Whelp, I can try again in 10 days

We are 9 days away from all those fabulous New Year's Eve bashes, and 10 days away from 2014. Which means that it is about time for me to start thinking of my New Year's Resolution. Usually, it goes something like this:

This year, I am going to lose 10, no 25! pounds by exercising every single day and eating nothing but the absolute healthiest foods. I'm also going to take up meditation, to center my mind, which I will do every morning and every evening. I am going to volunteer my time and talents to an organization I care about once a week. And I'm going to write a book. And keep my house clean. And meticulously organized. And save money. And see friends more. And pick up an instrument. And. And. And.

I joke about people who drop their New Year's resolutions in March. Hell, I don't even make it to noon on January 1st with the extraordinary goals I set for myself. You'd think I would learn. But nope, I'm on the path to making the same mistake again this year. When will I learn that I'm not superwoman? Maybe that should be my resolution for 2014. This year, I vow to be a little lazy and to not put too much pressure on myself to be so perfectly flawless in every conceivable way.

As tempting as that is, my warped brain won't allow me to settle on it. I went another route. I took to Google, and did a bit of research as to what "normal" people plan for their year. Here's what I found:

• Only 45% of Americans actually make a New Year's resolution.
• Only 8% of people who do make one actually achieve their goal.
• But nearly half of the successes are achieved by people in their 20's.
• The most common resolution is to lose weight. (Shocker!)

I am choosing to focus on that third point. Statistically, I have the best chance of making a resolution and following through on it, if it is actually in the realm of possibility. There is a good chance that I may not fall into the 25% that drop their goals in the first two weeks. So, I did a little more research to find out what the most common resolutions are for my age group. I was pleased to find out that I could actually check quite a few off. I have found love. I am more than satisfied in my career and financially stable. I quit smoking years ago. Where do I shift my priorities now?

After a long 45 second debate in my head, I quickly realized that I cannot narrow my goals for the new year down to one idea. But I can contain it to three.

1. Alright, I'm not that original. In 2014, I want to get in shape. I want to drop the weight I put on with these bleepity bleep pills, and I want to tone up so that I don't threaten to stab the mirror when I try on shorts come June.
2. I want to spend the year focusing on my writing. I need to flesh this out a little bit more. Maybe commit to narrowing the focus of my blog and actually contributing to it once a week. Or maybe I want to seriously invest some time on that novel I've been working on. (And by working on, I mean mentioning about once every 2 months. Yeah, progress.)
3. I need one goal that isn't all about me and my dreams. But I need to realize that I might not be able to take on the world. So my third New Year's Resolution is to help Boyfriend achieve his goals in whatever way I can. Whether that means playing an active role in his ambitions or being a cheerleader as he does the brunt work, I can't say yet. But after all the encouragement he has given me these past 2 years to build me up to what I am today, damn, does he deserve it.

I have 10 more days to draft schedules and implement strategies and Google patterns of successful people before this yellow light turns green on 2014. Until then, I have some solid time to do all the bad things I promise not to do in 2014. How many trips to Kopp's do you think I can fit in?

A Starfish Story

Please pardon my lack of eloquence in this post. It is now 6:55 as I sit here to begin writing, and my brain was sufficiently fried by, I'm guessing, 3:17 this afternoon. But let's carry on.

My spark has been reignited. I am reinvigorated to go out and tell my story and advocate for consumers and collaborate with professionals and hold up high the hope that I know exists. I believe that through my writing, and through my continued efforts to keep myself stable and sane, I can make a difference in this world. Maybe not for the whole world, but in at least one starfish's world. (That will make sense in a minute, promise.)

Last night, I said farewell to major player in the mental health community and a dear friend. On paper, Kristina was the CEO and president of Mental Health America in Wisconsin. She is a graduate from Arizona State University with a masters degree in Social Work. She was the winner of the 2010 "Women Putting their Stamp on Metro Milwaukee" Award for growing leadership. But those titles and degrees and awards do not do even begin to do justice to who she actually is.

I want to say it was last July. Maybe August. It is all a little fuzzy. You see, I was a bit troubled, to put it mildly. I was teetering on the edge of sanity, precariously balanced and growing weaker from avoiding falling over. Then Dad gave me a business card, telling me that he was friends with a woman who had a past similar to mine, someone I may feel comfortable talking to. And I cried. I said no. "I don't need help." "I don't want to talk to her." But I reluctantly called the number and even more reluctantly met this stranger at Alterra for a "casual" cup of coffee.

Kristina spoke with a confidence and clarity about her own mental illness in a way that both shocked and calmed me. She didn't look like she could have anything in common with a disaster such as myself. The things she told me paused my racing mind as I wondered in disbelief how someone so successful could have once been in the position I was in. But that bewilderment also planted a tranquil seed that someday I might have a hopeful story to share with someone who's inches away from rock bottom.

Kristina was there for my ups and downs that followed in the months after our first meeting. She led me to resources in the community. She called me when she heard through the grapevine that I wasn't doing well. She invited me to MHA to get experience in the non-profit world. She treated me to lunch when I graduated from my peer support class. Kristina is a friend, but she is also a role model that encourages me through example to not be held down by past or by my illness. I am sad to see her go, but I know that she will be happy with her new soon-to-be husband and life in Arizona. Arizona is lucky to have her.

Back to that starfish comment I made at the beginning of the post. Did you forget about that? At Kristina's farewell dinner last night, someone shared a little story that, in my experience, perfectly captures how she approached the challenges she faced following her passion. It goes a little something like this:

A man is walking along the ocean and 

sees a beach on which thousands and thousands 

of starfish have washed ashore. Further along

he sees a young woman, walking slowly and 

stooping often, picking up one starfish after 

another and tossing each one gently into the 

ocean. 

“Why are you throwing starfish into the 

ocean?,” he asks. 

“Because the sun is up and the tide is going out 

and if I don’t throw them further in they will 

die.” 

“But don’t you realize there are miles 

and miles of beach and starfish all along it! 

You can’t possibly save them all, you can’t even 

save one-tenth of them. In fact, even if you 

work all day, your efforts won’t make any 

difference at all.” 

The young woman listened calmly and then bent 

down to pick up another starfish and threw it 

into the sea. “It made a difference to that one.” 

A little bit sappy? Absolutely. But it damn near brought tears to my eyes last night when I thought of myself as one of those starfish Kristina saved. Emotions were still running high as we drove home, and I thought about it a little more. What if every starfish Kristina threw back for a second chance did the same for one more? Or two more? Or ten more? Let's have her legacy live on, not simply through photographs and stories, but by carrying on her mission.

And that is what energized me to bring back my passion of mental illness awareness to the forefront. I don't know how yet, any ideas are welcomed. But somehow, I am going to join that army of starfish throwers.

I Can Sit at the Adult Table Now

I've been thinking about stress a lot these last couple of weeks. There's bad stress, the perceived stress I get from hating what I see in the mirror. The reliving of past stress when I have a flashback dream to my dark days. The actual stress from not having enough hours in the day. 

Then there's good stress. For example, it can be damn stressful having friends who want to see me on the weekend when all I want to do is drink wine and make funny noises at my cat. But what's really been eating away at my sanity is the great stress that comes with having an "adult" job. 

(There's my segue.)

Yes, my temporary position at United Way has turned into a permanent staff position. I am the new Manager of Volunteer Engagement at the United Way in Waukesha County. And let me tell you, it is a fantastic and horrible thing at the same time. 

Let's start out with the fantastic. I have an office. I'm salaried. I have health benefits. I have interns I can pass off work to. I can guarantee you that my boss is more awesome than your boss. I work 3 minutes away from home, so I can spend an hour in the middle of the day in front of my TV not wearing pants. Be jealous.

But every silver lining has a cloud, or something like that. Every rainbow has rain. There's a bad side, is what I'm trying to say. I have people that are actually depending on me now. I have a schedule filled with meetings, luncheons, and press releases. I can't have an "off" day where I punch in for 8 hours only to browse the interwebs until I can retreat to the safety of my apartment. I need to be "on" for 40 hours a week. Making phone calls. Meeting with agencies. Drafting reports. Not letting people down.

Don't get me wrong. I love my job. I am so proud of myself for beating out people with more experience because I was a candidate with creative ideas and genuine passion. And I feel like I'm where I was meant to be, helping people in a very direct and noticeable way. I can picture United Way being the last place I work before Boyfriend gives me babies. (Yup, baby fever has struck. But that's a-whole-nother post.) In a nutshell: I now have a career, not a job.

