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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

You will be jealous I got to go and you didn't.

You know that feeling when you go back to your diary after not writing in it for a really long time, and, even though logically you're aware it's just a bundle of paper, you feel awkward because you know it knows you've been ignoring it? No? Just me? Ok.

Well, that's how I feel right now. I was in the hospital for a week and spent another week legitimately not knowing how to put into words what happened. Every time I thought about writing here, I had that sudden urge to hide, like when I pretend that I missed someone's text so that I don't have to make a commitment to hang out right then. I know I am not the only one who does that.

But, here I am. Braving the blog. Still awkwardly not knowing what to say to this beloved friend. I want to come back with a bang. With fireworks. Fireworks shot off by sharks.

Yeah, I'm on a couple drugs.

In keeping with the theme of feeling scattered and unsure and unable to truly acknowledge the gap, how about I just sprinkle out some of the more interesting moments of my stay in the hospital. When I have a solid footing on what actually went down, I'll let you know. But to be honest, that won't happen. I will continue to fling out random goodies and let you piece them together. That seems to be how I roll.

We're just going to skip over the intake process.

Skipping over the crying.
Skipping over the desire to escape.
Skipping over the fucked up idea that death looked preferable over being committed.

Onto the good stuff.

View from my hospital window. Through regular screen,
blinds that didn't adjust, and safety screen.

SAFETY:  They took all my drawstrings from my hoodies and sweatpants. I wasn't allowed to have tights or a purse with a long strap because I might be able to hang myself with them. Even the cords on the phones were no more than a foot long. Although, there was nothing to hang myself from. No curtain rods. No rods for hanging clothes in the closet. No hooks to put a jacket on. Even the shower head was a nub that stuck flush to the wall. The doorknobs were these cone-like things that were impossible to grasp. There were a few times when Dad visited that he legit couldn't get out of my room because he couldn't turn the damn knob. Nothing protruding out of anything anywhere.

I was fine with all that. Hanging myself was never really my style anyways. What pissed me off was when they took all my spiral notebooks and left me with just one that had no metal on it. And I was only allowed one pen! For safety reasons. Well, fuck that. I cannot feel safe unless I have at minimum 3 notebooks and 4 pens circling me. (Totally made that up, but that is what my kitchen table looks like 24/7. So maybe there is a grain of truth to it.)

My first 2 days of being there, I managed to steal no less than 6 pens from the nurse's station and group therapy sessions. I never ended up using any of them; I couldn't cheat on my precious pen. I became a klepto based on principle.

BONNY (name changed for anonymity): One day during group, we were discussing what types of feelings brought us there. Loneliness. Sadness. Drug abuse. Depression. Despair. Suicidal ideations. Homicidal thoughts. Say what now?! Enter Bonny.

Bonny was probably about 75 years old. She looked like the petite little grandma-type that you could picture  working on a puzzle to pass the time while her snicker doodles baked. Except for one little thing. She openly admitted that she was homicidal. She had a victim in mind. And a method.

I don't know what this says about me, but she was my favorite. She had this horribly dark sense of humor that, if taken the wrong way, could have earned her a reservation in the seclusion room. But it's Bonny, so everyone laughed.

Nurse: "Bonny, here's your nighttime meds."
Bonny: "Good. If you would have forgotten, I would have had to whoop you with my cane."
Everyone laughs.

Group Leader: "What's going on with you? What brought you to the hospital?"
Bonny: "Well, I'm bipolar and homicidal. Which means I'm not sure if I'm going to kill me or her (points to random patient)."
Everyone laughs. Including random patient.

The icing on the cake is that Bonny lives in a convent with her sister who is a nun. And Bonny openly admits that she likes to fuck with the other nuns, showing off her lack of vows to God by purchasing expensive items and flaunting them in front of those who took a vow of poverty.

Had I never gone to the hospital, I never would have been able to say that I engaged in friendly chit chat with a homicidal sister of a nun over lunch.

