This really can't be as good as it gets

It's early - 6am - as I write this. I didn't sleep well and I've been up since 5. I've broken down sobbing once already, something I haven't done in probably 3 weeks. I don't know where I'm going with this post, I'm not sure what I'm going to get out.

Maybe some background:

It's been 2 weeks since my last ECT treatment (I go again on the 19th). The first couple of days after I felt pretty good, pretty "normal" (whatever that is). Then on Thursday the 8th I was manic. I started out hypomanic and was very giggly, fidgety, anxious, distractible, in therapy. But Thursday night . . . that's a whole other story. Hubs was very scared and was very close to taking me to the hospital. I was manic, plain and simple. He was texting my 2 best friends, asking what to do. Now, sadly, I don't have any more Xanax or Ativan that I can take to calm me down (I threw it all out 6 or 9 months ago as it was all at least a year past the expiration date). Hubs offered me Benadryl. Unbeknownst to him, I took an extra Seroquel (sorry I didn't tell you - I was kind of ashamed). It knocked me down enough that I could kind of sleep.

I remained hypomanic Friday through Monday, but it moved away from euphoria (I was crazy fucking euphoric that Thursday), and into the irritable kind. What does that look like? Racing thoughts, anxiety, panic attacks, hyper-irritability (I become a raging fucking bitch in seconds flat for no reason), and insomnia. Sounds fun, right?

Then Tuesday morning (this past Tuesday, 4 days ago) I woke up and I just knew. I knew my mood had shifted. The cloud of depression was over me again. I felt the familiar despair and hopelessness, but it was coupled with irritable hypomania. A mixed episode. Oh goody.

Mixed episodes are NOT fun. At all. They're also considered the most dangerous state to be in. Why? You have the depression, despair, and hopelessness coupled with impulsiveness. Not a good combo. Luckily, all I've done is cut.

I had therapy again this past Thursday (2 days ago) and M didn't even have to say a word to me to know something was very wrong. He made it abundantly clear that I need to talk to Dr. M about all of this when I see him for ECT on Monday.

But that terrifies me.

I mean, I know I need to let my psychiatrist know that hey: I spent a week hypomanic with a very scary-but-thankfully-short-lived manic day and now I have feelings of depression again. Of course he needs to know that. But what scares me is what he might say . . .

See, I'm worried that this is my new norm. That this is as good as it gets for me. I'm worried that Dr. M is going to tell me that I need more therapy, I need more DBT to learn how to better manage my moods. That there's nothing more he can do.

That really. Fucking. Terrifies me.

Because here's the thing: I am definitely way better than I was before starting ECT. I feel an improvement. People have pointed out that I seem better. I know it's helping. I don't want him to look at my symptoms and say, "well, it's obvious the ECT isn't helping, so we might as well stop." If it wasn't helping, like I know it is, I would be dead right now. That's the truth. It's a fucking shitty truth, but it's the truth. That's how I know it's helping. I'M FUCKING ALIVE, PEOPLE.

And here's the thing with therapy - I'm really kind of an expert now at using CBT and DBT techniques to help manage my mood. How do I know? I haven't been hospitalized in over a year. I'm functioning better than I was a year ago. Two years ago. Three years ago. And people have commented to this. I feel like I'm better in control. My fucking therapist has told me he sees a huge improvement in me.

I'M DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT.

I really, actually am.

And I'm so scared that I'm going to talk to Dr. M on Monday and he's going to wash his hands of me and I'm going to be left scrambling.

So then I overthink things and I think, wait - what if this is as good as it gets for me. That my stupid fucking bipolar truly is this difficult to manage and I need to work on accepting this so I can move on and learn to even better manage my symptoms. . .

But I don't want to settle. What if I give in and accept this as my lot in life when I could truly be doing so much better? I had a little over a week where I was enjoying myself. Where I felt happy. And I think I deserve to feel happy. I deserve more than just trying to make it through the day.

I really, truly, fucking hate bipolar disorder.

fuck

There's a good chance that I should be in the hospital right now. And if I'm thinking that . . . well . . .

It's just that I'm struggling - really struggling right now. I can't keep my moods managed. I'm irrationally angry or I'm sobbing and full of despair. Maybe it's my new med, Prestiq, causing this. Or not. Maybe it's something entirely different. I have no fucking clue but I'm not doing well.

I feel like I can't cope with anything. I want to curl in a little ball and block out all stimulation. I want to cut. I want to scream and throw things. These are the only ways I can see myself coping.

This morning I drove to my mother-in-law's house to pick up my son. I had to pull over because I was crying so hard I couldn't see. Pulled myself together, got him and went to work with my horses. Felt a little better. Okay. Good. See? You'll be fine. You're fine.

As I drove home, my anger was building. We went grocery shopping, my anger was building. Putting away groceries I yelled at my son and I could feel the anger spiraling out of control. So I went to my bedroom and sat down. Figured I'd give myself a little "time out", do some deep breathing, gain my composure and control.

Instead, I lost my shit and cried for 30+ minutes. I kept thinking, I wish hubs and the boy didn't care so much, that way I could just go, just be done with it. I was staring at my wrists through my tears, visually tracing the cuts I would make.

No.

I kept telling myself, "I don't want to die. I'm going to live." My new mantra. Over and over. I know the constant thoughts about death and suicide are because of the depression. Depression lies. I know this. Think of all the good. There's so much good. So many people love me and care about me.

I know this. I know all of this. But I sit and sob and stare at my wrists.

I'm so fucking sick of this.

Stupid

I had a great therapy session yesterday, I really did. Everything that was in my last blog post? We talked about that.

He pointed out that I still haven't completely accepted my diagnosis. I mean, I've accepted it, I truly believe I have bipolar disorder, but I haven't fully accepted everything that that entails. For example, even when I'm stable - reeeeeally stable - I can still have wide, wild mood swings for no reason at all. That's just part of bipolar disorder. That truly, for the rest of my life, I have to be hyper vigilant of my moods. I'll have to always monitor my moods, just like a diabetic monitors their blood sugar. There's no real way around it.

I hate that. Like, I really hate that. I wanted to have ECT and just be . . . okay. Normal. But that's just not the case. And it's super fucking frustrating. I don't want to deal with it anymore. I don't want to deal with bipolar disorder anymore.

Today I should have gone to the hospital

I worked today. I was on the floor, backup for trans. I had easy patients. Nice patients. It should have been a nice day. An easy day.

It wasn't.

I knew this morning when I woke up that today would be difficult. I knew I would struggle. I just didn't know how much . . .

I avoided people. Coworkers, my patients even. Go into a room, do what I needed, and get out. I was irritable. I was angry. I didn't want to be bothered. People asked questions. Questions I'm sick of answering. Have you sold your house? When are you moving? Where are you moving to?

I don't. Fucking. Know.

And I'm tired of everyone asking.

Wait.

It's a simple thing. It's not a big deal. People are curious, interested, caring. Making conversation.

But it filled me with rage. I couldn't handle the questions so I withdrew a little more. I gave short answers.

In the afternoon I hid.

I stole away to the report room, sat in a chair in the corner behind the door so people wouldn't see me. That only lasted for half an hour before I got a call from a patient. I left my chair, my temporary sanctuary, to bring my patient pain meds.

I had brought my Nook with me so I decided to try reading. Reading should help, right?

Normally it does. Not today though. Not today. Today I couldn't really focus. After a few pages I would have to take a break. Walk, stretch, check my email. I couldn't focus. I couldn't focus why can't I focus what the hell . . .

My mood was worsening. I grade myself on a scale of 1-10. Five is "normal". Below is moving into depression, above into mania. I started the day at a 3.5. Yes. By 4:00, I was a 2, threatening to go lower. Ever lower.

It can't go lower.

It was. I hid. I hid in the report room again. It was dark in there, the sun was already going down and I left the lights off. I wanted the dark, the quiet. I wanted no one.

Leave me alone.

The charge nurse came in. She didn't know I was sitting there, alone, in the dark. I said boo. She jumped and immediately asked if I was okay.

No. I'm not okay. I'm far from okay.

She offered to take my patients and send me home.

I'll be alright. I'm not okay, but I'll be alright. I can last the rest of the shift. It's only 2 hours. I can do it.

She took my face in her hands and told me to let her know if I needed anything.

Wait. I need help.

Wait.

She left and I sat in the dark, alone. I started to shake, to tremble, lip quivering, tears welling up. I wept. Silently. I tried to stop. I can't have someone catching me crying. Sitting alone in the dark is one thing . . . but crying . . . no.