Now that I've taken the opportunity to brag a little bit, back to my original thought. Stress. The symptoms of stress don't differentiate between good and bad. Even though I have a fantastic life with virtually nothing to complain about, the good stress I'm feeling manifests itself the same way bad stress would. And it all culminated this past Sunday. Sitting in my beautiful home with my fantastic boyfriend wearing a new outfit and making plans for our bright future, I totally lost it. I was a blubbering mess. And not just once. Twice. I broke down crying for an hour, picked myself up (with the massive helping hand of Boyfriend), and started over a few hours later.

I have my moments where I think I can't do it. That I'm not "normal" enough to handle a real job. That my mental illness is going to fuck up everything like it has in the past. I'm afraid I'm going to turn this into a self-fulfilling prophecy, disappointing everyone who loves me and proving right everyone who doesn't. And then all hell breaks loose like it did this Sunday.

But then Monday morning came, I went to work, rocked it, and felt confident that I won't have a repeat of last weekend. Maybe I just had to flush all the negative out of my system. And maybe that mood won't strike me again until I get a promotion and the good stress is compounded. 

The real reason I'm writing this morning is because I wanted to turn to my beloved readers for help. I want you wonderful people to hold me accountable. Shit probably hit the fan because I stopped all my "keep Mary from going crazy" strategies. Who has time to meditate, exercise, and write in their journal when they have a full time job? Someone who wants to hold onto their awesome job, that's who. This girl right here.

So you don't have to do shit besides read this, but seeing the page views on this post will encourage me. It will remind me that I told X number of people that I was going to resume my coping strategies in order to keep the positive momentum going in my life. Starting today. 

Starting now.

I hope this isn't Office Space...

Damn, I really suck at this whole posting on my blog thing. Remember in the beginning when I was posting, like, 4 times a week? I miss that. And I hate to say it, but that's not going to be coming back any time soon. And here's why.

I am joining the workforce. Yup, that's right. Gone are the days of freelance writing at the kitchen table in my bathrobe. From now on, Monday through Friday during normal business hours, I will be wearing nice slacks and a blazer at the office. I will be getting a regular paycheck instead of sporadic PayPal deposits. I will have co-workers to talk to over the water cooler. Not my cat over the Keurig.

This also means that I am officially not doing my peer support work either. And that brings about a whole bushel of mixed emotions. I'm going to miss the people I worked with. But I'm not going to miss the triggering conversations. I am going to miss being a tangible support system for people who need it. But I'm not going to miss working Sundays. I am going to miss having an excuse to hang out in the ghetto to which I have become strangely attached. But I am not going to miss the super uncomfortable chair in my office.

I learned more in my 8 months training to be and working as a peer support specialist than I have in all my other jobs and education combined. I can't find the words to explain what it did for me. But if I had to try, I would say that it taught me what it means to be human. Compassion. Strength. Inevitable weakness. The delicate balance between life events and responses. Non-judgement. How to simply be with someone. Combating stigma. What it means to have a mental illness. And what it doesn't mean. Honestly, I think the training I went through should be taught in high schools. A mandatory class that connects the brain and the heart. It's amazing how simple the concepts I learned were but how far removed I was from ever approaching them on my own. Even as a person who lives with mental illness.

The only downfall was that peer support is not a career. It's a job. A fulfilling, necessary, under appreciated, part-time, low paying, dead end job. Without degrees in psychology or social work, I didn't see where it could take me. And I hate sounding selfish. The job was not about me; it was about the residents at United House. But now it's time for me to turn my focus on myself and where I need to be. Now that I have learned, healed, and helped, it is time for me to make a move.

That being said, this new job is not my ideal career move. Yes, it is a full time office position that makes me feel all professional and shit. It pays better. It has regular hours. I am a crucial cog in the machine that is the United Way campaign. But it is temporary. It is a 4 month gig. When their fundraising campaign ends, so does my job. And I will probably go back to freelance writing for a while. And while this does stress me out a bit, I am ok with it. I think it may be a good thing that I haven't locked myself into a job that I might be at for the next decade.

I haven't worked a "real" job in almost a year. About 11 months exactly. I took the job right after graduating college, when my condition was really starting to go downhill. At the beginning, I felt super productive. I was making money. I could buy Boyfriend dinner every once in a while. It was a self-esteem boost that I needed, desperately, but that was short-lived. Soon, the intrusive thoughts and severe depression overwhelmed me like it never had before. And hopefully never will again.

I would spend 8 hours a day in my cubicle going through the motions. I put in great effort to look undisturbed. And I think I pulled it off. No one knew that I was going to the far away bathroom to cry on my lunch break. No one knew that the notes I was taking had nothing to do with work, but were instead drafts of suicide letters to loved ones. Most days I went home and collapsed on the bed, unable to enjoy my time away from the office. I didn't eat enough. And I drank too much. All this built up until I felt I had no choice but to quit. Eventually, I was going to figure out the right way to kill myself, and all my letters would be finished. It was only a matter of time, and I had a lot of it at work. So, I told them I got another job on a Tuesday, left that Thursday, and was in the ER by Sunday.

Yeah, that is how my last job went. Which is why I'm pretty ok with taking a temporary gig. If I can pull off 4 months of working in the office without losing it again, then I will have the confidence to find something permanent. But right now, I'm pretty damn nervous about starting. I have all the normal fears. What if I'm not good at my job? What if my co-workers don't like me? When will I have time to work out and have fun? But I also have the fears that are a little more unique to someone with my condition. What if I forget to take my pills with me? What if I have a breakdown at work? What if the side effects of my medication make it impossible for me to hold a job?

But I'm optimistic. I am fashioning schedules and action plans in my head to keep myself sane. I know it won't be easy, and there will probably still be days that I come home and flop on the bed before grabbing a glass of wine, but I also feel like I need to do this for more than just myself. After working as a peer support specialist, I feel like something of a role model. One guy I worked with called me a "gold member," someone who has mastered their mental illness. I want to be proof to him and others that having a serious mental illness does not mean that you are not capable. I want to be "normal."

So that's where I'm at now. I would like to tell you that I will give you an update after I start working, let you know if I'm losing my mind or not, but that probably won't happen. Ideally, I would continue this writing thing to keep my head clear and to stay fresh on my writing ability, but it will likely be another month before you hear anything out of me. So wish me luck! Today is my last week day without a job, and I am going to enjoy it.

To My Anorexic Readers

I don't know how many of you are bloggers yourselves. Aside from a few regulars, you seem to be the "lurk in the shadows" type of readers who frequent Zoloft and Coffee, but don't comment. I know this because Blogger.com has this nifty tool you may not know about that allows me to see how many people are viewing my site, what outside site they are being directed from, what country they live in, and, for those of you coming from Google, Bing, or Yahoo, what you typed into the little box to get you sent my way. And that is what I am here to talk about today.

Months ago, way back in December when I was brand new on the blogging scene and freshly out of the mental illness closet, I put up a post titled Top 10 Benefits of Being Anorexic. Of course, it was totally facetious. There is nothing good about anorexic, and the post was meant to be a total joke. I figured if I made fun of the issue before anyone else had a chance to do so, I the upper hand. I also thought, "Who the hell is going to read this anyways?"

Well, it turns out, a lot of people. Since December, I have gained a small following. I'm no Perez Hilton, but I have a blog that actually gets read every time I post. And that list that I thought would be read by a few friends who could laugh along with me is being seen by hundreds of people who search "Benefits of Being Anorexic," "Pros of Anorexia," "Advantages to Anorexia," and similar phrases. Aside from "Zoloft and Coffee," these are the top keywords used to find my blog.

This breaks my heart. I imagine young girls sitting alone in front of a computer desperately looking for something to cling to, some way to take control of their lives when another aspect of it is spinning out of control. I picture a slightly overweight girl in high school searching for a solution to end the bullying. I think of my sisters and younger cousins, at such impressionable ages, typing that into a search box and not making it to my page but instead to one of those awful pro-anorexia community sites.

I used to be one of those girls. I used to be involved in the web-based Pro-Ana community. I would spend hours trying to figure out how to make the hunger pangs disappear. How to hide my illness. How to burn more calories. How to barely survive. I would talk to other girls who were going through the same thing I was, girls who had the extreme desire to be skin and bones, rid of the sin that is fat. We fed off each other's illness. I am not proud to admit that I was an active member on these sites, but the fact of the matter is that when you are in that situation, you want nothing more than to be with someone who understands.

This is to all those girls hoping beyond hope that anorexia is a friend to lean on: I understand. I know what it is like to be that desperate, feel that alone, hate your body that much. I have sought comfort in that empty feeling, trying to make myself pure. I have craved the power and control that comes from denying basic human needs. I understand. I do.