FAVORITE GROUP: My proudest moment of my visit had nothing to do with medications or breakthroughs or discoveries. It took place during the last group session on my last day before I was discharged.

Let me set the stage. We are discussing what and who has helped us the most during our journeys. Many patients are calmly and vaguely discussing their families, friends, and religious affiliations. But one patient is hardcore a "Jesus saved me, this I know" type. In the obnoxious, judgmental, scoff at my Star of David bracelet kind of way. Now, there is absolutely nothing wrong with using your faith to help your recovery. In fact, I would encourage it. However, NEVER use it to jeopardize someone else's.

Then there is Jenny (again, name changed). She is quite, timid, and easily shut down by this loudmouth bitch. Jenny starts talking about how NAMI has helped her immensely. After waiting her turn, she tells the group about the volunteer opportunities, how they help the community, and how they probably saved her life. Jesus Bitch butts in. "I hate NAMI. I hate their core beliefs. They do NO good. All they care about is making money. Blah blah Jesus blah."

Jenny shuts down, bows her head in defeat, and the group carries on. Mary to the rescue! "Can I just say something real quick? I don't want the last thing people to hear about NAMI before they leave is how awful it is. I have seen firsthand how much those people care. Maybe Jesus Bitch had a bad experience, but everyone else needs to know that it is a safe place for them to go if they need help." Sadly, I did not refer to her as Jesus Bitch. My one regret.

Jenny perks up and Jesus Bitch turns red. We argue back and forth for a bit. She gets louder, angrier, and more irrational while I continue to calmly state my opinions and back them up with examples. I'm pretty sure at one point she even blamed NAMI for the lack of care that I had received prior to coming to the hospital. How? I don't even know.

"I don't give a fuck what you think. And fuck NAMI. I have Jesus backing me up for support. I don't need to take this." And out she walked. In my book, that was a win for me. A couple other patients gave me silent nods of approval, and the second half of group was far more pleasant. I stood up for Jenny, stood up for NAMI, and stood up for myself for once. Maybe I did find a little confidence that week.

*****

I am not yet ready to explain what happened from a medical or psychiatric standpoint, but I can with 100% certainty say that it was a good thing I went. Sure, I have had a few down days since coming home, but that's to be expected. The important thing is that I am safe again and willing to seek the help I need without being put in the hospital again, and that is something I don't think I would have reached by myself.

Thank you, Aurora.

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.

Survivor: Day 1

I didn’t want to go in the front door. I wanted to walk around the half a dozen squad cars parked in front of my house, past the herds of people in uniforms and suits, and in through the back door like any other day. The front door was reserved for guests and special occasions; the back door was where I headed every other time Grace’s dad dropped me off. I knew that if I walked towards the wrong entryway, I would be admitting that something was not right. No one had to tell me something was wrong. I already knew what happened before I even stepped out of the car, but I wasn’t ready to hear it out loud. I wanted to go in the back door.

It was a cold December day in Wisconsin, five days after Christmas and the day before New Year’s Eve 2000. It technically wasn’t even the new millennium yet. There was really no real significance to that thought, just that it passed through my mind several times on New Year’s Eve when she wasn’t there. An impressive amount of snow covered the lawns on our quiet street. It had gotten to the point where the snow was piled up almost like walls alongside the sidewalks making it a lot harder to cut corners when I walked to school.

