Find My Way Back Home

I saw your parents yesterday.  They looked older, which always surprises me, as I always like to imagine that things stay exactly as they are whenever I’m not around.  I wanted so badly to ask about you but I didn’t.  Because I knew.  I might have even seen it in their eyes.  I no longer exist to you.

I still don’t know why and it hurts so bad.  Did I do something wrong?  Did I say something awful?  What made you turn away from me so quickly?  What movement did I make that made you jump and run?  I’m so very sorry for whatever it was.

I need you back in my life, but I know you won’t be back.  It’s something I haven’t yet learned how to accept.  Your support, our laughter, our memories.  Why did it all have to change so suddenly?  Is this just how things go?  If so, when will it happen again with another?  These are the fears I have.

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Another gone for good, only this time, it’s family.  There is nothing left in your voice, nothing left to hold onto.  I receive controlled glimpses of your life, parts that I can see you have thoughtfully prepared before hitting “send.”  I miss the raw, open wounds we used to share, discuss, analyze till there was nothing left to pull apart.  Though others try to convince me you’re still in there, I know better.  I’ve seen it before, only this time, it’s closer to me than I ever would have imagined.  Because it’s you.

The one who guided me.  Who wrapped me up in your arms whenever I cried out.  The one who knows my deepest thoughts, was with me through my most awful experiences.  The one who made me laugh and laughed for me when I couldn’t find the humor in myself.  I feel cheated.  You’ve been stolen in the worst way.  And I was the one who was robbed.

I try to follow along with the parts that you’ve selected to share.  I tried to find you once, but you weren’t there and it was then that I knew you wouldn’t be back.  I can’t come to terms with it, and I am positive that I never will through the rest of our lives.

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To my son:  I’m sorry I’ve passed this enemy onto you.  I’ve seen it in you since you were first born, as we who carry it can recognize it in each other.  I knew it would happen, but I didn’t know how much it would hurt for us both.  Your seriousness, your wants, your needs so strong and so full of passion.  They will only become more intense, though it’s hard to believe your young self can take much more.  I am helpless to save you from it.

All I can do is tell you that you are smart, you are creative, you are incredible.  You have a light inside you unlike any other.  Your teachers comment on it.  Your friends are drawn to it.  Your family feels it.  I cannot live without it.

Your life is not going to be easy.  As often as your anger rises and falls and your joy rushes unexpectedly in boundless limits throughout you, eventually you will require maintenance to maintain a certain degree of sanity.  Some feelings you will have and some things that will happen will be difficult and most won’t understand because they are not like you and I.  Just promise me you will hold on.  Just promise me you won’t give up.  And if you do that, if you promise me, then I will, too.  I will make that promise to you and we can both survive, in whatever way, shape or form we have to.

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Please, make the tears stop.  Please take down the sun and make it dark again so I have somewhere to hide.  There are so many hours, so many minutes and seconds before the day is done and I just don’t know how to hold on till then.  My consciousness hurts, like an endless pain that just won’t subside, no matter what I do.

Please cover me, give me a shell to crawl into, send me underwater so I can find relief.  I’m too old to lock myself into a room.  Give me the keys, let me drive far far away.  I promise I’ll come back if I can find my way back home.

 

 

 

 

 

Brutally Honest Breakdown

The nitty-gritty of my perpetual excuses for NOT ever doing ANYTHING:

First, get the kids on the bus.  Yes! There. I accomplished my thing for the day.

Second, prepare a list of all of my highest ambitions for the day, like folding seventeen loads of laundry and washing ALL (and seriously, even the dirty pots I hid in the oven) of the dishes (we don’t even have any clean forks.)

Third, eat cereal while watching my YouTube shows.

Fourth, go in garage and smoke cigarettes while watching my YouTube shows.

Fifth, slowly make my way to the couch.  And here’s where all the Not Doing begins.  Instead of folding the laundry, I lay down on top of it and cover up with a nice, warm blanket and remind myself of how I was sick.  With a cold. Three weeks ago. (Cough, cough.)

I blow my nose a few times and based on the snot-ness I’m sure it’s better if I get some rest before I start my strenuous day.