I know there is nothing I can say that will change your mind. I am not a therapist. I am not your friend. I am a stranger over the internet, but so are the people promoting Ana. Even though I know there is nothing I can say, I am going to try anyways.

I am not going to tell you you're beautiful. I used to read that on the internet all the time, and I had the typical, "You don't even know me response." I'm not going to spout cliches like "It gets better" and "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." In my case, shit got way worse before it got any better. (But, ahem, it did get better.)

What I can say with absolute certainty, no matter who you are or what your situation is, is that your body does not deserve that kind of treatment, and your mind does not deserve to be in the jail you are creating. Anorexia is like using extreme methods of torture on yourself that would have anyone else who tried using them on someone else locked up for life. You are depriving yourself of the happiness and health you do deserve.

In an ideal world, you would now make an appointment with your doctor, therapist, find a support group, and head to McDonald's, but I know that is not how this works. It will probably still be a struggle for you to put dressing on your salad. The words I said maybe resonated for a few seconds, but the rumbling in your stomach was louder than me. I understand. I am not asking you to change your life overnight. I am just humbly requesting that you think about what you are doing to yourself for a moment. Write about it in your journal. Meditate on it. Ponder it over next time you go for a run. I don't care; just give it a moment.

And if in that moment you decide that just maybe you want to fight back, do something with it. X out of your diet pages, and go to RecoverYourLife.com. Put away your daily calorie journal, and open up to a friend. Hell, you can even message me. I am a good listener.

Victory is Mine!

Ladies, never underestimate the power of a nice blazer and classic pumps. Seriously. This week, I went to my doctor's appointment not looking like I got run over by a freaking dump trunk. Instead, I was in the one business outfit I own (purchased no less than 2 weeks ago) in preparation for an interview I had after the appointment, and let me tell you, this was the best trip to the doctor's I've had yet.

You ready for this? My doctor actually listened to me! She took what I said into consideration, trusted my judgment, and came to reasonable solution that I was ok with. Here's how this all went down:

Doctor: Wow, Mary. Do you work today or something? You look very nice.
Me: Oh, it's just this interview thing later.
*Nod of approval on her part. Nervous twitching on mine*
Doctor: So, tell me how things have been going.
Me: It's speech time. Just like I practiced in the car. Well, I have been thinking, I mean... Ok, so here's the thing. I have been doing not bad. I mean, I have been, like, good and stuff. And I'm sick, and I mean really sick, of the side effects or whatever of my pills. Low libido. Loss of creativity. Sleepy, like, all the time. Ya know? It's.... hard and shit. I think maybe I want to... stop. Stop taking the pills. Maybe. Good lord, Mary. That was nothing like the car. What is it about these doctors that make me feel so small?
Doctor: *silence*
Me: I mean, I have been preparing with, um, lifestyle changes. Meditating. Journaling. Exercising. Ya know, mind-body stuff that is supposed to help with the bipolar. So maybe... I don't know. I don't like my pills.
Doctor: Normally we like to see the patient well for 6 solid months before weaning down, but you know yourself better than I do.... *blah blah blah, medical jargon, risks, but we can try, blah blah*

And then, victory was mine!!! She gave me a thread of hope, I bucked up like a champ, and my pills got lowered by a quarter. Instead of a full pill at lunch, I get to cut that fucker in half. Boo-yah!!!

This may seem like a small win, but this was 3 days ago, and I can already notice a difference. Boyfriend even noticed a change for the better. Part of the old Mary is back. I felt my creative energy rise up when I was at an art fair. I didn't feel like I was talking through a fog when socializing at a party. The look of an old, tattered barn inspires a yearning to explore again.

But I wasn't just feeding the doctor bullshit. No, I really have been making some serious lifestyle changes in preparation for this request. I am doing three tangible activities. First, I am writing in my journal every day. Even when I don't think I have anything important to write. I am not going to let those damn thoughts pile up in my head until I explode. Nope, they are getting released on the daily.

Second, I have renewed my commitment to meditation. I sit on my pillow for at least 10 minutes per day to repeat a positive mantra, reflect on my inner being, and be at peace with the world. Sure, the word "fuck" may get peppered into my mantras every now and then, but that's just a sign that it's still me. I am not a hippy. I am no Buddha. I am just a girl who is trying to make her mind stronger than her monsters.

Finally, exercise. I am getting off my ass for a minimum of 30 minutes a day to shake off the excess energy. To boost my self-confidence. To shed those hated pounds I put on thanks to those forsaken pills. This one is certainly the hardest, and I have to admit, I'm doing damn good. I have made it to the gym 4 days in a row and worked up a sweat. Not my usual walking on the treadmill while watching Boy Meets World. No, I actually run and lift weights and hardcore shit like that.

Before I end this "Woo hoo, I'm getting off my pills!" post, I need to say something. I need to let it be known that these pills I hate so much, these pills that have killed my creativity, dulled my personality, and made me fat, are honestly the best things that have ever happened to me. Without them, I almost certainly would have killed myself. Even though I have blamed them for taking away parts of life that made it worth living, they are the one thing that gave me a second chance. And for that, I am eternally grateful. I will probably keep a bottle in the back of the medicine cabinet, a safety net in case shit hits the fan again, but for now, I am ready to part ways.

A final fond farewell to Risperdal will hopefully be coming in the next couple of months. Soon to be followed by the Prozac. Off to join my Zoloft and Lithium and Lamictal and Seroquel to the land of discarded meds. Wish me luck.

A Day at Roger's Memorial Hospital

I sometimes browse through my blog when I'm bored. I edit previous posts, criticize myself for something I said, and regret what I didn't. Well, I come to you today to make up for some of that. While I was looking things over, I realized that I totally glossed over my trips to the mental hospital back in January. Yeah, I was on a locked psych ward twice in one month and barely wrote a post on it. But I wrote like 7 posts about my job. What the hell is wrong with me?

Maybe half the reason I haven't dedicated any blog time to these events is because they still don't make a lot of sense to me. Sitting here, it's hard to believe that I was actually locked up. It's hard to believe that my situation was so desperate that I had to be checked on every 15 minutes to make sure I wasn't trying to slit my wrists with a plastic fork. It's even harder to believe that I tried. Maybe I need to flesh out these stories in order to make them mesh with the rest of me. I have some time to kill. Let's see if I can pound one out.

*****

Things weren't going well. I wrote about this plenty, so I don't think I need to go into great detail. But here is a bit of a refresher anyways. It is the beginning of January. I have stopped taking my lithium. I am cutting myself more and more. I have horrible dissociative freak outs that separate me from reality on a regular basis. And my doctor is not helping.

I think it was January 9th. I had was at my biweekly appointment at my regular clinic. After telling my doctor that I was no longer taking the lithium, I was chastised a bit and sent away with a prescription for Seroquel. Which basically meant that my doctor was trying to sedate me so I would shut the fuck up. At least that's how I viewed it. And I probably wasn't too far from the truth.

When I walked out of the clinic, I saw Dad's car parked next to mine. For one second, I felt a moment of relief that I was not alone, that I had someone I could cry to. On the other hand, I was nervous. He is a man of action. I knew he was there because he wanted to take real steps to get me help, and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed with a razor. There will  be time for that later, I thought to myself as I slipped into the passenger side and into a fog.

I don't remember much of what we talked about. I think I was too preoccupied with thinking that I could handle things my own way. But somewhere in the conversation, I guess I decided to placate him (I was too tired to fight) so that I could move on with my day; I agreed to go with him to Roger's Memorial Hospital that evening when Boyfriend got off of work. I am pretty sure I just agreed to check it out, not check in. But I wouldn't find out until later that they actually meant the same thing.

So, we parted ways, and again, I don't really remember how the rest of the day went. I probably cried and paced the apartment  and sought out comfort in sharp objects. I probably emailed Boyfriend every 2 and half minutes and begged the cat to love me. And then maybe 6 hours later, Boyfriend was home. But we didn't stay home for long. We almost instantly hopped into his car and made the long drive out to Roger's

Memorial Hospital.

Roger's Memorial Hospital. Renowned for being the experts in mental health treatment not just in Southeastern Wisconsin, but in all of North America. People come from far and wide to get better at this beautiful facility with its majestic architecture and glorious forests. It is a place of peace and healing. It radiates support. The opportunity of a lifetime was at my fingertips. 

Or so we thought.