“Is that the daughter?”
“Dear god, did you know she was so young?”
“Poor girl...”
They didn’t think I could hear their whispering. As was probably typical of girls my age, I was offended that they saw me as such a little kid. Sure, I was a little on the scrawny side with limp, blond hair, but I thought my glasses and nailpolish added at least a grade to my looks. Although, the neon scrunchy maybe pulled my maturity back down a little. So I guess it balanced out to my actual age, a 12 year old girl in 7th grade. They may have been commenting on my youthful look, but I know now that it was because they all knew then that my childhood would be essentially over once I walked through that door. That’s what was so disheartening about my age.
I must have been standing on the sidewalk a little too long. Or they bombarded me; I don’t know. Before I had time to decide which door I should approach, a woman I had never seen before put her arm around me and called me “honey” while another attempted to take my hand. This may have been the moment I subconsciously decided to shut down from reality. I don’t remember walking to the door with these strangers. I don’t remember if I responded to anything they said to me, or if they even did speak to me. Hell, I wouldn’t have been able to pick them out of a line up two seconds after they let go of me.  
I faded slightly back into reality for just a moment when a man standing on the porch opened the door. With dread in his voice, he announced, “She’s here.” I felt as though I floated up those five steps and through the doorway. I suddenly found myself standing in the living room with my dad’s arms around me. To this day, I don’t remember where my coat went and that has always bothered me. That should have been the least of my concerns. Through tears, my dad was able to choke out, “Mom’s hurt.”
Ok, she broke her leg. She was in a car accident. She fell down the basement steps. She was in the line of crossfire when the gas station was held up. It doesn’t really matter what happened because she’s fine. She has to be fine. Oh god, she’s not fine. Dad wouldn’t be crying if Mom was just laid up in a hospital bed. People wouldn’t be giving me these sad eyes. Please, God, just don’t let it be that. Don’t let it be what I think it is. Anything but that. Anything.
These were the thoughts that ran through my head as my dad and I walked from the doorway to the couch. It couldn’t have taken us more than four seconds, but I had the sensation that the physical world slowed down while my braid sped up. I felt dizzy. The relief I felt as I sat down on the couch with my dad almost made me forget that my house was crawling with people wearing ID badges and that every one of them kept trying to nonchalantly stare in my direction.
“Mom’s dead.”
There it was. My dad didn’t have to say how she died. I knew the unforgivable sin and unspoken act that occurred while I was out at the movies with Grace. Those two words captured all the fears and regrets our family had been living with for years, and I suddenly couldn’t wrap my head around it. While I was smart enough to understand the situation, I was also smart enough to know that accepting it would destroy me. So I made the choice to not accept it. I felt as though the rest of the world was suddenly trying to convince me 2+2=5. Mentally, physically, emotionally, I refused to believe it. No, it wasn’t a matter of belief; they were just wrong. As much as I believed two plus two was four, I still believed Mom was alive.
Mom wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t just leave us like this, leave me like this. She is upstairs taking a nap, and will be walking down any second...any second now to make lunch. It’s almost that time. Please, Mom. Please just come downstairs and tell me Dad is lying and get these people out of our house. I know this isn’t real. Come prove to everyone else this isn’t real.
It was then that I realized I had just been told my mom was dead, and I had been staring at the steps leading up to her bedroom with absolutely no emotion in my face. My dad, who I had only ever seen cry once before in my entire life, was bawling, while I sat there wondering what we were going to eat for lunch. I was hungry. But in order to not appear like a heartless bitch to all the people who were still staring at me, I forced myself to cry. That’s the logical thing to do, right? That’s the appropriate reaction? Something inside me broke, but I knew what I had to do. The first tears I shed over the death of my mom were pushed out by re-enacting a dramatic scene in my head from the Emperor’s New Groove.
Apparently I pulled it off. Someone decided that being surrounded by all the commotion was just too much for me to handle, so I was sent to the basement where my two older brothers were hiding out. None of us talked. No comforting words were exchanged, and no hugs were given. While Nate and Connor mindlessly stared at the television, I sat there petting my dog, Miko, in the corner. I think maybe I was trying to convince him it would be alright.
I sat in that cold basement with Miko and near my brothers for what I think was hours. That state of limbo, being completely uncertain of absolutely every aspect of my life from this point forward but not having the mental fortitude to concern myself with it one way or another, was almost pleasant. I liked not being looked at or talked to. These would be the last few moments of real peace I would have for months. Nothing was haunting me. In fact, I felt totally numb and enjoyed it as much as I could enjoy anything while blocking all emotion.
When I heard the basement door open, tears welled up in my eyes. I still wasn’t crying for my dead mom; I was crying because I was upset that my peace was interrupted. My heart started racing, and I sat perfectly still, as though whoever was looking for my brothers and me may not have noticed that I was there if I didn’t draw attention to myself. But when you are the only daughter of the woman who just shot herself, they come looking. And they find you.
Within less than two minutes of being led upstairs, I witnessed two scenes that would be burned into my memory forever. More than a decade later, I still see them as almost photographs in my mind when I blink. More than a decade later, my dad admits that he understands why this day shattered my disintegrating faith.

