Tag Archives: Sadness

Bipolar Me

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.


Never good enough

Once you are wrong, you’ll always be wrong and can never do anything right.  And if you’re right in his eyes, you can never do anything wrong.

I’m in the first category.  Ever since I was little, everything I did was wrong.  There was exasperated sighs, hands thrown up in the air, yelling, shouting, pointing.  Always, whatever I did, whatever I tried, I was wrong.

I didn’t put my shoes where they were supposed to be.
I left smudges on the mirror.
I threw a wet sock down the clothes chute and it got all the other clothes wet and what was I thinking?  Do I even think?  Ever?

I left the light on.  I shut the door too hard.  I couldn’t remember the difference between a phillips head and a flat head.  I didn’t push in my chair.  I move too fast.

I took too long.  I put us behind.  I didn’t pay attention.  My head was filled with nonsense and always somewhere else instead of where it should be.

So now, here I am again, feeling totally inept in my adult life.  I just got a job, proud of myself, and immediately, it’s:  ‘well, that’s good, that will give you time to look for a real job.’  Lights out on any shred of self-esteem I might still have had.

And now the big stuff is coming out.  For a while, there was a lull.  But now the ish has really hit the fan, so to speak.  He broke.  He called us out on all of our flaws, all of our problems, hollered and shouted and pointed and said, ‘you, you, you.’  Should have.  Don’t you think?  I’m at the end of my rope.  Lost cause.  What do you expect?

Part of me feels ashamed.  All of me feels guilty.  And responsible.  I listen to every word as though it is absolute truth.  He is absolutely right and I am absolutely wrong.  About all of it.  I’m wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  Wrong for not working harder.  Wrong for not listening.  Wrong for making bad decisions.  Wrong for not figuring it out.  Not working hard enough.  Not caring enough.  Not doing enough.  Not moving fast enough.  Wrong at every move.

I’ll never be right.  I’ll never, ever get it right.  No matter what I do or how hard I try, I will always, inevitably, be wrong.



So I’m in this place.

I intend to get right down to it and prepare for this interview tomorrow.  But instead, I sent a few texts.  Then I talked on the phone.  For an hour.  And a half.  Then I made my kids a snack.  And put them to bed.  And read them a book.

All of this with a meaty intention of getting down to it, getting right down to it and preparing, researching, reading, investigating, searching all about this place I had applied to that happened to call me back and say, ‘hey, we’d like to meet with you’ and here I am and the day is finally almost here and I’m going to be spit-shiny ready with knowledge of all things knowable about the job and who I am and what I have to offer and everything nice and tight and perfect.

And then I spent some time searching for my son’s library book.  Because his need for it was urgent and he said if he didn’t give it back tomorrow that we’d have to pay for it.   And I’m not paying for some rinky-dinky book he picked up that’s been looked at and chewed on and probably touched 10,000 times over the course of 15 years that it’s been in his school’s library.

And I couldn’t find it.

So then I toasted a bagel and put cream cheese on it and ate it.  And then I picked up the book I’d been reading and smoked some cigarettes out in the garage while reading the book.  And the book is about the author writing about writing.  And so here I am, really ready to get right down to it, buckle down and lean into it and really get focused on this preparing.

But when you read a book about a writer writing about writing, it’s kind of a tricky thing.  Because writing is not something I find myself doing much of these days.  Maybe it’s cause I’m avoiding.  Not just this interview preparation, but alot of things.  Alot-alot-alot of things.  Things I’m avoiding right now as I write because I’m only referring to them as “alot-alot-alot” of things to emphasize the point that they are really big things and there are many of them but still I resist specifying what those really big, many numbered things are.

Because if I put them on paper (so to speak), then I have to move to the dealing phase.  The recognizing, acknowledging, then handling these many numbered big important things.  And as much as I’m ready to buckle down and handle this interview tomorrow, I’m not even remotely in the realm of pretending or fooling myself into believing that I might just be even the tiniest bit interested in diving into all THAT.

Therefore, to avoid the avoiding, I’ll focus on getting ready for tomorrow.  Wish me luck on my great, big interview.  I’m sure I’ll write about it.

Alwrite so I’m gonna right.

I’m not in the mood to write, but I know it helps me.  So I’m going to choose to do the healthy thing even though it is the thing I least want to do.

In fact, the thing I would most like to do is completely give up.  Only I can’t.  Because of alot of things.  Because other people depend on me.  Because I have kids.  Because it would be the easy way out.  Because it wouldn’t fix anything.  Because I have to keep keeping on.

I’m not in the best place right now.  I know those of you who know depression understand.  So I know that I have to focus on the positive right now.  I have to force myself to get through each minute of each day and just focus on what is right in front of me.