Together, Boyfriend, Dad, and I all outlined my past, present, and projected future. We told the intake specialist about the abuse that I have endured, both by the hands of other people and myself. We divulged my eating disorder. We rehashed the dissociative episodes. And, holy shit, did all that suck.

But it was great that Dad was there. He pounded the point home that he wanted someone to really get to know me. It was important that the doctors do not just accept the diagnosis that I was given by the county. In order for me to really get the help I needed, it was absolutely necessary that we start with a blank state. Don't pay attention to her previous diagnosis. Get to know Mary. Take the time to understand what she has been through. We don't care if this takes a month or two or three. She deserves the best. The word "bipolar" was never uttered.

Yes, we totally understand, sir. We think Mary needs to be here, starting tonight. Are you ready?

Hold up. This whole time I thought we were there just to look at the facility. All of a sudden I heard that I may be staying for months starting that night. Fuck no, I'm not ready! I had a moment of panic. I begged them to let me go home and spend one last night in my bed. I wasn't even packed. I had nothing but my purse with me. I didn't have my toothbrush or my clothes or my teddy bear. I was not ready. It was then decided that I would go home for the night, pack, and come back in about 9 hours to check in for a good long stay at the answer to all my problems.

To say I was freaking out on the way home would be an understatement. I was hardcore panicking. Hell, I hated the hour I had to spend at the clinic every two weeks. How the fuck was I supposed to handle being in a mental hospital 24 hours a day? I freaked out on the car ride home. I freaked out while I packed. (What do you wear to be committed?) I freaked out going to bed. I freaked out the second I woke up. I freaked out on the car ride back.

My new home. Boyfriend stayed with me for about an hour during the intake process before he had to go to work, and Dad stayed with me the majority of the morning. I did not make it easy on either of them. I cried and continued to panic. It all felt like a really bad dream. I wanted someone to tell me that my situation was not that bad, that I can just go home, and maybe bump up how often I go to therapy. But I don't need to be in a residential facility. Naw, you're fine. Take your hoodies with strings, and go home.

That did not happen. I was left there as a reject. As the nurses went through all my possessions, stealing what I could not be trusted with, like notebooks with wire and beauty products with alcohol, I desperately tried to figure out how I could use what they left me with to hurt myself. Not necessarily because I needed that release. I just wanted to show them how futile their efforts were to keep me safe. I would do what I want. But I didn't. It wasn't until my second trip to the hospital that I would actually carry out my plans to cut myself in my room. More on that later.

Eventually, I calmed down. I even went to some of the group therapy sessions to dip my toes into this healing process. I didn't actively participate, but I did make that small effort of showing up. I spent hours in my room, sitting on top of my desk by the window, writing what I was hoping would be the opening to my memoir. (Great American novels are all fueled by mental illness, right?) I ate lunch with the rest of the outcasts in my position, and by ate, I mean I picked at hospital food until I thought I had sat with it long enough to throw it away with no one noticing.

There was one odd moment during the day. A nurse brought a packet of information to my room about bipolar disorder written by the doctor I was going to see later that afternoon. My first thought was, Shit, they talked to my doctor. I was hoping that since we hadn't used the word "bipolar," that it just wouldn't come up at all. Maybe they would be able to properly diagnose me. (At this point, I was still not convinced that I was actually bipolar.) But I assumed that they had called my other doctor and determined that, yup, I'm definitely bipolar. The doctor through the county says so.

As I read through the packet of information, I noticed that half of it was about what an expert on bipolar disorder my new doctor was. It also had weird "facts," like how people with piercings and tattoos are more likely to be bipolar. I knew I was in for a real treat when I met this guy. This total bullshit I was reading through was really making my hope fade, what little hope I had to begin with.

Then came my afternoon appointment with the doctor. I shit you not, for the first 15 minutes of stepping into his office, I didn't get to say a damn word. This guy went on and on about what bipolar disorder is, how many people have it, what the symptoms are, blah, blah, blah. And somehow, he already knew that I had it. Even though I hadn't said a damn word. AND even though he hadn't talked to my other doctor. Apparently everyone, yes, everyone, has bipolar disorder. 

After sitting there for a good 15 minutes listening to this guy get off on the sound of his own voice and expertise, I started to butt in a little bit. I was desperately trying to tell him the story of my dissociative episodes that were making me cut myself while he explained to me why I was just bipolar. It was absolutely nothing else. I was practically in tears and borderline shouting about how I wanted help. I was beyond desperate. I literally begged him to listen to me and drop the bipolar thing for just a minute. He couldn't do that. He was the doctor, and he knew what was best. This fuckhead yelled at me for being noncompliant and questioning him, the almighty father of psychological diagnosis. He told me that if I wouldn't listen to him that I would have to watch his video presentation on bipolar disorder with Dad and Boyfriend during visiting hours. Then he lowered his head to his notebook and told me to leave. I may or may not have slammed the door a bit on my way out.

So, there I am, at one of the best hospitals in the country, and I get into an actual argument with the doctor in charge of my treatment. For those of you who know me, that probably sounds a bit unusual. Sure, I'm bipolar, but I don't argue. I avoid confrontation at all costs. Hell, I ended up in the hospital because I didn't want to argue with Dad. If I was going to move into a mental hospital, I sure wasn't going to let myself be walked all over like that. It was in that moment that I realized that I wanted real help.

A couple hours later, Dad and Boyfriend showed up for visiting hours, right on time. And as planned, my lovely doctor had given the DVD of his bipolar presentation to the nurses to put on for us. But first, I took Dad and Boyfriend into my room to explain the day I had. I think Boyfriend almost had a heart attack when I told them something happened and that I needed to speak with them alone. In retrospect, I probably should have been less dramatic about the whole thing. But I was still beyond pissed.

So I explained what a dumbass my doctor was, and then we all proceeded to one of the larger rooms with a TV so we could be enlightened by his presentation. Seriously, I think Dad laughed through half of it. Dad, for those of you who don't know, works in the mental health field and has lived experiences himself. I'd be inclined to say that he is more of an expert than most doctors. His entire video was bullshit. He was trying to redefine bipolar disorder into a condition that every single person suffers from. He was unsuccessfully trying to make himself an expert on something it sounded like he knew nothing about.

And that was when we decided that this was not the place for me. I was not going to get the help I needed from a doctor who diagnosed people before they even step into his office. My mind still wanders to him occasionally. I wonder how many people he has improperly diagnosed and, worse, medicated for a disorder they don't have. I wonder if there is any way I can bring to light what an idiot the best hospital the country has working for it.

I think the thrill of potentially leaving has made this part of the experience a little blurry for me again. I remember hanging out in one of the bigger rooms with Boyfriend while Dad talked to people. I remember waiting to see if the doctor was still in the building to discharge me. And I remember sitting in a room with Boyfriend, Dad, and the doctor discussing why I should leave. Of course, Dad was totally polite about the whole thing, trying to justify that this was just not the place for me without blatantly calling the doctor an idiot. 

After getting the doctor to agree that I would not be helped there, meeting privately with the nurses to ensure that this was my decision, not Dad's or Boyfriend's, and a whole bunch of paperwork releasing Roger's of any liability, I was finally discharged against medical advice. Yeah, I was discharged from a mental hospital against medical advice. Kind of badass, right? 

And we celebrated. On the way home, Boyfriend and I went for dinner at Kopp's, and I anticipated my own bed as though I had actually been away from it for months, not 14 hours. A very naive part of me thought that this experience was all I needed to scare me straight, that I would suddenly be "cured" of whatever mental ailment I had. That could not have been further from the truth. I went downhill more than I thought possible, and ended up at Aurora in less than 3 weeks. But more on that later.

Hi, my name is Mary, and I need therapy.

Kitty Therapy!

The topic of therapy has come up more than a few times in Zoloft and Coffee. I have discussed how it is not a technique that works for me. How I don't really like talking to anyone, much less a stranger. How everyone thinks a therapist is god's gift to the mentally ill. How it only makes my racing mind run faster. Well, I am going to take all that back. I have been out of therapy for almost a month, and I am not ashamed to admit that I miss it.

To make a long story short, my insurance situation has made it more complicated for me to get the help that I need. What is the proper course of action when you find out that you have insurance through a family that you are estranged from? This is the dilemma that I am facing at the moment. 

Do I just go ahead and use it hoping they don't mind?

Do I ask permission to go through their plan and risk making it sound like I am only looking for a relationship to use them for their insurance? 

Or do I try to forge through the dense forest of bipolar and anorexia solo, without professional help?