I stopped crying and I sat, drying my tears, blowing my nose as quietly as I could.

I felt worse. So much worse.

I need to lie down.

I laid down on the floor, in the shadows, behind the door. No one could see me if they were just walking by. Perfect.

Wait.

I was worse. I felt worse. I'm lying on the floor alone in the dark at work and no one knows I'm here and they don't know how bad I feel how bad I've gotten again and that I'm lying here and what I really want to do is die but I can't do that not here not at work and maybe not anywhere but I still kinda want to die and why isn't anyone looking for me?

My mind was racing, I was praying. Please, someone, anyone, find me. Find me and HELP ME. I need HELP don't you understand I NEED HELP!! Someone. Please . . .

Stop.

If someone finds me, if they ask me, I need help. I need to go to the hospital. I want to swallow all of my pills and slit my wrists and  want to go to sleep and not wake up and I know that that's not what I really want. What I really want is for the pain to stop. The pain to fucking END ALREADY.

I'm lying on the floor at work in the dark, hidden from everyone, praying, praying, PRAYING and no one comes. No one comes into the report room. I'm on my side, curled in a ball, full of despair and hopelessness and I start to cry again because no one is coming and no one is helping me and please just someone come and help me because I'm afraid I might hurt myself and it might be real bad this time and I'm scared. No, I'm terrified. My mind races with scenarios of my death and how I might be saved if someone would just FUCKING COME INTO THE ROOM.

But no one does.

I'm miserable. I text my husband. I tell him it's bad, I'm having a rough day, I'm hiding. I don't let on how bad it is because I don't want him to worry. I make him worry so much and I don't want him to worry because I'm okay, really, I'll be okay, I'm fine actually. Just fine.

Stop.

You're not fooling anyone. At least, not yourself. You need to get up. You've been on the floor for 2 hours.

Get up.

I can't. I need to stay longer. Someone may find me and I can get help. I need help. Remember?

Get up.

I sit up. I feel defeated. I feel empty and hopeless and scared and depressed and I don't want to move but I have to move I have to check on my patients and no one is coming to check on me so I have to get up.

Get up.

I stand. I look into the hallway to make sure no one is around while I make my way to the bathroom to clean myself up. I need to be presentable. People can't know that I was crying. That I was silently breaking down and losing my shit while they were doing their work and being happy and normal and not looking for me or helping me because apparently I still do a good job of hiding my suicidal thoughts and depression and no one seems to be the wiser.

Wait.

I check on my patients. They're fine. I was on the floor for 2 hours and they didn't call me and they didn't need anything and they're fine. I sit in the nurses station staring at my phone, scrolling through facebook, trying not to think about how much I hate life and how much I really want to die and then countering my thinking because I know I really don't want to die, remember? You want the pain to stop. You want to not feel like this anymore.

Please.

My shift ends. I give report. I drive home. I tell my husband if I have another day like today I need to be admitted. I need to go to the hospital.

I don't want to go to the hospital. Not again. Please not again.

Help.

 I feel empty and drained and horrifically sad and hopeless and it's maybe more than I can handle. Is it more than I can handle? I wish I knew. And how will tomorrow be? The same? Worse? Better?

Stop.

I wrote this. Before going to bed because if I didn't write this it would consume me and I wouldn't be able to sleep and my mind would probably race even more and I can't have that, not now. Now I need to sleep. It's the only real escape I have.

So I want to kill myself . . .

I really do. . . at times.

Like yesterday. Yesterday was bad. Yesterday I wanted to slit my wrists and watch the blood flow. Watch the blood flow and feel myself weakening as I slip into darkness.

But I didn't. You know why?

Because deep down I know that I don't truly want to die. What I want is for the pain to stop. For my constant up and down (mostly down) to stop.

Here's a story:

Friday night I forgot to take my meds. I usually take them around 8-8:30. Well, I didn't. But when I went to bed at 10, I didn't realize I hadn't taken them because I'm so used to taking them at that time. I've been late taking my seroquel before and I typically have insomnia, tremors, nausea, night sweats, and racing thoughts until I take it (even if I'm 2 hours late taking it I have these symptoms). Friday night I had insomnia - I only got around 3-4 hours of sleep. But I had no other symptoms until 6am - I didn't figure out until then that I had forgot my meds (after having the other symptoms, I counted my seroquel and yep - forgot it).

Of course I worked Saturday. All morning I rapid cycled. I'd have depression with racing thoughts, poor concentration, and irritability. Then my mood would lift and I'd feel okay, I'd giggle a little, and become very talkative. Then my mood would plummet and be mixed again.

This happened until around 3. At 3 I became hypomanic. Euphoric hypomanic. I felt amazing. I laughed so much. I laughed at everything and nothing. I talked rapidly and became highly excitable. I had racing thoughts. I said inappropriate things. I was loud, and at times obnoxious. I cussed. A lot. In my hailstorm of activity and loudness and giddiness, I told numerous people that I was bipolar and didn't take my meds (people didn't need to know that).

But I felt amazing. Like I could conquer the world.

When I got home from work I was still giggling and talkative, but my lack of sleep was starting to catch up to me (in retrospect, this was probably good - if I had gone higher, or if it lasted longer, I may have needed to be hospitalized).

I had a great day. A wonderful, amazing, and happy day. Because I didn't take my meds. So I rationalized that maybe I should stop my meds. At least the seroquel. Now, seeing how my judgement was probably clouded, I asked my hubby and my best friend if I should take my meds. They both said yes, take your damn meds. Don't be a noncompliant idiot (my friend's words).

So Saturday night I took my meds like a good girl. I went to bed around 10. Hubby came to bed around midnight to find me unable to sleep, plagued by racing thoughts. My whole body hurt because I was so tired and my mind was going so fast. He had me take a benadryl to try and help me fall asleep, and an hour after I was able to sleep. I slept until 9am (I'm usually up by 7).

I woke up knowing something was wrong. Knowing something was off. Knowing that it was going to be a bad day.

I awoke depressed. I tried to hide and ignore it. I tried all day to hide and ignore it. How could I possibly feel so bad after having a day where I felt so good??

Throughout the day I felt increasingly more depressed. My thoughts became darker. I wanted to cut. I needed to cut - but I didn't. I tried to keep my anger in check, even as it swelled and threatened to consume me. I didn't want to be around anyone - including hubby and son. I didn't want to interact with anyone - including texting friends.

I thought more about slitting my wrists.

After putting my son to bed I broke down sobbing. I couldn't take it anymore. It was the ugly cry where your snot gets everywhere and was filled with utter despair and hopelessness.

I can't go on like this.

I told hubby that. I can't. I can't do this anymore. It's too hard. It's not fair. How can anyone possibly think that I can keep this up??

Over the past 3.5 weeks I've had suicidal ideation on more days than not. There have been 3 instances where I probably should have gone to the hospital (last night, honestly, was one of them - I really wanted to slit my wrists and I was feeling impulsive). I'm doing everything right. My therapist pointed that out as well - I'm doing everything I'm supposed to be doing. All the CBT stuff I've learned in therapy - I'm applying it. I want to isolate - I'm forcing myself to interact. I'm staying busy rather than just staring at the ceiling or sleeping (which is what I want to do).

And yet I continue to get worse.

I see my psychiatrist on Wednesday. I'm guessing she'll increase my seroquel again. To either 500 or 600mg. Then probably another month of "let's wait and see if this helps at all". I'll be curious to see what she has to say about the suicidal ideation (my therapist was a little annoyed that I didn't call her office to let her know about the suicidal thoughts - well, I don't know her well and I didn't want to be told to go to the hospital; I thought I could handle it on my own).

Something has to change. It has to because I truly can't keep doing this. I'm tired. I'm not hopeful (why should I be? Nothing has worked so far).

I don't understand why I have to exist. Can't I just disappear until something manages my depression? Until I feel better? Why can't I do that?

Apathy and Anhedonia are my Friends

And I hate these friends. I wish they would go the fuck away.

If you don't know what apathy or anhedonia is, google it.

The week after my hospitalization was filled with depression and despair. Then came Boston where I was warned that my moods might get a little screwy. And they did get screwy - I cycled through depression, irritability, giddiness and feeling okay several times a day. Fucking tiring.

