There are two parts of me. The happy me is talkative, loves to be around people, loves to encourage and motivate others, loves to be the life of the party. The happy me loves the color of the sky and the smell of flowers and loves to touch and hold and feel. The happy me loves to be me.
The other me is dark. The other me likes to be underground, living unseen, hiding in corners and down dark alleys. The other me doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. The other me likes cemeteries and darkness and death. The other me hates me.
There has to be a balance to survive. Neither can go on for very long without some of the other.
Time goes by so slowly; minutes feel like ages. Impatient waiting for ANYthing, like i want to scream and pull the hairs from my head.
Want to talk talk talk talk talk to anyone who will listen. It’s really hard to not interrupt – i just want to tell all my stories cause i have so many.
Irritable for no reason.
Wearing tight clothes, revealing clothes.
Want to give away all my money to other people. Really strong urge to give away money to people who need it.
Interrupt interrupt interrupt. Talk talk talk. Can’t listen. Don’t care.
Did you ever want to punch something because you were so mad? I’m not even particularly mad at any one thing. I just have Anger. Deep, irrational Anger.
Nobody understands mania. It pisses me off. My one friend says, “You CAN control it. You just THINK you can’t.”
Really? I want to punch something.
My other friend (who only prefers to be around when I’m the “fun” me) says, “Can’t you just have a good day? Why does it have be a “thing”?”
I want to punch something.
My mania isn’t a “fun” thing and no, I’m pretty sure I can’t control it – why would I throw my car keys into a field, strip down naked, and run from the police trying to help me?
I’m fairly certain that IS a THING.
Oy. I hate bipolar.
I’m in the bottom of a deep, dark hole. I’m so far down that I can’t see the light shining at the top (my kids’ bright smiles, my husband’s warm hugs). I kick the walls of the hole because I’m angry and because I feel that somehow it’s my fault that I’m down here.
I can’t cope with loud noises, mornings, daily chores. The more irritable I get, the angrier I am at myself. I snap at the people closest to me and I just feel worse. I’m mad at how long this depression is lasting. I don’t remember it ever being this disruptive to my life.
The only thing I can tell myself is “don’t give up” and “this will get better.” I have to keep convincing myself of this (every day, multiple times a day) because I can’t give up and this will get better.
What do you call your depression? How do you describe it? How do you combat it?
This is something I wrote a few days ago:
I am so sad. So deeply, deeply sad. It’s almost that it is so strong of an emotion, so overpowering and overwhelming that simple words do not come close, not nearly close enough, to describe even an ounce of it.
I wish I were able to depict it artistically in some way. I understand and appreciate those who do. Sometimes I will google “sadness” or “depression” and click on the images tab to find the one that speaks to me the most.
All the synonyms, again, are unable to express it nor define it correctly nor accurately. It is so immense and heavy and weighing. Sorrow, gloom, despair – these all seem like cardboard cut-outs of the same word, and it does not express the true nature of it.
Sometimes in pictures, it’s shown as a heavy burden, like a ball and chain. Or a weight on someone’s back or shoulders. Sometimes it’s depicted like a ghost shrouded in black, or a scream, or a soul being tortured in some way. Agony, defeat, these are getting closer when you look at others’ visual depictions of it.
It is a hopelessness
And that is where my writing ended that day. It is strange for me to be unable to put things into words, as writing has always come so natural to me. I can see poetry possibly being an effective strategy for helping me to express my depression, though I haven’t dove into poetry for 20 years.
Let me know what tools you use to describe your own depression, or to express whatever turmoil you’re struggling with inside.
OB appt: 8:25 am
Goal for arriving at OB appt: 8:15 am with time to spare.
Intention to prepare, shower, drive cautiously and carefully, all with lots of time to spare.
Reality: Begin day at 6 am, get through breakfast and school prep with kids, get them on the bus on time at 7:15 am, watch youtube and drink tea till 7:55 am, then check google maps to see how long it takes to get to ob appt. Freak out, take a five minute shower, throw on clothes and race out the door, peeling out in the driveway while frantically punching the address into my phone. Drive like hell to get there, only to be stopped by a l-o-n-g train. Spend a furious amount of brain power in an enraged fury about the purpose and/or usefulness and/or efficiency of transporting stuff by train.
Careen into the parking lot at 8:30 am and arrive breathless at the desk to check in.
Pat on the back for making it on time (i.e. before being charged a fee for being a no-show.) Add an additional hurrah for not having a high blood pressure reading despite crazy use of daredevil driving tactics.
I am one of those people with bipolar disorder who happens to have a very strong support system. These people include my family and friends, doctor and therapist (well, I’m in a transition with that, but my previous one was Rockin’ Awesome Therapist Lady) and also, my cat. I can call up any one of my sisters and they will lend a solid listening ear no matter what time of the day or night it is.
I also have a simple, low-stress job currently. It doesn’t provide much pay and doesn’t provide benefits and barely supports my family, but I can surely say it’s the best job I’ve ever had. I have no worries whatsoever, the owners adore me, and the customers are sweethearts. (Did you hear that? I just said the word “customers” and “sweethearts” in the same sentence. And I totally mean it. I know you don’t believe me. You should.)
So in saying all that, I’m pretty lucky. I once was a manic mess battling myself in a mental hospital. It gave me a deep, sincere empathy for certain populations of the mentally ill in this country – those who you might see outside a department store, homeless, muttering to themselves. I truly and honestly believe that that would be my life if it weren’t for all the blessings I have been given to maintain a certain level of sanity in the maintenance of my bipolar disorder.
I did lose my job at one point when I had a manic episode and had to be hospitalized. I almost didn’t finish college when I had my first psychotic episode and took time to recover. But I did it. Thanks to the support.
So if you are someone who loves someone with a mental illness and is supportive, please give yourself a hug. Because it is HARD WORK and for some of you, you may be the reason that the person you care about is still alive right now. I know that is true for the ones who helped me when I so desperately needed them.