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.