But now . . . for the last week . . . I have been either irritable or nothing. I touched on it in my last post, my icky feels. I just can't shake this numb feeling. I've felt it since last Friday. Almost a full week now. I have the hyper irritability - I've got that emotion down pat - or I have this all encompassing nothingness. This lack of feeling. I try to feel. I force laughter, I force myself to be upbeat (which is all fake - I don't feel any of it). I force myself to talk, to not be as withdrawn as I feel.

And it's not really working. All I want to do is lay on the couch and stare at the ceiling. I want to not exist again.

Tuesday I had no choice but to do something, to interact - I was volunteering at the riding center all day. But I was a hollow husk. Yesterday I forced myself to do things. I had to take my son to therapy, I had acupuncture, I met a friend for pie and coffee. But other than that I just kind of floated around in a numb haze.

Today is looking to be, uh, not good. Today I have more feels and they're of the bad variety. They're of the depressed, self destructive variety. I've spend all morning on the verge of tears but I can't actually cry. Maybe it would help if I could. I want desperately to not exist. I feel like everything is pointless again. I'm always going to have these stupid fucking mood swings to deal with so what the fuck is the point of continuing on?

I want to self harm. I want to burn myself again. I have a string of 4 very noticeable burn marks from Monday on my left inner arm and I want to add to them. I want to feel the searing white flash of pain. I want the momentary adrenaline rush. More importantly, I want the outward expression of the pain I feel inside. I'm hoping my previous burn marks scar. I want the reminder.

It's taking every ounce of self control I have to not burn myself right now. I'm writing this hoping that it will help dissipate the urge. I may try going downstairs to box. I remind myself that self-harm serves no purpose and can even makes things worse. But I may end up burning myself, I don't know. I'm trying not to.

I feel like I don't know what to do with myself or my life. Right now, at this moment, everything seems so bleak. I'll be dealing with these swings my entire life - which is daunting and depressing. I have all this fucking trauma work to go through in therapy which is daunting and depressing. I have no desire/inspiration/get no joy out of my artwork anymore which is depressing. I'm getting no joy out of life right now which is depressing.

All of this is the apathy. All of this is the anhedonia. All of this is part of a possible major depressive episode. I'm hoping not. I'm hoping my brain is just in shut down mode from the whole depression/suicide/hospitalization thing and that soon it will kick into gear again. Who knows, maybe this is my new baseline. Whatever the fuck it is I want it to stop.

Also? All of these thoughts, these words I'm fleshing out here, represent several errors of thinking, or, cognitive distortions. Namely, catastrophizing, fortune telling, all or nothing thinking, overgeneralization, and disqualifying the positive. There are 10 "official" cognitive distortions and I'm practicing 5 of them right now. Intellectually, I know this. Intellectually, I try talking myself out of these, point out the flaws, counter them. But sadly, it's not helping. That's part of the problem with me - I know this shit. I recognize it and work against it. I try. But I still fall prey to it and it makes my mood cycles worse. I've been working on all of this so much in therapy over the past year and still it gets me.

I don't know what else to say. I hate being so negative but that's where I'm at right now. I'm trying not to ruminate, I'm trying to counter my distorted thinking, and I'm trying to not burn myself. I see my new pdoc at 3 today so maybe that will be helpful.

Ugh. I'm tired of having shitty feels or no feels. Fucking brain.

Having some icky feels

Yep. Icky feels. I fucking hate icky feels. There are several things going on, all of which are contributing to my current state of being.

First, the Denver Comic Con was this past weekend. Hubby and I dress up, we kinda go all out. And in Cons past I've enjoyed this and have had a good time. Not the case this weekend. I spent pretty much the entire time emotionally numb. Just . . . numb. I was just kinda there. I didn't feel anything. Except when I was hyper irritable. I did have that. How fun. I was worried I was going to have issues with anxiety, but, save for one panic attack, I was okay on that front. Little things I guess . . .

Second, I'm kind of a shitty wife. And by "kind of", I mean I've been a shitty wife. Why? Well, I have had lots of shit going on mentally/emotionally the past several months and I've let it overtake me. I've become a bit self-centered. I've been very difficult to be around. And to top things off, I forgot that yesterday was father's day. Which hurt my hubby. We typically don't do gifts, but I failed to even say Happy Father's Day until I heard something on the radio about it. Oops. I feel terrible about this. I was going to write something up last night that explained things, that let him know how much I appreciate him.

But nothing came out. Not because I couldn't think of things, but because I couldn't put it into words. I felt horrible. I hurt his feelings. After everything he does for me, I couldn't even make one small acknowledgement of how amazing he is. Which made me realize that I have, indeed, been self-centered and have put my family and everything else on the back burner. Which compounded my feeling horrible but also brought up anger. Anger at what I've been doing, and anger at hubby because he's making me aware of my shortcomings.

Now, don't get me wrong, none of that is his fault, but it's what I felt and was why I couldn't write anything. So instead, I tried in vain to verbalize my appreciation and apology, tearing up and trying desperately not to. (which, hubs, I love you more than anything and I still don't know how you put up with my crazy ass).

This whole situation led to something else - me trying not to catastrophize the situation. Something I'm an expert at and something that is exceedingly detrimental to my emotional well being. So I rationalized, told myself focusing on my shortcomings would do me no good and that I needed to focus on not doing this again. Crisis averted.

Or so I thought.

This morning my icky feels were worse and I felt very self destructive. So much so that I burnt myself with a lighter. Part in punishment, part out of anger/frustration/confusion/fear. I'm not entirely sure why I did it, just that I did it and it helped very briefly. I actually wanted to be more destructive, but I at least stopped myself from doing more.

Third, I had therapy this morning. M and I went over my report from Boston (it came in and Dr. Schulman change my diagnosis back to Bipolar 2 - make up your mind!). So we talked about that and discussed my weekend, lack of emotion, the hubby situation, and my burning myself (M said he'd smack me if I did it again - I wouldn't put it past him). It was all very tense for me and not the easiest to talk about.

And then . . . and then we spent the last 20 minutes or so discussing how we were going to go about all of the trauma work that needs to be done. This is very treacherous, complicated terrain, and we have to be very careful lest we send me into another major mood episode. We agreed that the most troublesome area is my ACOA/alcoholic upbringing/mommy issues - especially since my mom is alive and I have a very strained relationship with her (and she wants desperately to be a part of my life). He asked when I last spoke with her (which was last Tuesday, after Boston) and just talking about that phone call made me tense, apprehensive, and brought up lots of nasty feels. M actually specializes in trauma (works very closely with the military and local law enforcement here) and redirected and "reset" me before I left. It was very clever, actually.

I still have all these icky feels though. From everything mentioned above. I'm trying not to dwell, not catastrophize, not ruminate, not fortune tell - all of the things that I automatically do. Which is hard and puts a lot of strain on me. I'm trying to redirect myself like M did in therapy. I'm going to read today so that I can escape my own mind for a bit. I'm not allowed to do any ACOA/codependency related stuff on my own - only during actual therapy (M doesn't think I'll be able to handle it right now and I tend to agree with him). So reading. And probably sketching. I'm forcing myself to sketch every day in hopes that I'll get my muse/inspiration/creativity back (since the Geodon stole it away).

Stupid fucking icky feels.  

So some shit happened

And by shit, I mean SHIT. Serious shit, y'all. And I'm going to write about it, and I'm going to be blunt and visceral and personal.

Because I'm lucky to be alive to be writing this.

Last week I came the closest I ever have to killing myself. And had I attempted, I probably would have completed. I had a plan and a backup plan. I had a backup plan to my backup plan.

If you know me, you wouldn't have known any of this. I hid it. I hid it as well as I could from everyone. Even my hubby and best friend. Why? Because if they knew then I couldn't carry it out. Now let me tell you something that may not make any sense - I don't want to die. I flat out don't want to die.

So why suicide . . . ?

I was put on a medication called Depakote. It's a mood stabilizer that was going to replace my lithium. I was started on a low dose - 1000mg. After 2 weeks I was more depressed. I was having some thoughts of death. And I knew it was the Depakote. I saw my psych doc and told him this. His response? No, it's not the Depakote, you need to go up on the dose. We're going to double it. I stared at him a minute. Seriously? I just told you I've had worsening depression since starting it! No, go up to 2000mg.

So I did. He knows what he's talking about, right? Wrong.

During the first week at 2000mg, I became obsessed with death and dying. I purposefully read books that centered around suicide - it was on my mind all the time. The thoughts were intrusive - I didn't want them there - I really didn't. They were disturbing. They were scary. I had my hubby lock up all of my meds.

My second week at 2000mg was the most horrific week of my life. I spent hours sobbing, curled in a ball on the floor, wishing I could just die. The pain was so bad I just . . . I needed to die.

