. But I do get overwhelmed the majority of the time and am paralyzed by it. I don't know what to do and enter this almost zombie-like state. I almost need someone to take me by the hand and guide me into activity to mobilize me. Sometimes that's hard for me to accept and I feel like a child, which I resist. Mightily, I might add. I'm coming to accept that this is help, and not nagging. Mr. PolarBabe is becoming my best motivator. I wait for him to tell me what to do. He's encouraging when he does it. I really like this guy. (LOL!) Seriously though, I am perplexed by how much I need his direction. It frustrates me that I will just sit there and wait for him. How I can no longer self-start on a project, even when I can think of something that needs to be done. Invariably, those thoughts lead to the recognition of something else that needs to be done, and then another thing, and another thing, and then I am trapped in my chair and I cannot mobilize. Previously, if I didn't do something, it was because I just didn't want to.

It's hard not to be frustrated. I feel like such a child. When I am finally mobilized, I can do so much. Sometimes, it can be hard to stop. There's almost an obsessive quality to it. I used to say it's all or nothing with me, no in-between. (Duh, I'm Bipolar. It still confounds me that I was shocked when I was diagnosed.) I thought I was having a mini-mania or something when I went on a mopping tear last weekend. I had to force myself to be satisfied with a "decent" job. It was my psychiatrist that said it was obsessive. How nice to throw a new trait in the mix.

Now, waiting for the actual transition of the move is difficult. It prevents me from developing any real structure. (Never mind the fact that I seem to have doctor's appointments up the wazoo, and so does this relative we are moving in with--I take her to them.) I have so much anxiety over it all. It contributes to my ass being nailed to the sofa and my withdrawal from all things human related. The closest thing to structure that I have is taking my meds in the morning and the evening. Even eating is a tremendous effort. If we didn't have protein bars in the pantry in the morning and/or Mr. PolarBabe didn't put something in front of me at night (thank God he cooks) I'd probably starve. My kids are lucky they eat. (Ok, that's an overly dramatic statement and they eat just fine. I feed them regularly, but I admit that I'm grateful for frozen waffles and the like when I wake up in the morning.)

After I was hospitalized two years ago, I set about making a structured existence for myself and was devoted to getting better. I was a model patient, and made a fairly good recovery. Some problems led to the deterioration of that structure and invariably I got sick again. I'm not making such a great recovery this time. The residual effects of the trauma of my hallucinations and continued paranoid episodes, combined with the changes looming on the horizon have me wrapped in a blanket of inertia. I just want it over and done with.

I'm not very patient, am I?

PolarBabe

Laughter in the Dark

I recently read a blog of a Bipolar person that was so dark, so painful that I nearly cried. I skimmed some of her "About Me" posts (there were several) and previous blog pages, and they were equally morbid. I walked away with such a heaviness...I mourn for this lady.

I know depression. It is the pole I "visit" most. I have had times in my life where the pain has been so acute that waking is a nightmare itself. Most often, I feel empty or numb. One thing that sets me apart, for which I am most grateful, is that I still recognize and can be moved somewhat by something very funny. I can laugh or chuckle in the darkness of my despair. I can still employ my own ironic or sarcastic sense of humor, (mostly self-depricating). My wit deserts me, but I appreciates someone else's fast retorts. (Mr. PolarBabe is notorious for his quick wit.) It doesn't cause a sustainable elevation of my mood--I return to my emptiness straight away. Nevertheless, I am grateful for the momentary reprieve.

How I wish I could loan some laughter to this lady. She really seems to need some light, even if it's a tiny pinprick of sun shining through the dark. I am amazed at her strength to keep going through the evident oppression of her pain.

Given my previous statments about whiney and needy people, you would think I'd rail against this person. Not her. She didn't feel sorry for herself in any of the blog pages I read. (I read another one like that from someone else and I wanted to slap her). This lady is introspective, thoughtful and carries her own burdens. She quite likely doesn't allow someone to help her, yet I feel she needs it so much. Maybe it's just that I identify with that, rather than a needy person and I'm just too hard on people with those struggles. I don't know. All I know is that I want to make this woman laugh. Even if it's only once.

PolarBabe

I'm a Mom???

Even so-called "normal" Moms ask themselves this question from time to time, I understand. Obviously, this has even greater significance to me. At least I think so. Everyone worries about screwing up their kids too, (or so I have also heard) but when you have a mental illness there's probably a greater danger. I definitely wonder how my episodes have affected mine, on top of the normal concern that just the decisions one has to make as a parent affects them as well.

I have a few kids, who shall remain nameless. They're little, but growing up a tad bit faster than I might like. Sometimes not fast enough. At least on my bad days. My youngest is in a difficult stage. Or maybe I'm in a difficult stage. Or maybe we're like-minded. Scratch that. My mind is...well...you know already what my mind is like.

That's a big worry for me, even though it's out of my control. (Just like everything I worry about.) There is a genetic predisposition to Bipolar Disorder and I fear that one, two, nine, or all of my kids (ok, so I don't have that many) have it. One in particular already has a dramatic bent to her personality and concerns me the most. I was a dramatic child (ya think???). One difference is that I had an unwavering desire to please and need for approval. She does not have this. It's her world, we're just lucky to live in it. I have another that has the need for approval. He is sensitive like I was. Needless to say, I worry about him, too. The other is a little goofball and a heart attack in the making. I don't worry about him so much. Well, I worry about him jumping off large objects and running with scissors and the like, but not about the Bipolar. Yet. I have faith that I will eventually find a reason. I always do.

