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?

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.

Mad as a Hatter and Just as Sane

Maybe I cut my wrist one too many times. Maybe I talked about the relief I would get from killing myself a little bit too freely. Maybe I realized that it's not fair to make my friends and family responsible for protecting me from myself.

The truth is, I'm not safe by myself anymore, and I know it. Every time I am left to my own devices for more than 10 minutes, there is a damn good chance that I will be hunting down something sharp or challenging my garden of pill bottles to a staring contest. Even when I am not alone, a breakdown can strike with a snap of the monster's fingers. And it's happening more and more often.

So I need to leave. In less than five hours, I will be going with Dad to admit myself into a residential program at the hospital. For real this time.

This may be one of the first times I have set out to write a blog post and had no words. It's not a case of writer's block or being unmotivated. It's that I feel frozen in this space and time. A numbness beyond the lithium and seroquel and lamictal. A natural, self-protecting numbness against my fear of the unknown and leaving my not-so-safe comfort zone.

I can't picture leaving my home and moving into my room at the mental hospital. I can't picture not using Pinterest, TV, my blankets, and cleaning as distractions against my monsters when I am alone all day. I can't picture not using razors and calories to fight them off when distractions fail. I can't picture having coping mechanisms that are healthy and actually effective. I can't picture having to trust someone with my life besides Boyfriend.

This numbness will disappear in a few hours. I bet I'll start getting nervous after I take a shower and start picking out an outfit that suits the day, the day I admit that I am too crazy to live in the real world. It will really kick in on the car ride over when the reality of the situation sets in. Racing heart, sweaty palms, winking monsters. By the time I am left alone at my new home, my fucked up head will be spinning with a fight or flight reaction that will likely result in some sort of unwanted sedation.

I don't know if I will be there for a few weeks, a month or two. A part of me still feels like this is a bad dream. I am never leaving my home. But I also feel like this is my last day ever to sit on my couch, cuddle with my cat, sleep in my bed, write at my desk, look out my window, cook for Boyfriend. Make my own decisions. When I think about these things, I don't understand how everything I could need in the world isn't right here at my fingertips. Everyone and everything I love is outside those hospital walls. I will be locked inside, separated from them. How will that help? How will that not make things worse?

I guess I just have to let go for a little while. Open myself up to the possibility that this might be what's best. That I just might walk out of there healthier and happier than I have ever felt. Instead of adding some reinforced steel to my guarded walls, I should cut out a window to see the great opportunity that may be in front of me. I don't want to and I don't have to live the rest of my life this fucked up. And maybe, just maybe, I really do want my life to last longer than I think.

Most likely, this hope will disappear when time starts moving again. But at least I will be leaving my written record of the fact that there was hope in admitting myself to the hospital. I won't be able to reread this when I am there, but maybe someone else will. Maybe someone else who is struggling will read my other posts illustrating how horribly fucked I am in the head and think that if someone as crazy as me can take this step, then so can they.

Ok, now let's do this shit. See you in a month.

Say Hello to Your Life

Last night, I did it. I finally did it. I caked shit tons of make up on my face, pulled my leg warmers up over my neon leggings, and ventured out the safety of my home for a night out with friends. And yes, the lovely attire I donned was for an 80's themed party.

In addition to discovering how much I freaking love leg warmers, I rediscovered how great it can be to be around other people. These past couple of months, it has become increasingly easier to stay cooped up, seeing no one but Boyfriend and texting no one but a few close friends who know the embarrassing ins and outs of what I've been dealing with. But last night, I got to see them all at once, in person, and in a living room other than my own.

As awesome as it was, I can't say that it healed me or made me forget that I'm crazy. There were still points during the party where my mind would draw a blank, forgetting what were we doing and why. I had a few silent moments of panic when I couldn't figure out whose voices were coming from which direction. Unless I made a serious effort to stay connected, I would get lost.

That being said, it was important for my recovery knowing that it is possible for me to be social, have a genuinely good time doing so, and not be judged (or possibly even noticed) when my madness tries to introduce herself to the other guests. For the most part, I still had control.

Going to a party may be a different experience for me than it would be for someone else who doesn't have mental illness issues to deal with, but it is definitely an experience that I want to continue to have. Maybe alongside a bit of overdue treatment.

When did getting dressed become a victory?

