Guilt - Loving Him and Hating Me

The part I hate the most about having mental illnesses is that I end up hurting those I love most. Every time I have an episode, I feel like I'm stomping all over any plans they may have had. The best I can do is put forward a meager attempt to suffocate my explosion until I'm alone. Like right now.

Boyfriend is a goddamn saint when it comes to dealing with my moods. He holds me when I'm crying because I looked in the mirror for two seconds too long. He figured out a system to get me to slow down and breathe when Wild Mary shows up. He has willingly, happily, and quietly put himself on the back burner.

I love him for doing it and hate myself for letting him do it.

Every time I have a night like this, awake and alone and breaking, the only thing I find solace in is the fact that I haven't kept Boyfriend awake to witness it all. Other than that, my fucked up brain tortures me by reminding me of what I am guilty of.

Boyfriend has to mentally proofread every sentence he speaks out of fear that it may be triggering.

Grocery shopping is an intense experience every week with my unpredictable fear of certain foods.

My episodes have caused Boyfriend to miss countless nights out with friends because I could not be trusted alone and wasn't capable of socializing.

He has to work twice as hard to support both of us when I am a sinking ship. Which feels like most of the time.

Whatever stigma I face, he also faces. And maybe worse. Boyfriend is a well-adjusted member of society who has chosen to be with one of its embarrassments.

Whether he admits it or not, he is plagued by the fear that he may come home to another one of my aftermaths.

It kills me that I have done this to him. Boyfriend has a look he gives me when I'm crying, a look that begs the bipolar and anorexia to just fucking disappear. A look he never puts into words because he knows he can't ask me to do the impossible. He hides the exhaustion and fear so well, but I know they are behind those pleading eyes too. And I did this to him. I am the one who overflows with painful confusion that spills onto Boyfriend. 

While he is busy giving me all the love in the world times ten, I can barely muster a gesture. The pills might make me so hazy that the words and actions swim around in my head leaving me unsure as to what I have said and done. Depression leaves me motionless next to him. Mania rushes me right past him. I am a shit girlfriend for not being able to reciprocate the love I have for Boyfriend, the love he deserves. Every. Single. Second. It's not enough to just be there for him on my rare good days.

Even though I didn't have the formal diagnosis when we first started dating, I knew I wasn't normal. I knew suicide was in the inescapable near future. But I still wormed my way into his heart and made him fall in love with me before exposing my storms and monsters. I have prayed that, for his sake, Boyfriend will come to his senses and take back his freedom. He has given me more love, attention, honesty, second chances, and hope in one year than most girls get in a lifetime. 

Ramblings of an Insomniac

Sleep isn't part of daily life for me. I suppose I should be used to it. I've lived without other necessities.

Like food. But I got gratification from not eating. I was in control. I could decide what and when and where. Or not at all. If I changed my mind, I could burn it off by going for a run in my neighborhood or doing jumping jacks in the restaurant bathroom. 

Years ago, not sleeping used to be just as awesome. I could go to school full-time and ace all my classes and work full-time and keep a clean house and exercise every day and still have time for fun. Because I didn't need food or sleep, I felt impervious to disaster. I defied biology or chemistry or whatever science this falls under that I clearly didn't study because I thought this all was okay.

Now, my inability to sleep doesn't feel so great. It's not my unbounded motivation keeping me awake at night or my superhuman ability to wake up after 3 hours of sleep to alphabetize my books. It's an illness. It's a mental illness that takes over my life, forces me to obsess over it alone in the middle of the night because it won't let me get a moment of rest.

Normal people have no problem falling asleep after being awake for 20 hours. Normal people don't start work when they wake up 3 hours before their alarm is set to go off. Normal people don't celebrate being able to fall asleep without taking Benadryl.

Before I was prescribed the Lithium, I was able to function around the clock. I had insane amounts of energy, so if I wasn't sleeping, I was occupying myself some other way. The Lithium has slowed me down. I want to sleep. I don't feel like working 3 in the morning, and cable sucks at that hour.

Ok, I know I sound like I'm complaining. I will be the first to admit it. But the inability to sleep is to my bipolar what a buffet was to my anorexia. Fucking terrifying and anxiety-producing. It's at night, when I am alone and pleading with the Sandman to let me have a break from it all, that the worst of all my racing thoughts creep up front and center. The moment I take off my glasses to attempt sleep, I can feel whether it will be a night of calm contemplation or unrelenting hysteria.