If you've never been at this place, this place of utter terror and pain and despair, you'll never quite understand this. The pain is guttural, animalistic. It reaches into every fiber of your being. It hurts emotionally, mentally, and physically. While I cried, while I sobbed and wailed and screamed and pounded my fists, all I wanted was the pain to end. The torture to end. I hit my head against the wall. I burned myself with a cigarette lighter. I would have cut myself but the blades had all been locked up. There was no way I could go on like this. No way I could possibly continue to live like this. How could anyone? How could anyone be expected to live with this much pain?? Death was the only way out.

Last Wednesday night I told my hubby that it was a matter of when, not if, I would kill myself. I know I scared him. I was sobbing, laying on him, hurting and scared and tired. I was so tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of hurting. Tired of trying and having nothing work. I was tired. I told him that I wanted to die and that it was a good thing my pills were locked up. I knew I needed to go to the hospital then, but I didn't. He knew, but didn't press it.

Thursday morning was bad. I felt worse. But I had to press on, right? I had to take my son to his therapy session. And his therapist, upon seeing me, told me to call my therapist. I trembled. I knew I needed to be admitted but I needed someone to tell me that. I needed validation that it was okay. That I needed to be safe. I went into the bathroom and called my therapist, sobbing so hard I was almost incoherent. He told me what I needed to hear: go to the damn hospital.

And I did. I admitted myself on Thursday afternoon. Had I not, I would have overdosed on Geodon. One medication that isn't locked up because I take it every day. I have way more than enough to do the job. And had I not gone to the hospital, well . . . well those pills would have been down my throat.

I was discharged today, Tuesday. I'm still depressed. Damn depressed, actually. But I'm no longer suicidal. Depakote was the culprit in this - my first day off of it and the suicidal thoughts went away.

Last week I felt the worse that I ever have in my life. I never want to feel that way again. Ever. I can't. I came scarily close to killing myself. Closer than I ever need to come because I have wonderful friends and family.

I can't put into words the amount of pain I was in. I wish I could. I wish I could make you understand. But until you've been there, you can't possibly.

I'm alive. I'm going to Boston on Sunday to see the bipolar specialists and maybe get a new perspective. I'm trying to stay positive.

But I'm still so tired.

Fuck you, self

I'm sitting here very restless but very apathetic. There is a torrent of thoughts racing through my mind, none of them good. I hate this feeling. This feeling of needing to do something, anything, but having no idea what to do. But of also not caring enough to even try. Of knowing that everything you do is pointless so there's no sense in doing anything.

I have still been down. I have still felt empty and lost and confused. I have still been horribly withdrawn and, early this morning, I was unaware of this fact. I felt somewhat okay this morning. Sure, maybe I was a little down. Maybe I was feeling a little empty, even a little irritated, but I was okay, right?

Until my best friend, L, came over. Then, I realized, just how not okay I was. I was acutely aware of how down I was feeling. I was acutely aware of how withdrawn I still am (she even made mention of it). Truth be told, I didn't want to talk, I didn't want her company, I didn't want anything except to disappear.

But I couldn't disappear. I couldn't even go on a drive and smoke. See, my son is home sick from school. Can't really take him around with me on a self destructive spree.

So I painted/drew with him and then read while he played games on his kindle.

And I had bad thoughts.

I thought about taking pills. I needed to escape what I was feeling and taking pills seemed like a viable option. But everything I have will sedate me. Which is fine if it only did that for a few hours but the last time I tried it I was in and out of consciousness for a day and a half. I need uppers. I have no uppers. I need percocet so I can feel high. I have no percocet.

So then I thought about alcohol. But the problem with that is drinking with my meds. I can't even take a fucking Benadryl with my meds without being so knocked out the next morning that I can't function. I have therapy in the morning! I have to be functional!

I thought about stopping all of my meds. So that I can maybe be manic. Get the high of mania - the euphoria, energy, on top of the world feeling coupled with invincibility. But that would prove highly destructive.

I'm considering anorexia. I'm not even fucking joking. A slow form of self harm that, hey - will maybe make me look good! Weight loss isn't all bad!

I want to destroy things but I don't have the energy. I want to punch but in order to be satisfied I need to hurt myself.

And I think about all of these things, these self destructive things, and I can't help but wonder if this is all just me trying to self sabotage. I'm trying to make my situation worse. Bring about crisis. Because we all know that I don't seem to function without some form of motherfucking crisis.

I know this. And I'm doing everything to try and counter this thinking. It's not healthy. I'm not healthy. But no matter how hard I try and counter, it doesn't change the fact that the feelings are there. That the thoughts are there. They're FUCKING THERE and nothing I do seems to work!

What the hell am I supposed to do? I see what I'm doing. I know what I'm doing. It's there, right in front of me. And still it happens. And I try, and right now I seem to be failing. I'm too much for myself. I can't counter my own sick mind and I'm going to make things worse.

What. The fuck. Do I do?

On Overdosing

Don't.



. . . . If only it were that easy. Sadly, it's not.

There are, in my opinion, two types of overdosing: accidental and intentional. Makes sense, right? Well, it's a little more complicated than that. I think you can have intent, however subtle, and then accidentally overdose. So it's both.

That's what I did. I intentionally, accidentally, overdosed. This happened last Monday (July 29). What a day. It was a bad day. Dark clouds hung around me, threatening to consume me. It started with an appointment to Dr. C where we changed my meds. Yet again. The appointment for me was very weird, very surreal. He was distracted, I was down and apathetic. I didn't really feel anything was accomplished. Stop Cymbalta, start Wellbutrin. Awesome. Thanks. Let's see how I do. I left with tears brimming and it took everything I had to not sob the whole way home.

I spent the rest of the morning in a depressed daze. I sewed, I texted my best friend, I cried. I wanted to escape. That pain was back. That darkness. The fear and hopelessness and sadness and depression. I hurt. I hurt so bad. I had been sucker punched and everything negative invaded my head. All you do is change meds, change meds, change meds. It's hasn't helped. You keep coming back to this. You're always HERE. It's pointless to try.

I sank. I fell, spiraling into a pit of despair with no hope of escape. I didn't care, in that moment, if I lived or died. I didn't care. I thought about cutting, but what purpose would that serve? None. What I wanted was to escape. To not exist, to not deal with these horrible feelings. Because everything was pointless.

I have risperadol in my medicine cabinet in case I get too manic. I've never taken it, but's a downer right? It would bring me down from a manic high, so surely it would help me sleep. The dose on the bottle is 1-2 tabs (each tab is 2mg).

I took 3. Only 3.

See, my intent wasn't to overdose myself. My intent was to sleep. However, I didn't care if I lived or died - let's keep that in mind. I wanted to escape and if I died . . .

Subtle intent.

I spent Monday night in and out of consciousness. Literally. I could not keep my eyes open. I had a hard time understanding anything said to me. When I did try to stand, I couldn't walk in a straight line and the world threatened to collapse around me. I slurred my words. The whole thing is a blur - I only remember little snippets of the night. But I know I just wanted to slip into a drug induced coma.

But my hubby, J, wouldn't let me. He pestered me to keep me as conscious as he could. I hated him for that. In the moment, I hated him for that. Let me be. Let me go.

But he persisted. And had he not, I truly fear how bad it could have gotten.

Tuesday came, and I could still hardly stay awake. Thank God my son stayed over with a friend all day. Again, I was in and out. But it was sleep this time - not consciousness. J had said I had to text him every hour or he would admit me. I set the alarm on my phone and went to sleep. The alarm went off, I texted, set the alarm for an hour later, and went back to sleep. That was Tuesday. I know I showered, but I don't quite remember it.

J and I had a talk Tuesday night. A hard talk. A long talk. I hated how I felt Monday and Tuesday. It was terrible. I've never been so terrified but apathetic at the same time in my life. It was all very confusing. No, I won't do it again, trust me. Yes, I'll stop being an ass and I'll call. I'll reach out.

And then J said something that was a slap in the face. A completely profound and nasty thing to say to me. And all I could do was cry.

What's your earliest memory of your mom? Because that was you last night. Is that what you want A to remember?

My first memory of my mom . . . I think I was in kindergarten, maybe 1st grade. A's age - 6. She was drunk, passed out on the floor. My brother, who is younger that me, and I were home alone with her. And we couldn't wake her up. And it was terrifying and scarring and I mean fuck - I remember that shit.

And that was me.