Slowly, I ascended the stairs, dragging my feet, looking down, and angry that I had  to keep Miko downstairs. When I reached the top, I let out an exasperated sigh that kind of seemed to say, “Let’s get this over with.” You would think that some deliberation would have taken place or plan of action would have been set up before bringing me back up into the chaos. Nope. Instead, I lifted my head to see my dad being fingerprinted by a cop. I had snuck out of my bedroom at night to watch one too many episodes of Law and Order when I was supposed to be sleeping to naively put my head back down. Those fuckers wanted to test his prints with those on the gun. Granted, no one had told me there was a gun. It was another one of those things I just knew. Though I still hadn’t admitted that my mom was dead, there was no way I was going to sit back and watch as they made my dad a suspect, even if it was protocol.

Up until this point, I don’t think I had said a word since I stepped out of Grace’s car. Now without thinking, I was screaming at the top of my lungs at a cop. “NO! He didn’t do it! How could you even think that?!” I may have even lunged at the cop because I was being held by who I think was the same woman who guided me into the house, but that’s another one of those things that still puzzles me today.

My dad gave me a look and a nod that seemed to say that he understood what the cops were doing while simultaneously thanking me for the passionate support. I returned a look of solemn solidarity. We had to get through this together, even though a little part of me hated him for letting this happen. But to be fair, I would come to hate everyone for letting this happen.

The police department offered this wonderful service of sending a child psychologist along with the detectives, cops, and whoever else whenever there is a violent or traumatic event with children in the house. Sounds like a great idea, in theory. The child psychologist, Lloyd, was the man who had led me up from my safe haven in the basement, and as he introduced himself to me, he led me to my bedroom. This was the most rational location for him to speak with me. I would be most comfortable on my own turf and away from the intensity of the bastards accusing my dad of killing my mom. Yes, my bedroom would be the safest.

This is when the poor planning and god-awful timing came back into play. “Why don’t you have a seat on the bed?” Lloyd suggested gently. Considering there was no place else to sit, it seemed natural. I took the few steps from the door to my bed that was adjacent to the front-facing window. That goddamn window. No one closed the blinds. I had a front row seat as I watched two men wheel my mom’s body out of the house in a body bag.

Of course, about three seconds later, an unnamed woman burst into the bedroom and inhaled sharply when she saw me standing at the window with that same look I had on my face earlier when I was waiting for my mom to make lunch. She had been sent to close off the house so we wouldn’t accidentally see my mom being carried out of the house. Poor Lloyd was unaware of what he did. The woman apologized for nothing in particular and left the room flustered. Had I acknowledged my mom’s death, this could have prompted another outburst like I had in the kitchen. Thankfully, my denial was still in full force and this image wouldn’t have an impact until weeks later when I would blink and see it as a photograph.

Lloyd tried to talk to me about my feelings and other bullshit like that. I had no feelings, aside from being angry that I wasn’t in the basement and occasionally insulted when he insinuated that something wasn’t right about my family. Obviously my family wasn’t normal, but we didn’t talk about such unpleasant things in our house. One question Lloyd asked stands out in particular: “Why don’t you have any family pictures around your house?”

In my mind, that translated to “Your mom felt unloved. You drove her to do it.” So I did what any 7th grade girl would do. I lied. “We had to put the picture frames away to make room for the Christmas decorations.” I didn’t feel guilty about lying. It’s not like I thought any of this was real anyways, so what did it matter if I added one more fictional detail? In retrospect, I’m actually a little impressed that I was able to come up with such a believable lie to protect my family so quickly when I probably couldn’t have even told him my name in the foggy haze I was in.