While none of those options sound appealing to me, it seems like I have settled on the last one. I am navigating my way through pills, stressors, stigma, and triggers with nothing but my trusty journal who is getting quite a bit of attention these days. And I can't decide if it is the fact that I am too proud to ask for help or too scared to admit that I actually need it more than they know.

I did make a small, very small, effort to replace therapy with a support group. And when I say very small, I mean VERY small. I couldn't find the room it was being held in, so I turned back towards home and never looked back. Never made another effort to find that, or any other, support group again. And I justified it by saying that I don't even like talking, especially not to strangers. It's not a technique that works for me. Support groups are not god's gift to the mentally ill. Wait, have I been here before? Fuck. Maybe I should try again.

So that's where I'm at. If it seems like I'm meandering a bit, I probably am. I'm missing a stabilizing piece of my treatment. Missing it in more ways than one. But don't confuse my meandering for being totally lost. Sure, it provided me with some guidance and direction, but I will survive without it if I have to. I'm still ok.

I think it's time for a change.

Waking up before 5 in the morning, before the sun, before Boyfriend, before movement, leaves you with a lot of time to just think. And that is just what I did today. When Pinterest and Facebook could not hold my attention, I laid in the comfort of my bed pondering the nuances of my life. I mostly thought about one thing in particular, one thing that has been weighing pretty heavy on my mind these last couple of weeks but have been too chicken shit to let my teeny audience know. However, my morning contemplation has brought me to a point of acceptance.

Being a peer support specialist is not for me. I know, I have mentioned dissatisfaction with my job in the past, but that was mostly concerned with how freaking little it pays. Money is still an issue, but it is so much more than that. I feel like I overlooked the fact that I am super not a people person when I started down this path. I am more comfortable behind a computer than I am in front of a person. And then turn person into people? Dear god, no. I communicate best through written word as opposed to carrying on a dialogue in the moment. I am just plain awkward. All these factors led me to the conclusion that I am simply bad at my job. Shitty, in fact. Sure, I have a friendly face and a calm demeanor, but aside from that, I don't think I'm really helping anyone. The patients may actually be placating me as I nervously paw my way through the conversation and they sense my discomfort.

The other major point of contention that I have had with being a peer support specialist is the fact that it is massively triggering. HIPPA laws, laws protecting confidentiality, probably prevent me from explaining to the world exactly the what and who and how of this roadblock, but the few people I have confided in assure me that I am not being a pansy. I am dealing with some pretty intense shit. I am in situations that no one should be in, bordering on a safety issue. And given that I have a sordid history with this specific circumstance, it is no wonder that it is fucking with me just a bit. (I know that I have explained nothing in these past 5 sentences, but, ya know, HIPPA.) A part of me feels guilty that I am "running away" from these fears and triggers. But a very rational part of me says that no one should have to, or calmly be able to, face them.

So, come next week, I am pouring all my energy into finding a new job. Maybe something with 9 to 5 hours where I can't wear jeans, save for Friday. Someplace a little bit boring but in that "American Dream" kind of way. A job that may be less fulfilling and noble and more demeaning yet fruitful. Something to tide me over until I can be a full time housewife/writer.

Scars and Cellulite

The sun is shining. The birds are singing. And the mercury is rising. Which means clothes are being shed and skin is exposed. And black clouds are rolling over that sunshine of mine. Maybe that is a bit dark. I am truly loving this weather. In fact, I'm itching to spend the weekend outside and go camping. Or whatever it is that city girls call camping. Ok, I want to drink around a fire. But that exposed skin, it's been getting to me.

Let's tackle the easy one first, the one that is bothering probably 90% of girls in Wisconsin. I've still got my winter weight. BUT I've got the extra 10 pounds I put on because of that damn medication that makes me a lazy fuck. Slow down, Mary. Stay calm. Breathe. I went to buy shorts with Boyfriend yesterday, and while I made it out of Kohl's without tears, I did have that moment where I looked in the mirror and saw a blob. "Lard ass" and "nauseating" and "obscene" flashed clearly across my vision like spelling words on Sesame Street. And they bubbled up for the next couple of hours.

Now realistically, I know that I'm not disgusting. That is, if I can trust the numbers and Boyfriend. And the professionals who roll their eyes at me. But the fact that I am a good 3 sizes larger than I was before I went into treatment is fucking with me pretty hardcore. The fact that I can't see bones for the first time in years is sending my head spinning.

I'm not going to let anorexia get her grip on me again though. I am going to eat right and exercise and all that jazz. Living with anorexia is hell, so I am going to make a conscious effort not to fall prey like I usually do this time of year.

But there is another issue. One that I haven't really had to deal with until now. My scars. I have scars all up and down my one arm, and I am having to get used to bare them for all to see unless I want to wear long sleeves all summer. Which I don't. For months, I was able to easily hide them with no question. Now, not so much.

I can feel people's eye burning holes in my arms when they see them, and I so desperately want to explain that I am not crazy, that I was going through a rough time, that I'm past it. Look, they are all old and healed! But I know that doing that would be entirely counterproductive. So instead, I pretend that I don't notice them noticing, turn my arm inward slightly so maybe they will be less visible, and wait for Mederma to go on sale.

Maybe nobody is even looking. Maybe I am imagining that people are staring at my arm. Either way, I am not comfortable in my own skin, quite literally, these days.

The Calm After the Storm

Well, I'm glad that's over. I made it out of my depressive episode with my wrists in tact and my sanity restored. But it has been one hell of a week.

I gave you a little insight into what I was feeling earlier this week. The inevitable backslide that I wrote about on Tuesday. The inadequacy. The self-doubt. The resentment and fear. All those individual antagonists teamed together as allied forces to take me down. No one negative was responsible for my plummet, but instead they all fed off one another to grow in power and strength. To charge in at 9:30 Friday morning to destabilize me in one pinnacle moment.

The shower. 

I should know better than to take a shower when I am feeling so low. Each time, I take a breather and think, "Oh, if I just get cleaned up, throw on some make-up, and look like I'm ok, I will be ok." Problem solved! That's not quite what happens. Ever. Instead, I get in there, I'm stuck in a small room with the white noise of the water which amplifies the thoughts the monsters are putting in my head. And I'm exposed and vulnerable to boot. So rather than thinking, "I suck at everything," the monsters take this opportunity to scream, "YOU SUCK AT YOUR JOB! BOYFRIEND WOULD BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT YOU! YOU CAN'T EVEN KEEP THE HOUSE CLEAN, FUCK UP!" Then I give up, get out of the shower, and take a passing look in the mirror to see the gargantuan figure that seems to get larger each second my self esteem gets smaller. And, in my precarious state, it's enough.

So in about 10 minutes, I've gone from melancholy to suicidal. And since I am severely lacking in the coping skills department, all I could think of to do to alleviate my pain and eliminate the risk of suicide were swallowing a couple Ambien to knock myself out until Boyfriend got home or cutting myself to show the monsters who's in charge. Maybe I am getting a little bit better at managing myself, because even in my disjointed state, I still knew that those options would only lead to more negative repercussions once I'm discovered. Which means the next 4 or 5 hours were spent in hysterical tears, trying to chase away thoughts of annihilation. 

And then, just as quickly as it started, it was over. Boyfriend came home, I had another rough couple of hours, and then, after hashing it out a bit, the monsters went back to their cave in Hell or wherever they come from. Boyfriend admitted how hard it is to deal with me. I tried to make sure he understands that this is not the last time it will happen. And we both agreed to get back into therapy. And then we ate cheese, played cards, and went back to living happily ever after.

This past week has reminded me that, yes, I do have a mental illness. It was kind of a perfect storm of forgetting my pills one day, receiving an extremely triggering letter, and the stress of starting a new job. But my monsters that come out when triggered are equivalent to someone else catching the flu when exposed to a certain virus. The virus lives on a doorknob. A person grabs that knob before the virus dies. A speck of dust tickles their nose, and BAM! Infected. 

That's what happened to me. I got sick this week. It may not be from a virus, and it cannot be treated with antibiotics, but it came from something real. It has physical implications. It deserves treatment. And that is where I need to put my focus from now on. Getting back into treatment.

But it's Saturday. So right now, I am going to focus on digesting the grilled food I just ate and prepare for a bonfire tonight. Life is good and I want to enjoy as much of it as possible. Before the monsters make me sick again.

Oh, Monsters. There you are.

Joan Jett has nothing to do with this post,
but I liked the picture.

I feel like shit. And it really shouldn't surprise me. I start my new job tomorrow, so of course my monsters were like, "Oh, something important is coming up. Time to fuck with Mary again!" So they jump out of hiding to bitchslap me with a depressive episode.