Subtle intent. An accidental overdose.

Don't.

It's what I tell myself. And I know better, I do. But that's my 3rd overdose in a year.

Sometimes, the need to escape myself is more than I can bare. I've been trying so hard to be well, and it's tiring. Sometimes, I want to give up. And sometimes, I do.

Subtle intent.

Don't.

I won't. I promise.

Been a bit

It has been a bit and a lot has happened since my last post. Most notably, I was hospitalized at an inpatient psych unit for suicidal ideation. I went voluntarily at the advice and recommendation of my psychiatrist and therapist. It was not an easy decision, and I spoke with them at length about it. And in the end, I went in.

I went in Sunday afternoon and was discharged Wednesday afternoon - I think my psych doc would have preferred another day or two, but I missed my son too much (they wouldn't let him visit). What was good about it was that Dr. C had his friend and trusted colleague Dr. S oversee my care while I was there (they both collaborated on it). It gave me a few days with no responsibilities and no stress.

Eventually I'll write more about all of this - I even journaled and took notes of people/behaviors there - but right now I'm still very exhausted. The last several weeks have completely drained me. I don't think I've ever been so tired in my life.

In short, my meds were tweaked, I got a little bit of rest, I met some interesting people and had some good group therapy sessions. I'm still depressed - quite depressed - but I'm not having suicidal thoughts at all and no thoughts of self harm. It's still a long road ahead of me, but I'll get there (and hopefully my meds will start working soon).

More to come later.

I don't even know what I'm feeling anymore . . .

The last month has been exhausting, confusing. A cyclone of emotions that pull and tear at me, stripping me down to a blank husk of nothing. I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do. I don't even know what I feel anymore. . .

An overdose, an ER visit, nearly shattering my hand by putting it through the stone tile of my fireplace . . . Things I never thought would happen, places I never thought I'd arrive at . . . And I'm scared and I'm confused. And I don't know what to do.

I'm trying not to catastrophize but I'm also trying not to minimize what's happened. I'm trying to stay positive and derail negative thoughts. And all of this is so tiring. And I'm tired of fighting. And when you've felt so bad and so out of control for so long (over a year now), it's hard to see things ever getting better.

And still I push on. There's nothing else I can do. Regardless of how tired I am or how hopeless I feel or how badly I want to throw in the towel . . . I have to push on - my hubby and son are depending on me - they need me to push on.

I take things minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. I have to stay in the moment or I risk losing everything. I'm pushing on in hopes of better times, of stability, and of actually being able to feel again.

I don't even . . .

This first writing I wrote today. It explains yesterday a little, which was a VERY bad day. The section underneath, I had actually written yesterday morning but never published. I was going to write more to it but I wanted to shower before the dish network guys came over to install dish. And after my shower, that's when I lost it.

I won't use any trigger words - or at least I'll try not to. 

Yesterday was very bad. I broke down completely - crying harder than I think I ever have, VERY bad thoughts about hurting myself and worse. Very ACTIVE thoughts. I put my fist through the stone tile of our outdoor fireplace - surprisingly, I didn't fracture anything.

Instead of doing more, I was smart for once. I called my therapist and then my husband. My hubby picked up our son from school, came home and took me to the ER. That was the first time EVER I've gone to the hospital for wanting to do more than hurt myself. 

 And it was demoralizing. Put in a room with only a bed and a blanket. Huge window on the door and no way to open it from the inside. They took all of my clothes and belongings except for my chapstick and phone - and I was only allowed to keep them as long as my hubby was there. The nurse had to pull everything out of the bathroom and stand in there with me if I had to pee. I had a guard watching me at all times - I had to be in his view constantly. And keep in mind - this is the ER at the hospital I work at (I'm an RN), and I know these people. That was the worst part.

The ER doc was a dick and you could tell that he couldn't give a shit about what was going on. He just had to do his intake, order labs and a urine, and get the psychologist down to see me. And the faster he could do that and get outta there, the better. The psychologist was very nice, understanding and straight forward. I liked her. She talked to me alone for awhile and then both me and my hubby together. We made a plan so that I didn't have to be hospitalized (I was refusing that anyway).

I'm home now, and I'm safe. I feel a little better. I took a Nuvigil this morning (my "happy" pill - my upper), and it's helping. I'm still depressed, I still feel like crap - but I'm better than yesterday. I was started on Prozac last week and hopefully that will help. My primary doc and I are adjusting my thyroid meds again as I am once again hypothyroid (which might be the explanation of this horrid downward spiral over the last month). So, we'll see.

This is just all so frustrating. I don't seem to be getting better and I know it takes time to get the meds right, and life factors right . . .but it's so frustrating. We've been trying for a year now and I'm not much better. Hopefully it will change.

As long as I'm alive, I have hope. 

This part starts what I wrote yesterday morning and explains how I've been feeling.

It's amazing that I'm even writing. I don't feel like writing. I don't feel like doing anything. I don't feel.

I don't feel. Hardly anything. Only emptiness, sorrow, hopelessness. I feel my depression. I feel the hurt and pain. I feel a hollow void. Nothingness. I'm flat. A shell. A husk. I'm no longer me. I don't care. I can't. I don't have enough in me to care.

Joy and happiness elude me. No contentment. No feelings of pride or warmth. No feelings of love. I look at my son, and I love him, with all my heart. But I don't feel it.

 Do you know how FUCKING SHITTY IT IS TO NOT FEEL THAT WARMTH AND LOVE FOR YOUR OWN SON? YOUR OWN HUSBAND?

I doubt it.

And this is the hardest thing I've ever experienced. I feel so horrible for it. Because I love them both so much and they're the only reason I'm still alive. If I didn't have them, if I lost them, I would kill myself. No questions asked.

Why. . . .

I'm not as depressed as I was 2 days ago . . .thank God for that. I'm not suicidal (though I still have the thoughts) . . .thank God for that. I want to hurt myself (hurt myself bad), but I haven't . . .thank God for that. I have an amazing hubby and son who love me and stand by me . . .thank God for that.

With all of these things to be thankful for, and countless others, why do I still feel like crap? I'm completely empty. Devoid of any feeling. I can't feel joy or happiness or love. All I am is flat and emotionless, save for irritability and anger. And sadness. I can feel sadness. And loss. And frustration. And hopelessness. But as for anything positive . . .the best I can do is to feel nothing.

We went horseback riding today. Something that I love. I love horses. Always have and I've always wanted to own horses. So anytime I can actually go riding . . .well, that's awesome! And so today we went because I thought it would lift my mood. It was supposed to lift my mood. And while I enjoyed my ride, it wasn't as pleasurable as it should have been, as it's been in the past. I was uncharacteristically  quiet and withdrawn. I didn't want to talk - I almost couldn't talk. I just couldn't feel. I was just . . .empty.

And this is horrible. It's a horrible feeling. My son gives me a huge hug and tells me he loves me and I say it back . . .but I feel hollow. Fake. I watch him play or act silly and I fake my smile. I put on my mask for him because I don't want him to know how sick his mommy is. I feel guilty enough that I don't feel what I think I should.

Here's where I'm stuck. Here's where I don't know what to do. I've been told that this will take time. And I get that. But it's been a year. And it's the same cycle. And it's frustrating. And I want to be done with it. And I need more help than I ask for . . .and I still don't want to ask. Because it's an endless cycle that's tiring for everyone and it's the same thing over and over and it doesn't change.

And so I still don't ask.

To die, or not to die . . .

To die, or not to die, that is the question.

What kind of question, exactly, is that? The answer is obvious, isn't it?

Well, no. It's not obvious if you have depression. Not all the time at least. And I'm not talking about the normal "downs" that people get. I'm talking about that all encompassing blackness that all but smothers you. The darkness that hits you like a runaway freight train hell bent on making you feel worthless. It weighs you down and takes away your drive for laughter, for love, for life.

That depression. Where you feel everything is pointless and worthless and nothing will ever change no matter what you do. No matter what you do, it makes no difference.

To die, or not to die. In those instances, this question is all too relevant. Even those of us who are "smart", who know better, who know that depression lies and that things will get better . . .even those of us face this question.

To die, or not to die. I've faced this question two major times in the past year - and both times I came very close to the wrong answer. I've toyed with it over and over again, rolling it over in my mind, trying to dissect and understand it. Suicide is on my mind most days. Not active thoughts . . .passive ones. But they're there, always there.