I nod off.  For four hours. Which brings me to lunchtime.  At which point my husband will inevitably call and I will pretend the sleep out of my voice and act as though I’ve been Doing.

I eat, then back to the couch. Nauseous. Must have been something I ate.

Watch my favorite tv show, then grudgingly get up to prepare a snack for kids getting off the bus soon.

I am a disgrace to house-wifey-ing. I am ashamed and embarrassed of this post. I know how hard everyone else is working; I used to be one of you.

Here’s the beacon of light and it’s sincere and it’s true: when I get them off the bus, I’m 100% in-the-game.  Playing, homework, dinner prep, making memories, sharing, caring, being there fully, all together.

I might be completely useless from 7:15 to 3:42, but until they are cuddled in, warm in their beds, I am giving them my all.

And that’s my Brutally Honest Breakdown.

 

 

 

 

High Expectations

I should probably properly update:  I’m doing better than I was a month ago.  The End.

No, I changed a bunch of meds to try to even myself out.  I asked alot of questions to my psych about what the end goal is for taking all the meds (it seems like I am on the maximum dosages of the maximum variety of psych meds one can take) and how does he decide what I should be on and how am I supposed to feel – just, like, • barely above wanting-to-die or  • something greater or • feeling like getting out of bed and IS there a realistic possibility of me reaching a point where Life doesn’t suck so hard that I could even appreciate a moment of being “Furiously Happy” (to quote Jenny Lawson)?

His response was that those are tough questions to answer and that the meds are there to help regulate your moods.

So I felt a little discouraged by that (okay, alot discouraged) because honestly I was hoping for some all-powerful answer full of other-worldly knowledge that would bring me instant peace and end my suffering once and for all.  (Okay,  so I admit my expectations were a tad over-the-top.)

Still, I left the office with more scripts in my hand and yet another chip added to my shoulder.  This shit just always seems to get worse before it gets better.  And that’s the hardest pill to swallow.  (clee-shay alert)

I guess I was just hoping for a little hope.  Some sign that things will get better.  At least I can say I’m lucky to have a good support system.  That’s more than alot of people can say, and I really am grateful for that.

I gotta wake up soon and start my motherly duties. Damn it – I hate it when I finally get tired at the exact moment it’s time to get up…

My Blind Rage

screaming through a litany of f-word adjectives describing every personplaceorthing who had the audacity to be in existence at the same moment in time as me.

tucked into the corner of a locked room with the lights off and my hands covering my ears because “I just needed to get away for a while.”

muttering quietly, speaking to my own brain, who keeps playing tricks on me and won’t leave me the fuck alone.

out in the middle of some backwoods country road intersection in pitch-black darkness, leaned over and gasping for breath cause I tried to run hard enough to get away from myself and failed.

flinging verbal venom, my words striking the face of whatever poor soul chose to speak to me.

 

What hurts is that none of these versions of me reflect who I truly am.  This is why bipolar disorder hurts so bad.  Because there I am, trapped inside of that hideous monster, unable to control it, trying to escape it, and all the while, no one can hear my cries, my sincere apologies, my deep regrets.

This is why I can so strongly feel that those around me would be better off without me, despite my logical reasoning that this is not so.  It’s because I can see myself acting this way.  I can see myself snapping at those who love me, who are trying to help, who want to care for me.  And yet all I can do is watch as those claws dig into their tender skin, as those monsterous fangs spew poison out of my own mouth.  And all I can do is hope that they survive.

 

Relatively Tolerable

How is life lately?  Relatively tolerable.  That’s where I’m at.

That’s kind of the best I get.  Unless I am full-on manic, in which case:

 

Until it’s not.

 

Crazy Like A Fox

Mania was completely disruptive (in the worst sense of the word) to my life and it took me a good two years to recover.

I never stop feeling embarassed over the actions my body took while being controlled by my manic mind.  And I went deep.  Both times.  I was a raving, mad lunatic.