Just this past Sunday night, I was sitting at home with Boyfriend feeling nothing but pure bliss. There on my meditation pillow, I was able to look around and see shelves of my favorite books, meaningful art that I created, a life that Boyfriend, the love of my life, and I have built together this past year and a half, and the hope for a future that radiates promise and passion. All while listening to a relaxing yoga station on Pandora, sipping some bourbon, and reading a motivational memoir. I was totally submerged in the happiness I didn't think existed when I was at my worst at the beginning of this year.

Fast forward two days, and it feels like January all over again.

I feel like I'm letting Boyfriend down.
I regret my job for not being more lucrative.
I wonder why I have been given the responsibility to help other people through their struggles when my own keep me bedridden for an extra two hours in the morning.
I loathe the mirror and these extra "healthy" pounds.
I am embarrassed that I ever entertained the notion that I could be a successful writer.
I regret my stay at the hospital and despise it for costing as much as it did.
I exhume bitterness and bury courtesy for the family I wish I had.
I idealize surrendering.

The inevitable backslide. I think, deep down, I knew this was going to happen, but another part of me thought that with all the drugs they have me on, I should be able to handle anything that comes my way. Or I should just be numbed to all the triggers that send me sinking. I guess this is what I get for being cocky, for thinking I had this shit figured out. For thinking that I was stronger than my mental illness.

No, I am not ending it like this. One thing that I have confidently learned over these past many months is that I leave the table with the last feeling I wrote stuck in my head. That is why I always end my journal entries (not so much my blog entries) on a positive note. Even if it is just forced bullshit that doesn't actually help, at least I can convince myself that I didn't raise the white flag without first raising a middle finger to the monsters.

PEP TALK: Get it together, Girlfriend. It's not even 11:00. You still have plenty of time to at least clean the house, and maybe even get a little writing work done. Hell, you can even make dinner tonight and show Boyfriend that you are useful. If you don't finish everything you have on that massive list of yours, at least you can make a dent and feel better going into tomorrow. You don't have to be perfect. Repeat that aloud. You don't have to be perfect! No one is. Now post this shit, center yourself with some meditation, and start the day over. It's not too late.

And go.

Lifestyle Change #1: I am Zen

Its the Mystical Mallard, the rare
and endangered Zen Duck -
trouble rolls off its back like water off, well, a Duck.

Zen Ducks can't fly coz they are unflappable.

Yesterday, Boyfriend and I went to an open house at the Illinois Vipassana Meditation Center. And we decided that this is our path to Enlightenment  This is how we are going to achieve inner peace and exile our demons. This is our new way of life.

Let me just give you a brief overview. I'm not going to go into the philosophy of the practice because I won't be able to do it justice. Since I have not even become a student of Vipassana, I have no right to act as a teacher. But I can fill you in on what I learned as a visitor interested in maybe, potentially, possibly becoming a student.

This center, and ones like it all across the world, hold 10 day retreats that teach their students how to practice this ancient form of meditation. Each center plays the same audio tape so that it is totally uniform. No person learns it in a different way or gets at it from an alternative direction based on the location or teacher. Whether you are doing it in Illinois, New York, India, or Japan (I don't know if there is a center in Japan), you will be listening to the exact same instructions. And these instructions have been perfected over thousands of years. So if you follow them, you are pretty much guaranteed a life-changing experience.

Don't let the fact that they call it a retreat fool you. This is not a vacation. It is 10 solid days, from 4 in the morning until 9 at night, of meditating. Of healing your subconscious, crying, and pain. Of not eating after the noon hour. Of reflection and awareness. Of hard work.

Now for the kicker. The aspect that really separates the men from the boys and makes me think that, as much as I appreciate meditation, believe it is a valuable cog in my treatment machine, and am willing to work to achieve peace, I could not do a Vipassana retreat. As part of the experience, each student has to sign a promise of noble silence. Noble silence equals not communicating for the whole 10 days.

Some of you who know me personally may be thinking, "Mary, you could handle that, no problem. I knew you for 2 1/2 months before you spoke a word to me." Ok, fair enough. I don't talk much. It's not my thing. But noble silence goes well beyond just not talking. Since no one else is talking, there is no one to listen to. There is no gesturing. There is no eye contact. There is no music. There is no reading or writing, my bread and butter. What's that Lord Byron quote? "If I don't write to empty my mind, I'll go mad." I feel ya, bro.

10 long days of being totally stuck in my head. That sounds dangerous. I talked to one of the teachers about it, explained that I'm a little bit crazy and sometimes the lack of engagement can send me headfirst into a black pool of hell, more or less, as my mind races to the worst, and she told me that I would need to be interviewed to ensure that this is something that's safe for me to do. It may not be. It's not for everyone.

*Sidenote* On this trip to Illinois, I was reminded that, yes, I definitely still have bipolar disorder. I forgot to refill my lunchtime pills in my purse before we left, which means I was unmedicated for the second half of our adventure. And around 5:00 in the afternoon, I felt it. I could feel it in my head, my heart, and my stomach, the floodgates about to crumble, but thank god I had my anti-anxiety pills on hand. Crisis averted.

So, what do we do now? Now that the monsters may potentially steal the rug out from under me. Boyfriend is going to do it. In fact, he is totally pumped and ready to take on this challenge. And that makes me happier than he realizes. It is about damn time that he does something for himself. It will be good for him to get away from the craziness that is the girlfriend, in a good way, and work on his spiritual and mental well being. And I am so proud of him for jumping in the deep end. In a couple of months, he is going to learn the ways of Vipassana on a 10 day silent retreat. And he will bring back the wisdom to our humble home.

Until he comes back and  gives me some insight as to whether or not it would kill me, I am dedicating myself to other forms of meditation. Like that at the Milwaukee Zen Center or Milwaukee Mindfulness. I have phone apps with guided meditation and breathing techniques and, just to prove I don't do anything half-assed, we got rid of our couch, replacing it with pillows. We are going to get used to sitting on the floor, goddammit. (By "got rid of," I mean we put it in the basement. We didn't, like, set it on fire after coming home from the open house. So we're not that crazy, right?)

In order to keep myself from rambling on about things totally not related to becoming zen, I am going to end it here. But here are a couple topics you have to look forward to in the coming weeks (assuming I sit down to write).

• Lifestyle Change #2: Boyfriend and I are wheat free now. 
• I am no longer in therapy.
• I am start my new job this week.
• I am 100+ days clean. Triple digits!
• The quarter century crisis is still in full swing.
• Ana is rearing her ugly head a lot these days.

Stay tuned, folks. Lots of exciting stuff ahead! 

Quarter Century Crisis

I'm 25. On May 5th, I turned a quarter of a century old. Yeah, I'm old enough to legally rent a car now, and that's cool, but aside from that, what's the draw? I'm an adult. I'm supposed to have shit figured out. But instead, I'm chasing unicorns down the rabbit hole. So for the past 3 days, since I stopped celebrating my birthday and recognized that I actually had one, I have been trying to determine, ya know, my whole life. 

I have come to two conclusions. Yes, just two.

First, I want to be a writer. Not an "I have a blog that I post on twice a month and keep a journal and occasionally type things at Starbucks" kind of a writer. A legit author who writes meaningful pieces and gets paid more than peanuts for them. 

This opened the door to other questions that I don't have the answers to. Is my life interesting enough to write a book? Am I actually capable of writing a novel? Maybe I am more suited to magazines and newspapers. Do I want to continue to write about the topic of mental illness? Do I want to branch out to more creative writing? Do I have the determination to make it? What if I pour my heart and soul into making it as a writer only to learn that I actually suck and all of you actually just read my blog to laugh at my piss poor example?

And then all these unanswered questions, fears about the future, doubts about my talent swirl around my head until I get dizzy, freak out, and force myself to abandon the idea altogether. Which then leads right into conclusion #2.

I want to be a stay-at-home mom without the kids. (Feminists, pick up your stones and aim. You won't like this.)

I want Boyfriend to worry about the business sphere while I cook, clean, and stay pretty for him. I want to have dinner on the table at 6:00 every evening. I want to have coffee with my friends after they drop off their kids at school. I want to tend to my garden. I want to pride myself on how clean my windows are. I want to host dinner parties. I want to wear dresses every day, clean in heals, and bring Boyfriend a beer while he pays bills.

I think part of this second desire, this dream of being a housewife in the 50's, stems from my insatiable craving to be normal. My life has certainly leaned towards the abnormal, and part of me thinks I've earned the right to be a bit more conventional in a modern society. I have proven myself as capable of handling the atypical, the crazy, the difficult, which means I have been given a pass to rest in the traditional.