To die, or not to die. On my dark days, the question is more pressing. In a single day it's easier to push aside and ignore. When it's a series of dark days . . .it's much harder. That calming darkness beckons, offering me solace when everything else seems so bleak, so pointless. To die . . .it feels so much easier than the alternative. It's done. Over. No more pain, no more fear, no more emptiness. It sounds so nice . . .

To die, or not to die. It sounds so nice except that I don't want to die. I don't want to leave those I love and who love me. I want the pain to end. I want the hopelessness and emptiness and worthlessness to end. I want the pain to end. But I don't want to die. I don't want to die. And still, in those darkest moments of mine, I almost made the wrong choice. Even though I want to live.

To die, or not to die. I don't want to face this question again. Sadly, I know I will . . . I just don't know when.

Exploring again

I'm not entirely sure how to start this post. There have been a few interesting things going on over the past few days. So lets just start with the mood run down, shall we?

Saturday. I worked Saturday, and it was my first day of training for charge nurse. Yay? Notice the question mark? Yeah. I was so withdrawn and down and otherwise out of it on Saturday. Not really there. I tried to be there. I really did. Especially since I was training with one of my two best friends. But no. I faked it alright . . .but that's not the same, is it? And it got me thinking about if I really wanted the position or my job anymore. I have, after all, been thinking of changing areas for the last 2 years. But that bit is for another post. Too long for this one. The important thing is that I wasn't there. I wasn't happy. Even though I tried to be.

Sunday, if you read the previous post, I spent in the ER and in bed. Which was a delight. I'm still getting vertigo spells every now and then. Which sucks.

Monday - aka Christmas Eve. My psychiatrist Dr. C wanted to see me. Because of the post I emailed him about cutting myself. He's worried. We went in around 1130, J, myself and our son. We talked a bit about my post. We talked about my continued depressive downswings. We talked about my medications and what we could add/tweak/try. What was scary is how concerned he was. What was scary is how he mentioned being able to get me in to see a specialist out of state. What was scary is how difficult he thinks my bipolar depression is and will be to treat. And what is scary is all of this. All. Of. This. And what is scary is that I'll be fighting for the rest of my life. And what is scary is the prospect of having deeper and worse depressive episodes where I may not have the self control that I do now. It's enough to make me want to scream and cry at the same time. To pound my fists against the wall, hard enough to bust through, to draw blood, to do anything to release the fear and frustration and anger and hurt.

But that would be playing it up, yes? Making it worse than it is? Being dramatic for attention? Fuck the fact that this is very real. The risk is real. All of that? All of that is real. The tears I'm fighting back while writing this . . .they're real. But why should I wax poetic . . .I'm only looking for attention . . .

Tuesday - aka Christmas. We left the house for my mom's with me in full blown vertigo - which made for interesting stumbling episodes. I have to say it was rather pleasant. Yummy food, hanging with my bro . . .and after we headed home and my friend the bottomless pit of my soul said "hey Cami, you know what would be awesome? It would be awesome to question your existence!". So instead I went and took a nap. At least with sleep I can ignore the emptiness. I, of course, didn't tell J this. Again for the seeking attention thing. So instead I hid that pit as best I could.

And now I'm typing this while listening to Silversun Pickups. Over the past few weeks, and more noticeably the past sever days, my anger and irritability has been increasing exponentially. I'm barely able to contain it. Often I can't. It's boiling just below the surface and I don't know when it will finally blow. Some escaped last night when I blew up at J over cough medicine. I screamed at him over fucking cough medicine. That's not okay. I calmed down. I apologized. But that never should have happened in the first place. And I felt horrible. And I beat myself up over it. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I just cope? I know the answer . . .but I don't. And nobody gets it.

Tomorrow I'm going to box. I'm going to kick and punch the shit out of my heavy bag. And I'm going to make tomorrow better. That's what I tell myself. And I'll believe it.

While writing this post, I've come up with another painting idea. This will be number 33 in a series that was supposed to be one . . .I don't think people will like this as much as some . . .it will invoke negative feelings. Yes. 

I'm not sure what to say

I want to write but I'm not sure what to say. That's a lie - I know what I want to say, I just can't do it now. I want to talk about my ACOA. I want to talk about my previous post and the cutting and my therapy session and the other things racing through my mind but I don't know how to say it right now. I'm not sure how to express it. I don't know exactly what to say or how to say it.

There's so many things on my mind at the moment, all these thoughts racing around, jostling for a position. I have a lot of things to sort out. A lot of things I'm thinking about - some bad, some good. Some things that I don't want to think about. But I am. I'm trying to sort things out. Over the next days and weeks and possibly months.

There will be plenty more coming. You can expect that. I just don't know what will be coming. And now I'm going to bed. Busy day at the baby factory, and another one tomorrow. And I'm tired. All these racing thoughts. They keep me up at night.

I did something I shouldn't have. . .

And what is that something? Well, let me start by saying that yesterday sucked balls. Big, hairy, sweaty balls. I woke up in a bad mood - irritable and a little down. It got progressively worse. I tried to stop it. I couldn't. I went to the gym. I went shopping with a friend. And my mood worsened. It spiraled down. Lower and lower, out of my control. My thoughts became darker, increasingly more concerning. Suicidal thoughts started. Slow and insidious, they permeated my mind. I should have gone downstairs to box. I should have called for help. I did neither. I reached for a blade instead. And I cut. Not too deep. Not too many. Just enough. Enough to feel the pain, to feel something. Enough to feel something other than the bleak and all consuming darkness that was sweeping over me, threatening to crush me under its oppressive weight.

And so I cut. Six parallel slits. All the same length. All in a neat little row. On my thigh. Easy to hide. Not like my arm - I can't hide that at work. And they bled. And I cleaned them and covered them with a gauze pad that I taped down. And the emptiness was still there. And I didn't feel better. I stared off into space and wondered why these feelings kept coming back. I felt good on Wednesday. I felt normal and okay and happy and better. And yesterday . . .yesterday I did not. And so I cut. Because I didn't know what else to do.

Except I did. But I chose not to do it. I went against my better judgement. And I felt bad. And I felt guilty. And at the same time I wanted to cut more. To cut more and cause more pain and try to break through the darkness enveloping me. But instead I threw away the blade and cleaned myself and cried. Silently, I cried. And wondered what my problem was. And wondered why these thoughts still came. Why they came when I was feeling better.

And I thought. And I stared off and I listened to music and I told myself this was only a setback and that I would feel better tomorrow. I would feel better tomorrow. Now was bad. Tomorrow would be better. And the emptiness wouldn't be as deep and the despair would fade and I would be okay. I would be okay.

And I wondered if I did this on purpose. If I felt like this on purpose. If I made myself feel so bad on purpose. I've been told I do. That I'm scared of feeling better. That I find a reason to feel bad. That I do this on purpose. And I believe it. And I feel bad for it. And it all feels useless. And I wonder, why would I do this? I don't want to feel like this. And I try to think of why I would do this. And I try to find a trigger and I can't. And I try talking about it and writing about it and thinking about it and I can't see. I can't see in front of my face and it's useless.

And I don't want attention for this. I don't think I do. I don't like this. I don't want this darkness, this darkness that follows me like a cloud, even when I feel good. Even when I feel well. Even when I feel happy. If I stop for a minute, it's there, always willing to take over. Maybe it's my upbringing. Maybe I'm sick and twisted and am doing this to myself and I don't even notice. Maybe I want attention. Maybe I'm sabotaging myself.

And maybe I'm not. And maybe I don't know what's going on. And maybe all of this is right and I just can't see what's right and what's happening and what to do about it.

And so I cut. Six parallel slits. All the same length. All in a neat little row. And I cleaned them. And I cried. Because I didn't know what else to do. And I thought about everything and told myself that I was okay and that this was only a setback and that tomorrow would be better.

And it was. Today was okay. It was a good day. I felt good and I felt happy and I looked at my six parallel slits on my thigh and I wondered why I didn't cut more. Then I pushed those thoughts aside because I felt good and I wanted to feel good and I was going to feel good. And I did.

And this is only a setback. This is what I tell myself. I'm getting better, I am better. I tell myself I'll have setbacks, that every day is a new day. That I don't want to feel bad and I won't sabotage myself and I'll stay positive and I'll prove people wrong and yesterday was only a setback.

And I believe it. And I look at my six parallel slits. But still I cry.

I am an Adult Child of an Alcoholic

 Warning: This post is long. Virtually a novel. Well, maybe not quite that long . . .you get the picture.