Eventually, I completely checked out from the conversation. After a couple questions with no response, not even a courtesy shrug, Lloyd sent me back down to the safety of my basement and moved on to my brothers, one at a time. I remember so little of what happened the second time I went to the basement that I have chosen to remember it as a nap. I don’t want to believe that I’m blocking something out or was so disoriented I don’t have any recollection of even existing. So as far as I’m concerned, those hours were spent in blissful slumber.

At about 6:00 that evening, the house was finally cleared of cops and detectives and child psychologists and accusing bastards. All day, I had wanted them to leave so our home could feel normal again, but without Mom around, it felt eerily empty. Even my basement sanctuary didn’t provide the comfort it had earlier that afternoon. My dad, Nate, Connor, and I sat next to each other in the living room. I wouldn’t say we sat together as no one talked or looked at each other. We lingered there like we were all trying to escape an awkward conversation with someone we ran into at the grocery store. We didn’t know how to be with each other without Mom. Even Miko just laid on the kitchen floor whimpering. This was the moment I realized my family was a little bit more fucked up than I wanted to believe.

“We have to eat.” Leave it to my dad to associate comfort and stability with food. It was true that no one had eaten all day since my mom never came downstairs from her nap to make us lunch. I guess we were going to have to fend for ourselves a little while longer. After what seemed like hours, we mutually decided that every option available to us sounded disgusting, but McDonald’s would be quick and easy. My dad and I headed out into the brisk December air with the hope that we would all regain our appetite once the food was on the table.

Before my dad started the car, he started crying again. “She finally has peace,” he said in a quiet tone that was uncharacteristic of my dad as if that was supposed to be of comfort to me. The disconnect I had this whole day made it hard to even force out the crocodile tears this time. I opted for burying my face in my hands to mimic the motions. After my dad pulled himself together, I gave a couple heavy breaths as though I was trying to do the same, and we started for McDonald’s in silence.

To outsiders, it probably looked like a mundane father/daughter trip to grab some burgers and fries. He had his arm around me, and I still held that blank look on my face as we got to the register. “Umm...yeah...We’ll have 4 double cheeseburgers and 4 large fries, please. To go.”

I didn’t hear the rest of the transaction. I’m sure the cashier asked a few more questions and my dad said some polite words in response. Suddenly I felt dizzy again, like all my senses were heightened beyond what is safe to be exposed to. My heart was pounding, and I felt weak. I wanted to physically run away from this feeling, but I knew if I tried to move my legs, I would collapse. Something wasn’t right.

“Dad, why are we getting McDonald’s?” I nearly whispered in a trembling voice through the first genuine tears I’ve shed all day. It didn’t make sense. My mom, the health-conscious former nurse, would never let us eat McDonald’s for dinner unless it was some sort of special treat. The scared and sad look on my dad’s face explained more than I was ready to hear. We were getting the fast food because Mom wasn’t there to stop us anymore.

It finally hit me. I could barely hold myself up. I started hyperventilating. I felt like I had physically been punched in the stomach. I forgot that I was in the middle of a crowded restaurant on a Saturday night. “Oh god, why did she do it? Why couldn’t I have stopped her?! She didn’t love us!” I knew people were staring at me, but I didn’t care. I begged my dad for answers he didn’t have.

At one point, the manager came out to ask if there was a problem. “No, no problem. We’re fine,” my dad answered almost instinctively. I think we had all been telling ourselves that too long.

“Nothing’s fine!” I shouted as my dad pulled me in closer, half because I wasn’t capable of standing on my own, half because I needed to be comforted more than I ever have or probably will in my life. “She’s dead...She’s dead...She’s dead...” I couldn’t stop repeating it out loud. I was waiting for someone to correct me and tell me she was alive. I was waiting for it to not sound like the most fucked up combination of words that had ever been spoken. Even after I had stopped screaming it in the middle of McDonald’s, I kept repeating it, “She’s dead,” in my head for years, still waiting for someone to tell me it was a lie.