I need to take a walk.
I need to focus on breathing.
I need to write to make it alright.

I remember when I was in the psychiatric hospital, we used to get together every morning and state our goal for the day.  Over and over my goal was simply “breathe.”  Maybe people thought I wasn’t being serious (or maybe that was my paranoid thoughts about what others were thinking of me) but it was literally all I could do to just focus on breathing and being alive.  Like, accepting that I’m here and this is it and this is what I had to deal with.  Cause I fought it so hard, fought the fact that I was in the hospital, fought the fact that I had to take care of myself before I could take care of anything else.  Accept that I was sick.

We had art class in the hospital, and it was life-changing for me.  It still is so hard for me to draw or create something art-ful.  Because I feel like I don’t do it well enough or that it won’t look good and so why should I even try?  I need to get back to that therapeutic aspect cause once I started doing it, I realized that it was helpful.  Like helpful-alot.

Right now, today, I have to go to work.  I have to put on a stupid red apron with all this Christmas crap on it and I have to smile and I have to make stupid jokes with the customers.  And I’m doing it for my kids.  To support us because I’m the only one that can.  I have to miss out on them getting off the bus.  I have to work until night and then I get to see them for a while before they go to bed.

Vent/rant:  I’m so sick of everything.  I’m so sick of trying so hard for just simple things.  Like getting dressed, getting ready, driving to work.  Working.  Coming home and trying to be there for my family.  All I really want to do is be alone.  I imagine myself going to a soft cabin in the woods somewhere, being completely alone with myself and no one else.  Just feeding myself and sleeping and maybe writing a little and maybe, if I get the confidence to do it, drawing.  Or creating something.  Anything.

This summer I spent time with my sister and her niece and my kids and my sister’s husband.  And we were at a beach and we had just ate pizza at the beach and we had to leave so we decided, let’s take one more jump in the water, and then we’ll pack everything up and go.

So I dove out into the water and I forgot about my kids and my sister and I left my life on the shore and I swam out and out and out and just kept crashing my body into the water over and over, diving farther and farther out, away from everything.  I would jump up, throw myself into the water, crash through the surface, immerse my whole body deep under the water, then rise back up and do it again.  It was the single best experience of my entire year.




Does Misery Love Company

I have no scientific research on this because I am too busy watching extremely depressing videos of places I’ve never been to and where I probably will never go where devastating events are happening, not only terrible natural disasters, but worse yet, human-to-human violent acts that are hard to speak of or consider or think about or talk of but that are happening now and have been happening for eons.

I mentioned this to my equally bipolar sister (birth sister) the other day, of how I am sucked into this downward spiral of soaking up all of this knowledge of horrible events and awfulness happening around the world through news broadcasts and books and alternative news stations and videos on youtube and wherever, and I mentioned that this happens when I get depressed; I wrap myself into this blanket of awfulness, working to avoid the depressive state of my own affairs and seeking to cover myself with the depressive state of others’ affairs.  And I expressed that I couldn’t really understand why I do this, because it’s completely counterintuitive toward getting well (although, much can be said about that as there are LOTS of things we do to ourselves when we are depressed that we know FOR A FACT are not helping but we do them anyway as that is sort of the evilness that is mental illness.)

Anyway, she pointed out to me that perhaps it was because that when we are in these pained states, these highly sensitive states, it is one of the only times when we are actually able to come closer to understanding what others are going through; it is one of the few times that we can relate to a portion of the feelings of devastation or sadness or pain or pure torture that other people in various parts of the world are existing in.

I don’t know if she is right or wrong.  I see these atrocities when the feelings crushing me inside, the ones that make me hate myself and want to die, lead me down the road towards a different kind of pain, the pain of others.  Do I watch/read/absorb these things because I want to be more depressed?  Or is it to remind myself that I am privileged, safe, and not in any immediate danger for my life?  Do I do it because it is the only time I can feel the sorrow and sadness at a depth that seems more attune to plight and devastation?

And how sad for the state of us all that I and other humans can absorb these things and yet still do nothing to stop it?  I already have heavy feelings of powerlessness and hopelessness – why do I allow myself to view events that are even more charged with those same feelings?  Does misery really love company?  Is it as simple as that?  I don’t think so.

We were never promised a life without suffering.  We were never promised it; in fact, we were promised that there WOULD be suffering, that we WILL endure hardship and pain and discomfort of all different kinds.  And that from those calamities, if we show patience and endurance and continue to display kindness and love and spread peace, that we will have ease and be rewarded in this life and the next.  And the reason is because without suffering we cannot build strength.  Without pain and hardship, we would never become strong.

I can’t tie this all together, but I also feel that I don’t need to.  Peace.

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.