I promised Boyfriend two things before he left for work this morning:

1.   That I would get dressed.
2.   That I would leave the house.

I am cheating just a little. Yes, I'm out of the apartment, but I haven't exactly left the building. I'm hanging out in the unused party room upstairs to get distance from the safety of my bed as I write. That's right, I broke into a party room to ponder the depression that has taken hold of me. Ironic? Funny? Pathetic? All of the above.

I think it started three or four days ago. The immobilizing thoughts, the realistic nightmares, and the ill-timed fits of teary panic have consumed me again. The last time I felt this bad, it held tight for months until it finally let loose with a trip to the ER. Now, it has me thinking that maybe this won't be the year I stay out of the hospital or the year I don't drop below 100 pounds or the year I don't scare away someone I love to death.

Boyfriend's calling bullshit. I feel incapable of everything, but he's seen my strength. I want to cry in bed just one more day. He knows the procrastination will make me hate myself more at night. I say I'm worthless, but he sees something I can't. He is the most supportive and loving person I could possibly have by my side at a dark time like this, but he is also not going to let me fuck up my new job, my writing, or all my progress that I have made since my last depressive episode. He's bringing out a bit of tough love.

So here I am. A zombie. A zombie with a pen trying to explain what depression feels like despite zero energy or creative drive. Pushing through depression is more than holding back some tears. My body physically hurts. There is a flu-like ache over my skin and muscles that makes a shower seem too taxing. I can't remember how to do tasks that I've done a million times, like holding this damn pen.

I get this totally disconnected feeling, this feeling that I am passing control to one of my monsters while I try to hide, coming out for brief moments to check the day and figure out where I am. How the fuck am I supposed to hide when they are inside of me?! The best I can do is hide them from everyone else. In my apartment, under the covers, locked in a bathroom. 

Time means nothing. I can lie in bed crying for hours, and not be sure whether it was a moment that passed or a week. Hell, I had the same feeling follow me when I attempted to do dishes this morning. Suddenly, I couldn't remember if I just started scrubbing that pan or if I have been scrubbing a clean pan for hours. It is these kind of thought processes that creep into "normal" things when I am depressed making it feel like I can't function. The monsters don't care if I am with a friend or driving my car. They transport me out of my body, out of time, and into my head to spend some quality alone time with them.

Boyfriend forcing me emphatically urging me to carry on with my life makes me recognize the disconnect and desire to hide in a very uncomfortable way. I'd rather not accept that my reality does not mesh with everyone else's. I wish my biggest battle I had to fight was to get a promotion at work or figure out how to pay for Spring Break. But I guess I'm just one of the lucky ones who gets a messed up head.

As much as I hate to admit it, getting out of bed helps. It's not a cure, by any means. I still feel like shit and want to crawl back to my safe zone, but there may be a little more strength in me that I didn't have when I woke up.

Guilt - Loving Him and Hating Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank You Letter

Since starting this blog less than two weeks ago, I have gotten tons of feedback. People are commenting on the Facebook page, emailing me, calling me, inviting me over. And everything I've heard is positive. I'm told I'm so brave for sharing my story with the world and that everyone is so proud of me. Strangers from across the country are thanking me for putting into words what they have always felt. People I haven't talked to in years, people who I pushed away for trying to help me before I was diagnosed, are giving me confidence to continue this effort.

I am in awe of how accepting people have been of my going public with something so controversial. Instead of being thanked, I feel like I should be the one doing the thanking. It is too easy for me to feel sorry for myself or think that it's not fair that I have to suffer with mental illnesses while everyone else gets to be healthy. Several people (friends, family, and strangers) have admitted that they suffer from some sort of illness as well. They have hid it, just like I did for so long. Thank you for making me feel less alone.

Even though I always knew it, I am realizing what a fantastic support system I really have. I have amazing friends who are willing to talk me down when I'm freaking out about whatever it is that may be driving me crazy in the moment. I have a great family(-in-lawish) who constantly reminds me that I am loved. And I have Boyfriend who, on top of everything else, never makes me feel like I have to hide who I am. 

I know that someday, probably someday soon, someone will read this who is not so accepting or supportive. And that's ok. Knowing that I have everyone else who is makes me confident that I will be able to handle it. Or at least that I will have many shoulders to cry to. 

With Love,

Mary

Happy First Day of Chanukah!

This one will be short but sweet. Here's a picture of a Chanukah present wonderful Boyfriend got for me. I've got to say, my first Chanukah ever is pretty freaking sweet.

He knows me so well!