Let it Be

Exactly twelve years ago today, I woke up with a mom and the sense of security every child deserves. I thought my life was normal. I thought what I experienced was what every 7th grader went home to. By the time evening came twelve years ago today, I had no more mom and no more delusions that this was normal. My mom killed herself.

This "anniversary" is always a trigger. Every time I look at the clock, I picture what I was doing at that exact time on this day in 2000. And yes, except for a few hours that are blacked out, I know exactly where I was and what I was thinking at each and every minute. It would be easier if I could make myself stop thinking about it and picturing each scene, but in a sick way, I don't want to. As painful as it is, I know if I don't make myself remember what breakfast looked like that day, I will start to forget what my mom looked like. If I don't remember her complete lack of hope, I will forget that it was her illness, not her choice, that took her from me. If I don't remember how much it fucking destroyed me, I will forget how strong I am. 

The tangled mess of emotions I have spent more than a decade working through, pushing down, and sorting out reels me back into that day. On the surface, I'm sad. No one questions why this day would bring my mood down a bit. In fact, it would be weird if I wasn't a little bit sad. But deeper down, I am still angry at her for not getting the help she needed and deserved when she knew that she had a mental illness. It is hard to forgive someone who willingly left me without even saying goodbye. Without even leaving a goddamn note.

Maybe I'm being irrational (I usually am), but this year is worse. I don't have any family around me that I didn't inherit from boyfriend. I'm pretty certain it's a mutual animosity that have kept my family and me from talking this long. Today is different though. I just want one other person to talk to who actually knew my mother. I want to be able to reminisce with someone who was there. But who the hell am I kidding. We never did that. It's easier to forget she existed; they are probably doing the same with me now. Just cut out the fucking bipolar crazies.  

This is also the first anniversary I have spent knowing that I have the same illness that killed my mother. I'm scared the same will happen to me and angry at her for not being here to tell me it will be alright, the way she used to when I was little. Before she wasn't here to tell me that anymore, and before I stopped believing it.

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. 

Bah Humbug! No, that’s too strong, ’cause it is my favorite holiday

Good Riddance, Christmas!!! Bah humbug!!! Other anti-holiday phrases! Ok, just kidding. I love the holidays, but can't there be one that celebrates the circadian rhythm? Or maybe a holiday where everyone turns off their cell phones and no one cooks? Fun!

In all seriousness, it is hard to have a mental illness and carry on with the social conventions that appear to come naturally to the rest of the world during festive times. I understand that everyone has stress involving finances, relatives, and general exhaustion this time of year. But when you throw a mental illness or two into the mix, December is not only stressful, it can be triggering.

I can't speak for every person and all illnesses, but here are a few of the hardships I experienced December 23-25.

• Lots of people were in my house two days in a row. This is a big deal. I spent a long time isolating myself, sneaking out of gatherings early, and "feeling sick." Now all of a sudden, I had people ringing my doorbell, and I had to let them in. Because I invited them. 

• Not only did these people want to come in, they expected me to be dressed and capable of pleasant conversation (neither of which are guarantees on any given day). I broke down in loud, messy tears in the middle of pre-party cleaning, hating myself for not being normal and afraid that I wouldn't be able to handle a Christmas party with family I see on a regular basis and friends I talk to daily. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to"? Bullshit. That is a bad party. A bad party that would have all the guests backing up to door and talking about the crazy lady who thought she was capable of sanity for a few hours.

• Then there is the opposite of depression to worry about when you're bipolar. "Wild Mary" kicked in on Christmas Eve, and she cooked for at least 9 hours, and cleaned for another two, starting at 6 because she woke up before 5. Dainty little appetizers, color-coded fruit kabobs, individual wonton cups for spinach dip, multi-cultural desserts, and dreidel-shaped ice. With the wildness usually comes anxiety. By the time guests arrived, I was sure they would see I'm crazy. My mania was written all over those mini quiches. 