The way I am now, no one would ever guess that I was hospitalized, that I was ever in that condition, that I didn’t sleep for days, that I ranted and raved and threw things and screamed at others.  That I tried to take off all of my clothes multiple times in public.  That I drove to a strangers house and walked right in the door and started playing with her kids in her living room. Donald Duck

That I have been picked up by the police twice in one night for being “disruptive” in a public place.

That I crawled into bed with another patient at the hospital because I thought they were my mom.  That I danced through the hallways of the psych unit with a towel covering my head and a styrofoam cup in my mouth, quacking and pretending I was a duck.  All. Night. Long.

Here's Johnny

When I run into people on the streets talking to themselves, I see myself in them.  I know they are making sense in their own brain, and that it only appears to be “nonsense” or “crazy” to those around them.  Sometimes when manic I thought that the whole world was crazy, and I was the only sane one.  I felt that deep down, even as I was doing cartwheels in a cemetery and trying to run down the street naked.

The only thing that separates me from the man on the street shouting obscenities is medication.  The fact that my mental illness is treated and his is not.

If you’re recovering from a manic episode and you’re in the throes of depression, just know that you’ll come out of it.  It does get better.  I can’t say the memories of all of it don’t stick with you, but just remind yourself that the time you laid on the floor in a public bathroom and smashed your glasses with your foot repeatedly because you “didn’t want to see anymore,” it wasn’t you.  It was the mania.  And you have to forgive yourself for that.

And, I guess, so do I.

 

Letter for Help

I’m really stressing over these next five days with the kids. Honestly all I want to do is check out. I’m not going to be able to take care of anyone because I’m struggling to even take care of myself right now.

I know I should stop thinking about escaping and should instead think of solutions. I need to prepare lists and things to do with the kids and ideas of how to handle the breakdowns that are inevitably going to happen.

Can you help me to do that? I feel like I should be able to do that myself, especially with all these stupid fucking meds I’m on but I really can’t think outside the box right now (or even inside the box.)

I feel horribly guilty that I can’t get a grip lately. I hate this mental illness so much. I often think if you had known what you were getting into you never would have married me.

I feel like I burden you with worry and stress because of all my fucking non-problem problems.

 

Email written but nevernn

A Moment in Time

Watched Terminator Genysis.  Not really my bag, but whatevs.  The watching of this time-traveling movie coincided with the whole Super Blood-Red Moon Lunar Eclipse event (and just for the record: for anyone who is knowledgeable of the details behind these space happenings, I apologize for probably getting that whole description completely wrong.)

Staring at the moon when the eclipse was starting, I thought I wasn’t going to see much through the thick cloud coverage that had lingered all day and into the night.  But miraculously, the viewing took a turn and a wide expanse of clear skies moved into the skies just at the right moment.

I knew, from the small amount of research I’d done online, that this was a unique set-up in the solar system, and that the next would not occur until 2033.  I took satisfaction in knowing this fact, rationalizing this event as just another in the long history of “unique” astrological events.

I place no meaning behind these events, as many used to from long ago.  Feeling secure and smug in my practical understanding of what exactly was aligned to make this all possible, I casually watched as the moon hung in the shadow of the earth.

But then something blinked in my head and suddenly i found myself caught between the different hemispheres of my brain.  I was suddenly consumed with all of these wandering thoughts and snapshots of memories colliding in my mind.  I thought of the truths I believed in, and also how little i know or understand about the world around me and the confusing and jumbled world that exists inside my mind.

When I had a mental breakdown and spent three weeks temporarily in a psychotic episode, I had many hallucinations about God and the End of the Life of this World.  At the time i believed i was experiencing doomsday, judgement day, the End of Time.

Reminiscing about that period of time in my life while staring up at the disappearing moon, I felt a sinking feeling of fear and dread.  What if God just decided this was it? What if God decided not to raise the Sun tomorrow morning? What if all the orbits of the planets ceased?

Soon immediate matters took over and i resumed my night on autopilot as i so often do.  Prep coffee machine, brush teeth, prepare for tomorrow morning’s school routines.  But now, laying in bed, I speak a silent prayer begging for Allah’s forgiveness and mercy. Because tonight I saw an image of time.  And from my humble perspective, we don’t have much to waste