Where am I at?

I'm at a weird point in my life right now. After the horrible setback I had last week after stopping and then restarting the geodon, I find myself getting more stable.

So why is that weird? Why is getting stable weird?

Because I'm not used to it.

Let's look at my life: I have been in complete chaos for 2.5 years. I have been either mixed or severely depressed for 2.5 years. But look at the last 5 months - 2 hospitalizations, several med changes, going part time at work, having issues every day at work (with memory, cognition, and getting overwhelmed easily). It has been rough. And that is putting it ridiculously mildly. All I'm used to is crisis and heightened everything. I'm used to feeling like shit. I'm used to thinking that it will never get better.

But now, I'm slowly getting better. Now I'm slowly getting stable.

 And I have no idea how to react or what to do with myself.

I'm confused. I'm unsettled. Truth be told, I don't like this feeling. It is so foreign to me now, so strange, so . . . wrong that I can't quite handle it. All I've wanted was stability and now that it's happening, I'm terrified. See, as I'm slowly getting more stable, I'm slowly losing my identity. Everything that is "me", everything that I'm used to is going away and that's pretty damn scary. Even if it's for the better (which it is). I have to reinvent myself now. I have to figure out who I am when I'm not in crisis or chaos.

I'll be honest - I'm struggling with this. Part of me is fighting this, wanting to go back to the way things were - where everything is familiar and comfortable, no matter how horrible it truly was. I know it will take time - possibly a lot of time - before I'm comfortable with the stable me. I'll get there, eventually. And hopefully I won't muck everything up along the way.

My Therapist Made Me Mad

Let me start by saying this: I love my therapist. Love him. He's supported me, helped me and saved my life twice (literally - twice). He's funny, thoughtful and compassionate. He's everything a therapist should be.

But he said something at our last session (2 weeks ago) that made me mad. More than that - it pissed me right off and hurt me.

Just how much therapy do you need, Cami?

He was getting confrontational with me (which he does sometimes to make me really think) when that gem popped out. I was too flabbergasted to say anything at the time. As the week went on, I thought about it more and more and realized how much it affected me.

Why? Well, I've been seeing him for 2 years and I've just started figuring shit out. Finally I'm making great progress. I'm figuring this shit out people. I've been working hard. And that comment . . . it made me feel like a failure. Like I should have hit this point long ago.

I was furious over this, over how it made me feel. How could he say such a thing? I mulled it over and over in my mind, no doubt making it worse. I considered throwing in the towel. I told no one about it until last night when I broke down to my husband. He pointed out that M probably didn't mean anything like that, didn't mean to hurt me. And pointed out how I overreact emotionally. To everything. Which is true (part of bipolar, right?). Talking to him calmed me and made me feel a little better.

This morning I had therapy and planned on confronting M about his comment. And confront him I did. I told him exactly how it made me feel. I didn't raise my voice and I didn't cry. I was visibly angry and nervous and I was shaking (I don't do confrontations well).

I also cussed. Cause that's what I do when I'm upset. Apparently.

M apologized profusely. He said in all honestly he didn't remember saying that but he would never say anything to hurt me and was very sorry that he had. He thanked me for bringing it up and pointing it out to him - he wants feedback if he says something wrong or inappropriate. We talked at length about the situation and how I felt, what I needed, what I wanted.

And what I wanted was to be heard and to be validated. Which M did time and time again throughout our session. And I feel much better now. I feel at peace about it. He even said he wouldn't even think about discharging me a a patient - I need quite a bit more therapy (I'm crazy y'all! :P )

So in the end, I feel satisfied. I feel happy about it, I feel validated, I feel at peace. I feel that our relationship is actually better because of our honesty with each other.

So yeah. There ya go.

Acceptance

I couldn't sleep last night. My mind was racing, filled with anything and everything. It kept coming back to work or what I was going to tell Dr. C next week. Round and round it went so that even when I did sleep, my mind was racing in my dreams.

