I got hit today. By a car. Well, but I was in a car, and so was the driver, and so everything was supposed to be fine. Which it was. Sort of.

Cause I drove away, and no one was hurt. And plus, it wasn’t even my fault. So that, too, was good.

But there was something not quite right about how I felt afterwards. Sure, we said our awkward goodbyes at the scene in front of the cop at the end.  And I drove away, adjusting my rearview mirror confidently, knowing I had done nothing wrong to cause this interference in the process of our days.

But then, all of a sudden, I just lose my sh!t.  I’m just crying and sobbing and snotting over every piece of clothing I’m wearing, and I’m just like, “woah.”  What is happening here?

Everything that I have ever thought of or been concerned about or worried about just comes pouring out in wave after wave, just crashing into the surface, violently, shamelessly, just smash, crash.  I don’t even know what the hell is going on.

I try to overcome it, I figure if I just lay down it will pass but it doesn’t pass so I make the WORST choice possible for a bipolar person in distress – I reach for alcohol to numb the pain.

Have I been here before? Yes.  Has it EVER EVER EVER helped? NO.

The only saving grace was me calling my best friend, who soothed me and calmed my crashing waves of emotion and swam me carefully back to shore.

I swear, she is what keeps me here.

Tomorrow is going to hurt. Bad. And the next day after that will be even worse. I’m just hoping that the next day after that gets slightly less worse. That’s what I’m shooting for. Wish me luck.


Summer Life

Hot.  That was the temperature last week.  My kids were begging me to break out the water balloons and the off-brand slip-and-slide and the water hose.  I resisted at first, not wanting to be bothered running around outside, getting wet and fighting the heat.

Surprisingly, I started to have FUN.  I can’t even remember the last time I had fun in all caps.

Winter was long and it was brutal.  Two words:  sump pump.  For those of you unfamiliar with a sump pump (i.e. anyone NOT living in the country), it is a pump placed inside a hole in your basement that continuously runs to keep your basement from flooding with water.  If it shuts off, your basement floods.

So during a horrible winter/ice/sleet/freeze-your-ass-off storm, the power went out. My dad – who I am indescribably grateful to for always being there for us in my lifetime of child, teen, and adult emergencies – brought a gas-powered pump.  Then we (me) had to shoot the water out of the basement with a big hose.  Someone (me) had to hold the hose out in the freezing cold and shoot cold water out into the blowing wind and piling snow drifts.

I did this on the hour every hour for 48 hours.

So even though I don’t like summer’s heat, this year is a little different.  My sister-in-law (another one of those persons who always seems to be there in my (emotional) emergencies), came over, and the water fun began.  The kids loved chasing me, my sister-in-law, and their daddy around the yard smacking us with water balloons that broke on contact, drenching us in the clean, cool, fresh water from the well, as we screamed and shouted and pretended we didn’t want to get soaked.

The day wound down with some trampoline jumping and sunning, along with a BBQ and an adults-only bonfire under a glowing moon and a sky full of twinkling stars.



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.


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.


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.


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.