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