It was exhausting.

An one point, around 1am, I had almost a mini epiphany. I even got out of bed to jot it down in my journal so I wouldn't forget the thought.

And here it is:

I have yet to accept that I have bipolar disorder. I know I have it, don't get me wrong, but I haven't truly accepted that fact yet. All I'm doing is trying to control an uncontrollable illness. To make neat and orderly what must stay in chaos. To make black and white what is truly every shade of grey known to man.

I haven't accepted this.

Here's the thing - in order to live with bipolar disorder one must practice flexibility and forgiveness. Forgiveness of one's self. I suck at this. I'm flexible with most everything except bipolar disorder. In my mind, I have to do everything perfectly - including controlling the symptoms. I don't forgive myself when things aren't "perfect". If I have a bad day, I've failed. If I've had a string of bad days and I have a good one - I've failed. How does that even make sense??

My view is this: I'm either stable or sick, good or bad, up or down. There is no in-between. So when my mood fluctuates, when it changes or cycles (which moods do), it doesn't fit into my narrow view of what things "should" be. If I'm sick, I should just be sick and not have stable days in-between. If I'm stable, I should just be stable and not have bad days in-between.

This is a highly inaccurate view of bipolar disorder (and of my whole damn world).

Because you know what? Moods vary. Moods change. They fluctuate day to day. I'm going to have a string of really bad days followed by some good ones - and that's okay. I'm going to be stable for awhile and then go manic for a day or two - and that's okay. It's going to happen - that's the nature of bipolar disorder.  I'll never stop it from happening - my mood episodes will come whether I want them to or not, and I can't change, predict, or control that.

So I need to accept that. I need to accept that I have bipolar disorder and that I don't have to be perfect. That this will never be perfect. That my moods may change drastically in the course of a day and I might as well just enjoy the ride.

The sooner I accept this, the sooner I can be flexible and forgive myself, the sooner I can heal and move on.

And I don't have to be perfect at this, either.

Internal Struggle

I have a pretty awesome internal struggle going on right now. Of the kind that causes anguish, fear, nausea and the trots (no really - I totally have the trots). Here's what's up:

Yesterday hubs and I made a huge decision - one that completely changes our lives.

We're going to foreclose on our house and file bankruptcy.

Why? Because of my stupid fucking brain. No joke. I'm going to be going part time to give myself a break, decrease my stress level, and hopefully keep my stability longer than a month. Which means we can't afford to stay in our house.

The decision is made, we know what we're doing. So then why the internal struggle . . . ?

Because I am me and I suck.

I like to self sabotage. I do it subconsciously, but I do it. I had this revelation almost 8 months ago. Since then I've been working on curbing it. And I've done relatively well.

But this . . . this is difficult. It's a shitty situation and exceedingly stressful at best. And then you throw in my marginally stable, self sabotaging mind and, well, you get the idea.

Today I've been pretty down. I keep having negative thoughts invade my mind. I keep thinking about how all of this is happening because of me. This wasn't supposed to be how things played out. I was going to be better and move on and work and everything was going to be perfect and fall into place. I should be better. We shouldn't have to do this. It's my fault. If only I was stronger or not sick or sucked it up more . . .

See the trend? Great fodder for a downward spiral. And 9 months ago the spiral would have been immediate and devastating.

But not now. Not today. Because I know more about myself. Because I know that I can self sabotage. And because, while technically this turn of events is because of me, I know that my health and my ability to be a wife and a mother are more important than the house. We'll find a house to rent. And eventually we'll buy again. In the big scheme of things, this isn't all that bad.

Now, that being said, this isn't easy. I'm fighting against everything that is me. I'm fighting against my nature, my coping mechanisms. And it is anything but easy. Stopping the negative thoughts is exhausting. It takes energy. It drains me. It would be so much easier to give in. Give up and give in.

But I don't want to. I really don't want to. I don't want to be sick anymore. I can't be sick anymore. So I'm going to fight it and curb the negative thoughts and not start a pity party of one.