I am an adult child of an alcoholic. That's a very strange statement, isn't it? And "adult child"? What does that mean, exactly? Well, I'm an adult, and I grew up as the child of an alcoholic parent. Until I started therapy, I had never heard this terminology, this phrase. I had no idea what it was or what it meant. At the suggestion of my therapist, M, I looked it up. Even bought a book on the subject, read it, and apparently didn't give it much thought. I don't know why I didn't.

But now, with all of the "issues" I've been having lately, and setbacks, and depression, and anger and feelings of emptiness, M suggested I look it up again. To really pay attention to it and maybe, just maybe, I'd gain some insight into my behavior and thoughts. I'm always up for a little insight, so I figured yes! Why not? I'll gain all the insight! And so I looked it up, I began reading, and I began noticing how I so perfectly fit the description of an adult child of an alcoholic.

I'd like to start with some background information. Just some basic stuff. My mom is an alcoholic. She's been one for as long as I can remember. Seriously. One of my earliest memories (I think I was 5) is of her passed out on the floor. I was terrified because I didn't know what was wrong. My brother (who was 3 at the time) and I kept trying to wake her, shaking her frantically, crying. She'd come to long enough to tell us she'd get up only if we stopped crying. My brother and I tried - we would go into the bathroom and calm down, wipe away our tears and try and be brave and the minute we saw her on the floor . . .the tears would come again and we couldn't move her or get her to talk or do anything except cry and worry. I think we both slept on the floor next to her because we didn't know what else to do.  

She drank most nights. Always Skoll vodka mixed with kool-aid. And she hid it. Under the kitchen sink. Under the bathroom sink. In a coat pocket in her closet. Anywhere she thought we wouldn't find it. She lied about it. Tried to convince us (and herself, I'm sure) that she wasn't drinking, she wasn't an alcoholic. We all knew the truth though. It was the elephant in the room we weren't supposed to talk about. Other family members weren't supposed to know. Shhh, it's a secret.

We never knew what mom we were going to have on any given night. Depressed, withdrawn mom? Angry, intolerant mom? Giddy, giggly, annoying mom? Roll the dice, take your pick. Not that it mattered, anyway. Sometimes she was all three depending on how much she drank. All we knew was that it was never consistent - we always had to be on our toes. And as we got older, we had to worry about the phone calls. She had, I believe, two DUIs and totaled one car. When she was in the hospital, and the police called, I didn't believe them. I didn't know what to do. And I couldn't drive -  I had to wait until my step-dad got home to go and pick her up. 

And there's so much more to write about it. I could fill pages and pages about the fights, the promises broken (so many promises), the feelings of hate and guilt and loathing and powerlessness to do anything to change the situation. I could fill pages about how going to my dad's house on the weekends was a vacation for me, where I could be myself and be happy and not have to worry about if my mom was okay. I could fill pages about my current struggle with her in trying to create a mother-daughter relationship. I could . . .but I won't. At least not here. This post is going to be long enough as it is.

The last thing I do want to mention, however, is that despite the drinking and lies and broken promises, my mom did everything she could to provide for my brother and I. She did everything in her power to give us everything we needed and wanted (if she was able). Despite her drinking, I love her. Despite her drinking, I think she was a good mother. And I say these things for a few reasons. One, because they're true. And two, because my mom isn't a monster - she didn't set out to "harm" us with her drinking. She's an alcoholic - alcoholism is a disease, and one that can be brutally hard to recover from. I honestly don't know why she started to drink - according to my step-mom, it was before her and my dad were divorced. But I'm not sure. 

As a result of growing up in an alcoholic home, many children of alcoholics develop similar characteristics and personality traits. In 1983, Dr. Jan G. Woititz wrote the book, Adult Children of Alcoholics, in which she outlined 13 characteristics of adult children.

Below are the 13 characteristics of adult children of alcoholics (ACOA). Below each characteristic, I'll write about how it pertains to me - or at least I'll try to. This is where a lot of soul searching had to be done. And, perhaps, some ugly truths faced.


1. Adult children of alcoholics guess at what normal behavior is.
The home of an alcoholic or addict is not "normal." Life revolves around the addict and most family members must learn to keep their family going, as they know it. Children of alcoholic or drug-addicted parents do not live the same life as their "normal" peers. Therefore, the child and later the adult must simply do their best at maintaining normalcy, as observed from friends, television, or simply guessing.

This one . . .this one yes. I always felt like an outcast - I still do. I don't feel "normal". I didn't have a normal childhood. I had to worry about my mom constantly - how much was she going to drink tonight? Is she going to pass out? Do I need to get her into bed? Is she going to drive? I would worry and have to hide that worry. The few friends I did had never came over to my house - what would they think if they saw my mom? I'd pretend everything was okay, and tell lies. I still even do this into adulthood - although I do it a lot less now. I would sit embarrassed at family dinners with my in-laws or whomever because of my mom's behavior. I'd ignore it, try to explain it away . . .anything. I didn't know how a mother-daughter relationship should be. I still don't. I see it with my friends, but I don't have it. 

This has carried over into other aspects of my life. Virtually everything I am or I do or I say feels . . .false. Not that I'm lying or trying to be false or anything like that - I simply don't feel like I fit in - anywhere. I've always been the "weird" one, the "funny" or "sarcastic" one. I'm described with these terms as well as odd, awkward, inappropriate, strange, off and many others. I try to wear these terms as badges of honor when in reality they make me feel less than human - even more of an outcast. (not all the terms are bad - but you get the idea).  

This has caused some social anxiety as well. Without really knowing how to act, well, what if I say something wrong? What if I act strangely? What if my home life is different than theirs? I don't know. I just feel different. In so many ways.
 
2. Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty following a project through from beginning to end.
In the home of an addict, daily living is frequently interrupted due to misbehavior or unpredictable actions of the addict. For example, the family may start playing a game, but then dad comes home and everyone must stop playing. Or maybe mom promised to help work on a school project, but then passes out and never follows through. When project completion and follow-through are not consistently modeled, it is a hard skill for the adult child of an alcoholic to learn.

I'm not so sure that #2 affects me that much. If anything, I'm a bit frantic trying to finish things. I've tried my best to be vigilant about what I'm doing, are there deadlines to keep, is there some way I could do this better or faster? I was neurotic about this in school, I'm neurotic about this in my profession, and I'm neurotic about it in my artwork. Maybe it's because I had to finish some things that my mom didn't. Maybe it's because despite her drinking every night, my mom still held down a difficult job with the government and went back to school for her degree. Maybe it's all of that and more.
 
3. Adult children of alcoholics lie when it would be just as easy to tell the truth. As a child of an alcoholic or addict, one must constantly lie and make up excuses for the addicted parent. The child also hears the parent and everyone else in the family lie and make up stories constantly. This behavior is a necessity to keep the addict family intact, and therefore becomes a natural trait. Once the child acquires this behavior, it tends to stay with the adult child.
These lies are not always malicious or harmful. Something as simple as the route the ACOA took home, or what type of fruit they like is fair game for lies. Unless the child or adult receives enough consequences (either internal, like guilt or anxiety; or external, like getting in trouble with someone), the ACOA may begin to practice the art of telling the truth more.

This one is tough. This one . . .this one I don't want to admit. At. All. But it's true. And it's difficult for me to admit that. It is. I know I lied all the time as a child. About everything. Home life, school life, friends, everything. Talking to me you'd think I was on top of the world and had tons of friends. Reality? I was not, and I had no friends. And I got good at lying. Scarily good. 

I've tried my best to break this habit in my adult life, and I'd say I've done a fairly good job. Most of my lies now are about money - nothing big, but a lie none the less (like saying I sent a bill out when I really forgot to and it's crammed in my purse so I can send it out the next day without J finding out, or neglecting to tell him that I spent money on something and waiting for him to ask - of course I "forgot" to tell him). I still lie about my mom from time to time. And I lie all the time about how I'm feeling - it's much easier to lie about that than tell the truth.

This causes a lot of guilty feelings in me. Especially now that I'm admitting it and examining it. I don't want to lie - especially about small stupid things that make no sense to lie about. I understand the origin of it, I understand the why, and now I need to stop. 
 
4. Adult children of alcoholics judge themselves without mercy.
No matter what the child of an alcoholic or addict does, they cannot "fix" their parent or their family. They may be able to take care of the addict or other members of the family, but they are unable to fix the root of the problem: the addiction and relating family dysfunction. No matter how well the child does is soccer, how high their school grades, no matter how clean they keep the house, how "good" they are, they still can't fix the addict. Everything they do falls short.
Additionally, the child of an alcoholic or addict may blame him/herself for bad things that happen in the family, and are frequently guilt-ridden for reasons beyond their control. Perfectionism is very common in ACOAs.