• At my house, every other house, and most offices, food. Food as far as the eye can see. Chocolate and cheese and sausage and breads and pie and egg nog. Do I really need to explain why that may be scary to someone with anorexia? 

• I am not the most superficial girl, but I do like pretty nails. Any coat of color will do really. But Lithium tremors came full force the day before Christmas Eve. I wanted some festive, fun nails. Lithium just wanted to splash red all over my fingers. I felt like I was preparing for a low budget Christmas-themed horror film. 

• Finally, there is alcohol to worry about. I don't go to bars or clubs for the sole purpose of not drinking, but it creeps its way in during the holidays, oozing down the windows and crawling under the door. Oh, right. I wasn't actually in a Christmas horror movie. Fine, I bought it. But not with the intent to drink. It fucks with the lithium. Like, for real. Christmas Eve, I had to make a choice: drink with my friends and suffer the consequences, or abstain like a good girl and feel bitter that I don't get to relax after all my hard work. I drank. I didn't sleep all night. I was dizzy for hours. Bad choice, and I didn't even get close to drunk.

I love my family and friends. I love the holidays. I had a wonderful time when I wasn't teetering on the edge and was glad I did it. I proved to everyone that I can hold it together and create a wonderful evening and cook lunch on no sleep the next day. But next year, I'm handing over the reins or serving hot dogs. You guys pick.

Ramblings of an Insomniac

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Racing Thoughts and Breaking Down

The hardest thing to explain is what happens in my head when I'm going crazy. When I'm crazy, communicating is nearly impossible, and when I'm sane again, I can't make sense of what happened. My best friend always tries to reassure me, saying that he doesn't think I'm crazy, no one else does, and no one will. Well, bullshit. I am. He's not there when I'm having my breakdowns, and my jumbled texts to him can't convey what's going on.

It starts with a single thought. Maybe it's remembering something awful someone said to me. Maybe it's thinking for a second too long about something I regret. Maybe it's even an idea for a book. I don't know. I can't pinpoint the beginning well enough to stop it from it continuing.

Over the next couple of weeks or days (or sometimes hours), more thoughts cling to that first one. This is great when it's fueling my creative or productive side. But I can't stay in that glory forever. The racing thoughts build an army. When there are just a few, I can try reasoning with them. I can ask them to get in a single file so I can sort them. They don't listen. I try to ignore their constant pressure, like that of a dozen elephants trying to fit out a window the size of a pinhead, but they grow in number. Eventually, I can't make sense of them. All I can do is beg them to not be so loud in my head. They still don't listen.

That one thought snowballs until it is big enough to run me down and crush me. To gain strength over me. To suck all the sense and life and ability to function out of my fragile head. Now there are hundreds of thoughts. Some of them good. Some of them bad. It doesn't matter what the thoughts are at this point because I can't understand them anyways.

I am stuck in my head. Fucking trapped. I pace my apartment. Sit down on the couch. Get up. Walk upstairs. Find myself in the closet. Why am I here? Back downstairs. Couch. I need to get out. Open the door. No. I can't see. Shit. Why can't I see? It's night. Oh. Lay down in bed. Fuck. Suffocating. Get up. Bathroom. Small and safe. I can hide here.

I am sitting on the toilet hugging my knees and staring at absolutely nothing. I am so in my head that the outside world doesn't exist. Everything looks blurry and my head is loud. I want to scream. I want to make lots of noise and shatter and kick and punch things and snap myself back to reality, but I can't move. I can't be that loud. I'm not sure I can even talk. They're winning.

I know what I need to do. I need to remind myself I have a body. There is more than just the tornado in my head. And I am in charge of it. I have the power to stop all of this. It's the right thing to do. I need something sharp.....

Knock Knock Knock

Boyfriend has come to make sure I'm alright. He knows I'm going crazy, but he won't understand. He can't possibly understand why I need to do this right fucking now. "Go away. I don't want you here." Good, I can still speak. He comes in the bathroom. Fuck. Didn't lock the door.