My health is more important than the house. My health is more important than the house. 

(I'll probably need to say that several more times)

I'm Stubborn

And probably stupid.

Why? You ask. Work. Work is why.

See, I'm going back to work this Saturday (the 11th). I've been out since December 18th - 3 weeks. Which, in retrospect, doesn't seem very long. Three weeks off to get better from a long lived mixed episode and severe suicidal ideation.

I took 2 weeks off after my hospitalization in November. Worked two weeks, and then was back in the hospital. And now two weeks off then back to work. Not a good track record as of late.

I ask myself, am I ready to go back yet? My answer? I don't know. I've had a few days where I say YES! Yes I can go back! I'm all good y'all!

But I have days like today and yesterday and the day before where I'm anything but good. Where I most certainly do NOT feel like I'm okay to go back. I feel fragile - like I could shatter at any moment. It would just take the slightest knock . . .

I'm still getting overwhelmed easily. I'm still having anger and irritability. Racing thoughts every night (it takes me 2-3 hours to fall asleep thanks to my racing mind). And then I have this . . . horrid feeling. I'm pretty sure it's akathisia. We'll use yesterday as an example because yesterday was bad. I get this feeling like I need to move. I need to move or constantly be doing something. If I'm not I have this looming sense of dread, of impending doom. I get antsy and restless and anxious. I get highly agitated. If I'm not doing something, everything is pointless and I don't know how I'm going to make it through the day or cope with anything.

I felt like that all day yesterday. I drew, I sewed, I was on the computer. I paced in the kitchen constantly while dinner was cooking - I couldn't stop. I could hardly sit still to eat. And after I was finished I left. I left the house to go on a drive and smoke my electronic cigarette because I didn't know what else to do with myself. I was so antsy and agitated it's all I could think to do.

While I was driving something hit me. Hit me hard. I realized how profoundly exhausted I am. Mentally and emotionally exhausted. I came out of a major depressive episode this summer to a month or so of relative stability, only to be thrust head first into a full blown mixed episode for the last 3-4 months.

I have not had a break.

I'm in a constant state of emotional chaos and I'm goddamned FUCKING tired.

I finally realized this last night while driving around, listening to music, and smoking.

When I take all of this into account, how I really feel, how tired I am . . . I'm not ready to go back. But I am. I am going back. This Saturday. Because I'm stupid. I guess I need to see if I can handle it. I need to prove to myself, to J, to M, to my friends and coworkers that I'm okay. I got this guys, I'm fine. I'm going to put everyone ahead of me. I know this is what I'm doing and yet I do it anyway. I have my pride to think of, people. And that good 'ol financial burden - not a good thing to foreclose on your house.

And think of this too: I go back, I can't handle it, I have to take more time off. What does that do for me?? Makes me look even worse. Wow, she must be really sick - she can't handle being at work. What if I lose my shit at work? What then?

But what if I'm perfectly fine to go back? What if all of this is just me being nervous about going back? What if I'm just psyching myself out? What if I'm really fucking fine?

I don't know what the fuck I should really do. I don't want to jeopardize my health. But I also don't want to jeopardize my job.

Or my stubborn pride.

Therapy and ACOA

Today was the therapy day that I was (and wasn't) looking forward to. If you remember from my last post, I had read Codependent No More and had all these horrible feels and today I was going to start talking about them. Well, talk I did.

I started by reading M my last journal entry (which he found amusing, laughed, and joked that maybe he should be worried and leave). He reminded me that I didn't need to dive in balls to the wall with this. No, definitely not. But I need to start. And today was as good a day as any (especially with all the icky feels I've had from reading that book).

Funny thing is, I didn't really know where to start. I pointed out my anger and frustration. That I don't want to have to sort through this. It's too much and it's not fair and I want to be done with it!

