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.

Found a Vein of Hope

My reasons for writing are two-fold.

1.  I promised I would come here when I had a little bit of hope.

2.  That hope is making me think I'm Superman; writing grounds me.

I have the downstairs clean enough that I don't feel like I am reminded of all my failures every time I turn my head. That being said, I can see every speck of dust I missed, see every hidden space that I know is just a cornucopia of disgust, and feel the overwhelming need to fix it all at once. While doing something for myself to relax. And writing a book. All before lunch.

Maybe this isn't hope. Maybe it's a manic delusion. But if it were a delusion, wouldn't I not be aware of the fact that I'm in a delusional state? For the sake of my sanity, let's call it hope. I digress.

On top of the downstairs being clean enough to not need to escape to the safety of under the blanket, I may have actually stumbled across something that could help. This awesome place offers free classes in yoga, meditation, and more. For free! I know I said "free" twice. It's super important. 

If I can keep up this momentum, not paralyzed by my own depression or detonating under the pressure of my racing head, I might be able to make it tonight. 9 hours until Buddha has a chance to work his magic.

Fucked up Welcome Back Free Write

Where do I pick up after abandoning my blog for almost 2 weeks? Has it been two weeks? Honestly, I don't know even what day it is. I spent the majority if the day thinking it was Friday and even when I learned it was Tuesday, I continued on as though it were Friday. 

Something is seriously wrong with me at the moment. I can't really say "at the moment" considering this has been going on for the past several weeks, and years, before that. So I am going to free-write my scattered, fucked up, horrible thoughts here until the Lorazopam I popped kicks in and I can finally get a brief moment of peace before I crumble under the weight of myself.

If I had to sum it up in just a few words, those words would be "The monsters are winning." Yup, they are back full force, taking control over every mechanism that makes me me. They decide when I am fast, physically and mentally. Like today, my monsters thought it was fucking hilarious to watch me run around the house gathering up every piece of fabric for the laundry, rearranging the bathroom so it's more pleasant for the cat, and crawling on my hands and knees picking up lint so that the house would look perfect. Because a perfect looking house means that I'm not crazy. Haha, thanks, guys, but everyone knows damn well that fucked up. All this while making a list of things I don't have time to do today but can work on tomorrow. Like scrub the walls and paint the bookshelves and create some wall art for the bedroom with no money.

That was today, but most days the monsters shut me down. I spend way too much time crying under a blanket hating myself so much that it physically hurts. I dwell over the fact that I am ruining Boyfriend's life and he won't admit it. I beat myself up over everyone that I have left in the wake of my destruction. I hate the evil parts of the world that I am too incapicated to fix when I am depressed and only contribute to its downfall when I'm not. But what really makes me break down, really makes the tears flow and the hyperventilating to the point of passing is the fact that the little girls I nanny for, the little girls I love so fucking much it isn't even possible, won't remember who I am. If the monsters kill me, everyone else will mourn for the appropriate time, move on with their lives, and occasionally look back at the sordid part of their past that included me. Those girls won't. I still can't decide whether that is motivating to get better or pushing me further into the depression.

If the depression and the wild weren't enough, I'm also having some pretty fuck-tastic dissociation episodes. I don't know if that is the right way to describe it. The doctor I saw about it won't tell me. In a nutshell, the world around me disappears. I am trapped in a bubble of just me until my head and body start to separate. Then I am left with two options. I can either sit there and bawl like a baby in terror for hours until miraculously the world is in focus again. Or I can speed up the process and cut myself. I know, totally fucked up. Or maybe not. The doctor didn't think it was important enough to talk about.

I suppose it is worth mentioning that I'm off all my meds. They were numbing me. They were making it harder and harder for me to write, the one and only thing that I took any pride in before this whole ordeal. I believe that they were prescribed to me by doctors who really didn't give a shit about my well-being. They just wanted me to talk slower and sit still. So fuck em. Fuck the doctors who wouldn't give me more than 5 minutes to explain what was wrong. And fuck the meds they gave me to shut me up.

I came to this lovely conclusion after spending a bit of time at a temporarily unnamed mental facility. (When I reveal where this care came from, I want to do so in a more level-headed manner.) I admitted myself with great support from Boyfriend and Dad with the hope that I was finally going to get real help. That maybe someone would be able to explain to me what I was saying to them in confusion. Nope. I got in a fight with Dr. Narcissist and was discharged against medical advice. But more on that later.

So here I am. Free from Lithium. Free from Zoloft. Starting the cycle over again. Taking on the monsters that are stronger than ever with my bare fists and losing. Apparently there is never a good time to bow out graciously, or at least that is what I'm told. So I have to keep fighting for something I don't even believe in anymore. Hope is gone. Or I was naive to think it was ever there to begin with.

The Lorazopam has kicked in finally. I'm probably going to regret posting this later, but whatever. For now, maybe I can maybe enjoy a few moments of the day. 

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.

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?