Or maybe I am just trying to hide where it is safe.

Over Medicated, Under Care, and Beyond Words

It's been a while since I've complained. I think I'm going to complain today.

Yes, surprise surprise, there is something that I'm not totally satisfied with, and, surprise surprise, it has to do with those lovely pills that I take two times a day. Oh wait, just kidding. I've been given MORE drugs. I pop pills thrice per day now. (Did I use "thrice" right? I don't care, it's staying.)

Here's how it all went down:

Me: I feel like I'm over-medicated.
Doctor: *look of total confusion*
Me: Like, I sleep 10 hours a day, and I'm still tired and I have zero energy. Zip. Nada. I can't function like this.
Doctor: Sometimes people over-sleep when they are depressed.
Me: Yeah, but my mood is fine. I'm just super sleepy. Like, SUPER sleepy.
Doctor: You are depressed.
Me: I'm really not. I know what depressed feels like, and this is not it.
Doctor: Here's some Prozac for your depression.
Me: *Screams, pulls out hair, and throws chair across the room*

Fine, that last part didn't happen. But that's what I felt like doing out of frustration. These doctors don't listen.  It's not like I'm speaking in code or asking them to read between the lines. I am point blank letting them know what's going on with me and how I think it should be fixed. Now, I know I'm not doctor, but I am the expert in myself. I know exactly how these drugs are affecting me.

Honestly, I believe that consumers of mental health services have a much better idea of what's going on with them than the doctors do. I mean, we spend 24 hours a day with ourselves. We know how we feel before the drugs and after the drugs. We know what we want, and more importantly, we know what we need. And then these doctors, because they have their fancy education and titles, spend 5 minutes half-listening to us try to sum up our entire mental state and think they are God's right hand man when it comes to fixing us. Bullshit.

Now let's fast forward. I comply. I take the Prozac as prescribed, but I still feel like shit. I feel slightly more fluffy and fuzzy, which, not gonna lie, is pretty nice, but still tired, almost paralyzed, in the morning.

Last Monday: Leave Message #1 for the doctor:

Last Tuesday: Leave Message #2 for the doctor

Last Wednesday: Leave Message #3 for the doctor

Last Thursday: FINALLY get a call back. From the nurse. The nurse who didn't have a freaking clue who I was but still has the balls to tell me that I should have talked to the doctor before switching up my meds. It's not like I left three messages and tried in person at my appointment to get this doctor to put down the prescription pad and listen. Listen!

So in conclusion, yes, I messed with my meds again before talking to my doctor. Shame on me. I now take a smaller dose at night so that I don't wake up drugged and foggy every morning. And you know what, I was right. I knew what I needed from day one, and only suffered by trying to wait to get the go-ahead from the doctor.

What's the message that I am unsuccessfully try to make in this post? It's not to fuck what your doctor says and adjust your meds daily as you feel necessary. It's to be a little, or a lot, more pushy than me. Sit that doctor down. Make them listen. Make them hear and comprehend before you walk out of their office with your head down and anger flaring.

I'm going to put that in to practice as I'm just about to head out to go to the doctor now. I'm prepared to get yelled at for self-medicating (or self-unmedicating), but I'm also preparing to dish out a little rage of my own. Wish me luck.

Where do I go from here?

When I started this blog almost 5 months ago, it was an outlet for all my crazy. It was a way for me to organize the racing thoughts and let some air out of my balloon that was on the verge of popping. But even more than that, I wanted to help eliminate some of the stigma associated with mental illness. Looking back, I don't think I did that. Maybe I didn't hurt the cause, but I also don't think I helped it. I give myself props for openly admitting what most people want to hide, but I didn't educate anyone. I don't know. You tell me.

Now I am in more of a position to focus on making a positive change, but how? My blog can't be all about my psychotic episodes because those are few and far in between. It can't be all about my great progress because that's boring as hell. So I need a new direction. A fresh start. A blank page, if you will. So where do I go from here?

Here are some of my ideas:

• Articles about mental illness in the media
• Highlighting coping mechanisms
• Overviews of certain mental illnesses
• My work in the mental health field
• Book and movie reviews

Wow, those all sound pretty dull in comparison to drunk posts, anecdotes about anorexia, and startling confessions of cutting and suicidal thoughts. Well, maybe if we're lucky, my potential medication change tomorrow will bring about some good stories to blog about. If not, what do you guys think? Where would you like to see this blog go?

Bonus question: Does my writing suck now? I feel like my posts have become dull dull dull since this medication.

I retract my previous statement.

Blast from the Past: http://zoloftandcoffee.blogspot.com/2013/02/so-cycle-continues.html

"Remember that class I mentioned...? Yeah, I fucked that up already. Who was I kidding? Thinking I could pretend I wasn't a failure long enough to drag myself to a class three days a week for two whole months....The stress of this class is killing me.

The class is about to start. I'm sitting here. Shaking hands. Hyperventilating. Face soaked in tears. Bottle of wine beckoning me. Regretting that I dumped my arsenal of pills over the weekend. Those fucking glimpses of hope ruin everything."

I don't have the time to write a well thought out post. And I don't have the privacy to get emotional in what I write. But there is something I need to say: 

I retract my previous statement. I am not a fuck up. I thank god I dumped those pills. And I say this as a certified peer support specialist. Yup, I finished the class I thought was beyond my capability.

Those "fucking glimpses of hope" may have given me a higher fall when shit hit the fan, but being raised up for that moment gave me a chance to see past the current hell I was in. Past the suicidal ideations. Past the cutting. Past the racing thoughts and psychotic episodes. I saw beyond to a future that included me, a productive me, a happy me. 

And now I'm there. I proved myself wrong. For once I can honestly say that I'm proud of myself. 

Short and Sweet.

Uncomfortably Numb

I should be happy. I am happy. Well, I'm not sad. OK, maybe I'm a little sad. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, and that never ends well for me. Topic of the Week: I hate my meds.

• I feel flat all the time. I can't get excited about anything. Anything. And it takes something drastic for me to feel more than just uncomfortable. It takes someone dying for me to feel sadness. It takes a total escape from my life for me to feel happiness. I'm always uncomfortably in the middle.
• I blame the meds for the 10 pounds I've gained these past 6 months.
• My motivation is dead. Which means my house is never as clean as I want it to be. Which means I don't get off my ass to exercise. Which means I am not making as much money as I used to. Which means I am not happy with myself.
• I've lost my creativity.
• Every morning, I wake up like a goddamn drugged zombie.
• I don't think I would make it through grad school, or even a full time job, with this attitude.
• Again, I miss my creative streak. It defined me. It described me. But it's left me. So what am I?

Like now, I can't even get out the words to describe how I'm feeling. I feel like every word I'm saying is dull and meaningless. I feel like no two sentences flow together. Writing used to be my thing. And now it feels like another language. Maybe not a foreign language, but one that I'm no longer fluent in.

Dull and meaningless. Yup, that pretty much covers it.

But what do I do about it? Go off my meds, and pray I don't end up in the hospital again? Start the awful process over of experimenting with different drugs? Wait it out and see if this uncomfortable purgatory passes? 

Those all sound like lovely options. Ugh. But I won't do any of them. I suppose I'll do it the right way. I'll talk to my doctor about it while I begrudgingly swallow my pills twice a day. Maybe I'll see a ray of light after my appointment next week.

Is there anything in between going crazy and being flat?

I'm boring. I don't freak out anymore.

It's been, what, 3 weeks since I've last written a post? Damn. That's not how you get followers.

I feel as though I owe my few followers, and anyone who happens to stumble across my blog, an explanation as to why I am no longer sitting down to record every detail of my journey with mental monsters. An explanation as to why I only make an appearance every few weeks to bitch about how my job is bringing me down. Or some other common complaint.

The reason is simple: I'm living again.

I don't want to go as far as to say that I've won the war with my monsters. I don't want to say that I beat those fuckers and have completed my journey to recovery. Because I have one hell of a road ahead of me. But I have made some serious progress.

Let's recap, shall we? It has been almost two full months since I last cut myself. Since coming home from the hospital, I have not once spent the day hiding under the covers, crying, waiting for Boyfriend to come home and pick me up. I have a new job that I love. I'm doing good in the world. (Yes, I mean "good" and not "well.) In two weeks, I will be certified as a peer support specialist. Hell, I'm even toying with the idea of going back to school for my master's degree.

Not bad, right? (Also, the fact that I'm bragging about all this right now kinda shows how much my self-esteem has sky-rocketed. Again, go me!)