"I don't want you to be here. We shouldn't be together. It's over. Leave. Or let me leave. You don't have to put up with this. It's my problem. I want you to go away. Please, please, please. Leave." I ramble on and on through tears and shaky breathing. Boyfriend calmly explains that he cannot leave me alone right now. If I don't want to be around him, then he will have to take me to "the place." (The awful psychiatric crisis facility we went to last time I hurt myself.)

Of course, he's totally right. No one in their right mind would leave me alone in the condition I'm in. But logic is beyond my capability at this point. Hell, I think it's reasonable and right to slit my wrist to make my racing thoughts shut the hell up. It's not just that I can; I should. And now.

After hours of crying and yelling, with Boyfriend holding me and reasoning with me, I am exhausted. I give up. The racing thoughts are done screaming but now they're snickering. They will be back. They know they won this round.

It's happening again.

I thought I was done feeling like this. With all the drugs I take throughout the day to keep me sane, I thought my days of waking up with tears in my eyes were gone. The part that is really f-ed up is that I think I woke up crying because I miss my crazy.

I miss being able to spring out of bed after 4 hours of bad sleep.
I miss not having to stop for breaks throughout the day.
I miss feeling invincible.

Deep down, I know that the manic part of my disorder is just as bad as the depressive part of it. But I don't care. It's hard to care when I still vividly remember how great some of my manic days were. All the work I got done. All the money I made. All the creative ideas that jumped out at me faster than I could write them down. Knowing that I could have that again even after a night of shitty sleep makes it hard to take my lithium in the morning.

How am I supposed to accomplish all the lofty goals I have for myself when my medication makes me too slow to carry out even normal tasks? But how am I supposed to justify dropping my meds when I damn near killed myself without them?

All I wanted was to sleep...

I took my first Lithium 2 and a half hours ago. For about 2 hours and 20 minutes, I have been in analyzing mode. I keep staring at my hands to check if they’re shaking and stopping dead in my tracks, totally unprompted by any feelings of discomfort, to decide if I am nauseous. So far, no tremors or vomiting that I’m aware of.

When I went for my monthly check-in a few days ago, I was all set to tell my doctor how much better I’m doing. My creativity is back, I enjoy sex A LOT again, and I am no longer isolating myself from the people who love me. The one and only problem I saw was that my sleep schedule was off. I would be so wound up from the excitement of living again after being depressed for so long that it was difficult to relax my mind. That’s nothing a little Ambien can’t fix.

“Nope, you’re not happy; you’re insane!. No Ambien for you. Take TONS of Lithium and calm the f*ck down, crazy lady!”

Ok, that’s not what the doctor said at all, but that’s definitely what I heard. My anti-drug attitude made starting the Zoloft a couple of months ago unnerving enough. But being medicated for the same disorder that killed my mom was terrifying.

On the drive home, I thought of every reason I shouldn’t take it.

• I’m anorexic. It could be mentally damaging to take a drug that might make me gain a little weight. Taking it would be irresponsible.
• The next day is Thanksgiving. They expect me start a nauseating drug during the season of eating?
• I can try natural remedies to cure whatever I may have.
• I never drink enough water during the day. The lithium will kill my kidneys.
• If I take this drug, it will dull the creative side of me that earns my paycheck.
• No one knows that I have been prescribed it. I can just dump the pills and tell them my doctor wants me to stick with the Zoloft regiment. (Since I am not the secret-keeping type, I emailed Boyfriend at work about how upset I was before I even took off my coat.)
• I’m not crazy.
• Seriously, I’m not crazy. I’m fine.

Talking things out with Boyfriend reminded me that I have the best support system in the world. Boyfriend’s dad reassured me that the pills are meant to help but I am in no way committed to them. And one of my best friends promised me that he will keep me active so I don’t get fat. I stopped pacing, but still wasn't ready to accept it.

After all was said and done, it took a long, hot, soul-searching shower alone to get me to accept that this may be for the best. I am still extremely leery of the medicine and terrified that I might have my mother’s disorder, but I felt like not giving the Lithium a shot would be like taking a step backwards in my recovery.