See, I'm still very much that scared little girl, trapped in the darkness of my own mind, haunted by my memories and feelings. They chase me, like the wolf after his prey. I'm cornered now, back against the wall, and all I can do is fight for my life.

And this is a fight. A struggle within myself, to overcome myself. To pull this little girl out of the darkness, into the light, and show her that everything is okay. We've survived, thrived even. She needs comfort. She needs protection. She needs to be able to own herself, gain confidence, and start repairing the damage.

Here's where we start:

My mom is an alcoholic. She's been one for as long as I can remember. Life with an alcoholic is unpredictable, chaotic, and sometimes downright terrifying. There is fear, mixed messages, confusion, anger, guilt, shame, hopelessness, powerlessness. All of this takes its toll. It wears you down.

I was the caretaker. When my mom was drunk, I made sure she was in bed. I made sure my brother got to bed. That we were all fed, that alarms were set. I felt responsible for them, my brother and mom. I was overprotective of my brother - if anything "bad" happened to him it would devastate me (though I hid these feelings because they were feelings that would start a screaming match between my mom and I). I put them before myself - always. Even though I desperately didn't want to.

I grew increasingly withdrawn at home and in life in general. My true feelings caused problems. I learned quickly to bottle them up. I slept all the time - I claimed I had mono to explain that away. I thought about suicide - often. I wished I could get away. I didn't have friends. I felt different from everyone. What if they found out my mom was an alcoholic? The shame and guilt kept me mute.

 I hated my life. I hated everything about it. I hated my mom. I hated that my dad couldn't save me. I hated that nobody saw how much pain I was in, how close I was to killing myself. I hated myself.

Maybe if I worked hard, maybe if I was the perfect daughter, did well in school, got a job, maybe then the drinking would stop. That didn't work. Maybe I wasn't perfect enough. Despite my good grades and working nearly full time starting at age 16, the drinking didn't stop. I sought approval. I sought affirmation that I was good. That I did good. If I was good, she'd have to stop. Right?

Wrong. No matter what I tried, the drinking didn't stop. I wasn't good enough. She even said it herself. My brother and I were a burden and maybe one day she just wouldn't come home. I was a failure. I wasn't good enough.

There were screaming matches about her drinking. Constantly. My brother and I would find and empty her bottles of vodka. We'd confront her lies. There were so many lies you never knew what to believe. Broken promises of getting sober. We learned not to trust.

So often, after a screaming match, mom would say she'd only have a drink on the weekend. We said okay. Then it became a few. We said okay. Then it was one a night. We relented. Then it was however many she wanted. We gave up. She'd say she wouldn't drink if there were people over. We said okay. Then it was drinking no matter who was over. We gave up. We learned that boundaries didn't matter - they got trampled on anyway.

She was embarrassing when she was drunk. She acted erratically, was unpredictable, and said things that made you want to curl into a ball and hide away. She did this in front of company, family, my brother's friends (I didn't have friends). I felt responsible for her actions - as if I should be able to control them. I felt they reflected badly on me. I felt ashamed of her and guilty I couldn't control her actions.

Now, let's look at this (very) brief synopsis and see what I've learned, what I've picked up. Shame, guilt. Despite trying to do everything right and be perfect, I'm a failure. I don't trust, don't have boundaries, and don't know what to believe. My feelings are bad and should be kept to myself. I feel responsible for other's actions. I put everyone ahead of myself, often to my detriment. Pain, confusion, anger, resentment.

All of these traits (and others) have followed me to this day. All of these I struggle with every day. I never realized this until M had me research ACOA and read Codependent No More. So much of my behaviors and thought patterns make sense now. My mom's alcoholism wasn't as bad as it could have been. My childhood wasn't nearly as bad as others had it. But that doesn't mean it affected me any less.

My journey to healing and recovery has started. The road is long, and probably rocky at times, but I have all the gear I need to make the trek. Hopefully I'll find peace along the way. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll find that little girl and I can hold her in my arms and tell her everything will be alright.