My kids have seen a lot, though. I've been taken away in an ambulance a number of times. I've cried a lot. I've screamed my head off too many times to count and thrown things (not at them, gratefully). I've hallucinated and run away. I've isolated myself from them. I had to "go away" once. I had to go to the hospital a couple times that had nothing to do with being Bipolar, but that gets lumped in, too. So, what does this mean to them, for them? I wish I could see inside their little heads. Outwardly, they seem to have taken it in stride. With my oldest, who is remarkably perceptive at 7 years old, I've been pretty straightforward. I've told him I'm Bipolar and given him a simple explanation of what that means.

One time, my daughter got sick. The pediatrician filling in for our normal doctor thought it might be something requiring a surgical procedure, and of course I immediately went to the worst. My oldest caught me crying, and got a little worried about his sister. I tried to cover up, told him she was ok and it was nothing serious. So why was I crying? I reminded him I am Bipolar and he said "Oh yeah...you always cry even when it's not that bad." Then he walked away.

There is this song called "Paranoid" by The Jonas Brothers. (Just peachy.) My kids love it. (Even peachier.) So again, my oldest pipes up with "Mom, what does paranoid mean?" I came up with some simple explanation and he said "Oh, like you, huh!" My jaw dropped and I think I had to pick a few flies out before I finally closed it. Again, he was nonplussed. It seems despite his sensitivity, he is remarkably well adjusted. I don't think I can take credit for that. It's either his father's influence or his remarkable nature. My money is on both. I hope I have contributed a little by being candid with him. Maybe he will remember and tell me some day. I will remember and maybe I will ask. Maybe I will be too afraid. Maybe I will just have to hope forever.

My daughter...for all her stubborness and strong will, I think there is work to be done there. In my heart of hearts, I really do think she will struggle with this disorder. I pray that I am wrong. There are things that I see and can't quite explain. She's only 5 and who can say at this age. It's probably just my hyper-worry talking. But...since she was about 2, I've been reminded of the nursery rhyme about the little girl with the curl on her forehead. When she was good she was very very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid. She's evened out little, or maybe it's just that her little brother makes my heart stop now with his antics and I don't notice quite as much, but she is still either as sweet as pie, or in a snit over something. There's not much in between. Whatever the case, I'm powerless at this point. All I can do is keep a watchful eye. If the worst comes to pass, at least I will know how to help.

So, I'm a Mom for better or for ill. My children accept me and love me, no matter what. They are well behaved (in public anyway) are polite, smart and all around good kids. Whether I have anything to do with that or if it's just luck, I really don't know. One thing I do know, I am the lucky one. I'm crossing my fingers, praying, hoping and everything else, that it's all going to work out okay. Hopefully in this one instance in life, love IS enough to conquer all. Because there is no short supply on that in this family.

The Uninspired Babe

I haven't posted in awhile because I've been vegging on the couch between doctor's appointments. Literally. I've thought about blogging, but have felt so wholly uninspired, that just lifting the lid to my laptop seemed to be a Herculean effort. (That didn't stop me from getting on Facebook or Twitter, though. Go figure.)

Truth is, I just haven't had anything to say that didn't sound angry or whiney or dark. I've been fighting against the persistent depression that's had a hold on me for some time now, and the last thing I wanted to do was write about it. Even as I sit here, willing the words to come forth from my fingertips, I pause wondering what the hell should come next.

I always want to write something worth reading. Something that might be entertaining, but also give some insight to me and how I view being Bipolar, my world, my life. It's a mixed bag, and if I allow myself to take it to morose levels in my writing, it will just swallow me alive. It's already so dark in my head, my expression of it has to show it with the levity that's there or I just can't bear it. You see, it's not that I don't ever take any of it seriously whatsoever. I probably take it way too seriously. Writing is supposed to be therapeutic, and also my way of destigmatizing it for the masses. Understand y'all...we suffer greatly. Some of us cannot break free from the gripping pain and fear even for a minute. So much so we reach out with a tenacious grasp for anyone who will listen or help and can seem or be so very needy. Others retreat completely inward and seek the solitude of ourselves. I tend to be the latter, and this is my way of grasping the proverbial log that keeps me from going under. My humor, if it can be called that, has always been my saving grace--even though it sometimes surfaces at inappropriate moments. Remember, it's a life preserver in difficult times. My inflatable banana in the murky pool of sadness.

I've had a lot of episodes of paranoia lately, which has left me feeling lost and discouraged. Fearful that I might not recover and reach a place of normalcy ever again. I couldn't find any humor in that at all. It left me feeling beat by my illness, hollow and impotent. Hardly any levity or humor in that. Alterations in the dosages in my medications did not prove helpful, so stubborn is this particular episode of depression, of these psychotic features. With the addition of the anti-depressants, the spector of mania looms large. What awaits me around the corner? More hallucinations? No humor there, just a blanket of fear and anxiety. Not worth reading, I thought.

In the end, I decided this was about me, more than about any readers I may have (but probably don't!) This is part of my therapy, so after much conversation with Mr. PolarBabe, I'm putting it out there. Sometimes PolarBabe is paralyzed by the destruction that sometimes comes with being Bipolar. I have to focus on it being temporary, that the symptoms will not last forever, otherwise I will go back to wanting to kill myself to make it stop. I have to cling to that being a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Think of it as water wings to go with my inflatable banana. An inner tube might be something to look into too. You can never be too safe when you're in the sadness pool...

PolarBabe