It's terrifying to think about how my mind was operating just a few short months ago. I wanted to die. I thought I was going to die. I was welcoming it. I couldn't see any of the beauty in the world, and I felt like I was just making it even uglier for those who could.

My monsters were strong and suffocating. They were real, but remembering the hold they had over me feels unreal. I've come so far that I can't bring myself to believe that I am the same person I was when I entered the hospital on January 28. I am a doppelganger of my former self. I am a new and improved Mary - strong and self-reliant, hopeful and happy.

There will probably come a time when I need Boyfriend to hold my hope for me again. Or when my maladaptive coping mechanisms take the reigns and steer me off my path of recovery. But I honestly can't picture reaching those depths I found myself in a few months ago ever again. I've reached the proverbial end of the tunnel of what I thought was an eternal shit storm.

But I didn't do it alone. Thank you, Boyfriend. Thank you, Dad. Thank you to all my friends and family who never let me go where the monsters pulled. I hope I'm making you proud.

Too Frustrated to Write a Title

I was hoping to write a positive post today. I'm one full month clean. Go me! I've barely thought about hurting myself since I've come home from the hospital, and there haven't even been any close calls. But I'm slipping. It's like I've spent this whole week running downhill as fast as I can to hit rock bottom again.

It's this damn job. Not my new job, the one that I love. The one that leaves me fulfilled and hopeful. It's being a fucking freelance writer. Despite what you may have seen in the movies, it is not a glamorous day. I don't sip espresso and spew creativity. I write bullshit that I am paid pennies for. I sit in the same room for about 22 hours a day. I have a 10 foot radius that I eat all three meals in, work in, relax in, and perform daily chores in. I lose all momentum to write what I enjoy after spending a day writing shit that I don't. Being a freelance writer is actually making me despise my home and my passion.

In order to make this a profitable business for myself, I have to be at 100% every single day. I can't be tired or have a slow day or take a paid vacation. If I don't work, I don't get paid. If I don't work with boundless energy, efficiently  and up to a dozen people's standards, I get paid shit. Let's not forget that there are days that I am more than ready to write a novel, but no one has any work for me to do. Again, I don't get paid. And then I pace, stare at bill due dates, cry, check my email every 3 minutes hoping someone has sent me an order, hate myself, scour Craig's List for gigs, panic.

This is not the job for someone with bipolar less than one month out of a mental hospital. How the hell am I supposed to be at 100% every day? The stress is getting to me. I'm letting Boyfriend down. I'm letting myself down. I'm proving to everyone that I can't do it. I can't be normal.

So this week, I have been waking up every day dreading what is to come. I sit in front of the computer and feel the hot tears swelling up. But I'm afraid to let them drop because I've been doing so well. But I'm afraid to admit that I'm burnt out and scared.

Therapy Drop Out

I heard it for years. "You need therapy." "You should talk to someone." "You're finally in therapy? Thank god!"

And I gave the same responses. "Eh, it's not for me." "I'm not good at the whole 'talking' thing." "Yeah, but I think I'm doing it wrong."

This Tuesday, I got confirmation that I was right all along.

I have to admit, I've been doing a bang up job with this whole recovery thing. I've been meditating, going to my class, writing in my journal, reading books about recovery, being totally compliant with every damn intake I've had to do to get into my programs, taking my meds at exactly the same time every day, (I'm bragging a bit,), getting myself to all my appointments, exercising. And therapy. The life-saving, years overdue, "Mary, you need this," answer to all the world's mental health problems, one-on-one, talking to a stranger therapy.

Tuesday, I met with my therapist for the first time since coming home from the hospital. I walked in there totally hopeful, even toying with the idea of bumping therapy up to twice a week. Because, according to everyone who's ever told me I needed help, this was the key to full recovery. I got there early, sorted out my thoughts in my journal, and walked in with my head high, ready to embrace this form of healing. Ready to let go of my checkered past with therapy.

And I walked out of there feeling like shit. Two days later, I still felt like shit. Three days later, I'm canceling all future appointments.

I don't see the point. Having trust issues and being conversationally challenged aside, I don't see how bringing horrible issues just to the surface and sending me on my way can help. I leave with more questions than answers. I leave with different problems and the same coping mechanisms. I leave with my head down and hours of unguided, unproductive, intrusive contemplation ahead of me.

Maybe therapy shouldn't be just one hour once or twice a week. It should be 5 hours. Enough time to get through the idle chit-chat, break me out of the mask, throw the shit on the table, and figure out how to approach it going forward. Brain-storming, problem solving, crying, drying, and conclusion. If nothing else, after 5 hours, I will be too exhausted to continue the contemplation when I leave. And then it may not ruin the next three days.

So, that's my confession. I'm weird. Therapy is a giant step backwards in my recovery, and I quit. I'm not going to apologize, and I'm not going to stress myself out finding a therapist that is as weird as me.

Bipolar Fairy and a Sock Full of Quarters

The Bipolar Fairy has struck again. But I'm not going to bitch about her flaky demeanor this time. I think she is granting me my wish of being on the "up" side of things for longer than a day before crashing and burning and all that jazz. 

I have had hope that has gone past one day. Yes, that means I have spent approximately 36 hours without the thought of killing myself. 2,160 minutes of choosing to be better. 129,600 seconds of happiness. A day and a half that is looking like it's going to lead to TWO full days. And then THREE. And then, holy shit, I may be able to function into next week. 

Inhale. One day at a time. Exhale. Stay in the present. Repeat.

And I'm doing it on my own. Of course, Boyfriend and Dad are there for me. My friends are giving me their usual support. They always are, but I am the one taking control, exercising my right to choose, and doing so in an aggressively optimistic manner. So, fuck you, Monsters. Fuck you and whatever mythical creature you rode in on. I'm going to bottle this hope and smack you with it like a sock full of quarters when this happy fairy flies away. My choice.

So the cycle continues...

It's like my monsters wait for me to start doing something important before clothes-lining me. "You really thought you could do it, huh? How fucking cute. SLAM! We'll see you again when you start your new job, haha." And then I'm left crying on the floor, too embarrassed to pick myself up and hit that line again, too scared to stay down and admit defeat. So I wallow somewhere in limbo, embarrassed and scared, angry and weak.

Remember that class I mentioned in my last post? Yeah, I fucked that up already. Who was I kidding? Thinking I could pretend I wasn't a failure long enough to drag myself to a class three days a week for two whole months. All after being out of the hospital less than two weeks. Fuck, I have a hard enough time running to Walgreens without some hardcore mental preparations, planning an escape route, and postponing it four times. The stress of this class is killing me.

Actually, this pressure to be normal and my hatred toward myself are in a battle to see who gets to do it. Hopefully someone wins soon because the suspense is killing me, only much more slowly.

The class is about to start. I'm sitting here. Shaking hands. Hyperventilating. Face soaked in tears. Bottle of wine beckoning me. Regretting that I dumped my arsenal of pills over the weekend. Those fucking glimpses of hope ruin everything. It's just means that I have that much farther to fall when reality shits on me.

Reasons Why it's Logical for Me to Drop out of the Class:

• It's too late in the day. I lose hope by 2:00. By 4:00, I'm a hyperventilating heap on the couch.
• What is the point in going through the training if I am just going to fuck up the job? Because I will.
• I should be able to make my own decisions, and I choose not to go.
• I never wanted to go in the first place.
• I should use that time to go to therapy or make money.
• How can I learn to help others when I can't even handle myself?
• The pressure to do well and make others happy by going to this class is suffocating me.
• Self-fulfilling prophecy: I was treated like a kid who couldn't handle it herself. I became that kid.
• I don't do well in groups. 
• Both days the class was held, I thought about killing myself. Should I really risk that for another 7 1/2 weeks?

Maybe these excuses are valid. Maybe they aren't. It's a little hard for me to tell considering I'm in the midst of a pretty massive episode. And I opened the wine. I guess this is the nature of bipolar that I should be used to by now. The "I can do it all!" thoughts cycling in between the "I fuck up everything" mentality. I wish I could hold on to the former for more than a few days and maybe get some shit accomplished so I at least had some positive examples to turn to when I want to kill myself.

If and when that bitch called hope sneaks back in, she will tell me that I haven't fucked up the class. That I am allowed to miss 8 hours, and today only counted as 4. That if I just pull it together for a short month and a half, I can be a state certified peer specialist. That my experiences right now, my feelings of wanting to give up, will be transformed into hope for someone else when I am working with a peer who needs help.

And that will be the monster's cue to stand ready again.