Guilty. I've always thought everything I've done falls short - and I still do. I struggle with this day to day. I was always a perfectionist in school - I did everything I could to get good grades, to achieve. The only thing I didn't do in school was sports or band or anything like that - low self esteem +no friends+"weird"=not feeling comfortable doing anything like that. I worked. I started work when I was 16. I payed for everything myself - car, insurance, clothes . . .I payed for college myself. I wanted the burden taken off my mom. I took extra classes, I volunteered. 

And nothing helped. Home life was still the same. Nothing changed no matter what. And I did feel guilty about this. I felt that I failed my mom. I tried talking to her. Tried getting her to go to AA meetings. If I could do so well, surely she could to. But it never happened. No matter how hard I tired. No matter how well I did.

To this day I'm very judgmental of myself. How I look (I'm always too fat, my clothes don't fit right, etc. despite what everyone tells me), my artwork isn't good enough (and when I get praise, I don't take it well - I assume the person is just trying to be nice), being a mother (I always feel like I could be doing so much more), as a wife (Again, I could do so much more). The list goes on and on. I'm my own worst enemy.
 
5. Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty having fun.
Growing up with an addicted parent is not fun. Kids are not allowed to be kids. When the kids are not given this joy, the adult usually does not know how to simply enjoy life. The ACOA is constantly worrying about their addicted parent, or is in trouble for things they should not be responsible for, or compensating in some other way for the addict. The usually carefree, fun time of being a child often does not exist if the parent is an addict.
The addict is the "child" in the relationship. Because of this, the child does not know how to be a child.

Number 5 is a bit difficult for me. I know a lot of the time I was worrying about my mom, lying for her . . .but I did get to act like a kid. Going to my dad's house was always a release for me. Though, thinking about it, my step-mom told me that Saturdays I was always tense and withdrawn and didn't act like myself but by Sunday I was a happy, carefree kid. So maybe I didn't act as much like a kid as I thought. I remember sleepovers with friends (always my brothers friends, who were the only kids I typically became friends with), playing video games, football outside . . . so yeah. Kid stuff. 

I'd say I had a difficult time just "letting go". Just being in the moment and enjoying it. And I know . . .I know this is an issue I struggle with now - more so in the past year. I can't just "let go" and have fun. I have to worry and fret over everything. I have to worry about how I'll feel tomorrow or next week or when I'll have another depressive episode or if I'm going to be mixed or hypomanic. I can't be in the moment. I need to. I truly need to. I just can't seem to figure out how.
 
6. Adult children of alcoholics take themselves very seriously.
Due to the gravity of their roles in their families growing up, adult children of alcoholics take themselves very seriously. The weight of the family, and thus the world, is on their shoulders.

Sometimes, yes. I feel responsible for a lot of things. I have to do it all. I don't ask for help - to a fault. I try not to take things seriously, but I do sometimes. I can get in the habit of over-reacting to the littlest things and sometimes fail to see the humor in a situation. And humor is something I possess (let's be honest, I've had numerous people tell me I should do stand up comedy), so to not be able to see the humor in a situation . . .well that's quite a blow. And I've been taking things more seriously lately.

With having had two major depressive episodes in the past year - both with very close suicide attempts - it seems I've almost had to be more serious. Which does tend to go against how I usually am. I should be able to make light of it, make some morbid joke of it. And in time, maybe I'll be able to 
 
7. Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty with intimate relationships.
Having never known a "normal" relationship or family roles, the ACOA does not know how to have one. The adult child of an addict does not trust others. The ACOA has learned that people are not trustworthy or reliable, and has had their heart broken from such an early age.
New relationships must be handled with caution, too, because the child of an alcoholic doesn't want others to find out their secret. Adult children of alcoholics have learned to shut themselves off from others to protect their feelings, as well as to protect their family.

When first entering a relationship I would say this holds true. I have a hard time with this though - on the one hand, I have a hard time coming to trust people, and on the other, sometimes I share way too much, way too fast (I blame that on the bipolar disorder - I have a hard time with boundaries and using my "filters"). One thing I've noticed is that I expect to be let down. With friends, family, most people . . .And this gets reinforced when, let's say, a plan falls through or any number of small infractions occur. I do tend to isolate myself because of this.
 
8. Adult children of alcoholics overreact to changes over which they have no control.
The child of an alcoholic/addict lacks control over their lives much of the time. They cannot control when their parent is drunk, or that the parent is an addict to begin with. S/he cannot always predict what will happen from one day to the next, and this is very anxiety producing. A child needs to feel safe. Because of this lack of control as a child, the adult child of an alcoholic/addict craves control. They need to know what is going to happen, how it is going to happen, and when.
Of course, this control and predictability is not always possible. If plans are changed, or somebody does something that the ACOA doesn't like or feel comfortable with, all the insecurity of their childhood may come back to them, and the adult child may over-react, leaving the other party stunned or confused.

Oh my. Yes. I want to be in control. I don't like feeling out of control, I don't like when someone or something takes control away from me . . .no. If something doesn't go my way I'm libel to throw a tantrum or yell or act rude and snippy. I feel stressed and anxious though I do everything I can to hide those feelings.

I like having my days planned out. I know what I'm going to do, and when I'm going to do it. Don't throw a wrench in that plan. Just . . .don't. If I'm scheduled to work, and end up getting called off, it's rough. I planned to work. Now I have nothing planned, nothing to do. My overreaction to this is usually a depressive mood - or overt anger. Situations arise like this all the time. And it can be the smallest, silliest thing that doesn't go my way and it's the end of the world. Completely ridiculous things like J is driving and he's not in the lane that I would be in and I can't make him change lanes and so I get anxious and annoyed and try to silently will him to switch lanes because I don't want to sound like an ass-waffle by telling him to do so. 

I like the control. I like the predictability. I'd even go so far as to say that I'm not a fan of spontaneity.
  
9. Adult children of alcoholics constantly seek approval and affirmation.
Similar to ACOA characteristic number four, children of alcoholics and addicts are used to continuously seeking approval or praise from their parent or other valued person. They probably did not grow up with a regular and consistent rules and expectations, and could never make their addicted parent happy.
Not knowing what is "normal" or expected, adult children of alcoholics need someone to tell them what they are doing is right. They are often indecisive and unsure of themselves.

I certainly seek approval. All. The. Time. And for everything. Even the little things like doing the dishes. I'll point out that I did them so J can say "thank you". I want the recognition that I did something. I need that recognition. I want and need praise for doing things like housework, cooking, paying bills, even though J and I share these responsibilities equally. When I don't receive the recognition or praise I feel . . .slighted somehow. I take it as a personal insult. What did I do wrong? How can I do better? Is J mad at me?

And it's the same with everything. At work, with friends. I don't want to make people mad. I don't want to rock the boat. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I think I do this more so with J than with anyone else. I'll seek approval from my managers from time to time, but I try and do it in a round about way.

Indecisiveness is often my middle name. I'll waffle on where to eat or what to do in the evening. Even on which store to go grocery shopping at. Don't get me wrong - I can make a snap decision when needed (for example, resuscitating a baby or, for some reason, buying a house), but the small things . . .those get me. And I know it's annoying to the people around me - especially J (at least I'm assuming so). And, try as I might, I can't seem to change that.

 10. Adult children of alcoholics usually feel that they are different from other people.
Another overlap with other characteristics, children of alcoholics sometimes know from an early age that their home is not normal. Children from addicted families may or may not know what is different, and sometimes don't completely "get it" until they visit friend's houses and observe their parents. 'Hey... Janie's mom makes her do her homework until she is finished, and they have dinner at this time, and then they have to go to bed at 9. Every night!" This consistency may be shocking, and either attacks or appalls the child who is not used to such structure.

I've always felt different from other people. Always. I don't think I've ever felt "normal". It's been this . . .I even know know how to describe it. Like this black void that follows me around, like I'm missing something. Like part of me is gone. And even that's not quite it. I feel like I hide so much, that so often I'm fake in how I relate to people. I try to act how I think I should act - not how I may be feeling or thinking or experiencing. It's all a play (which, incidentally, goes along with my hiding my bipolar moods).

I marvel at how other people can move through their lives seemingly without thinking about their every move. "Is it normal to say this? Or think that? Will they think I'm abnormal if I do this?" I listen to my friends and coworkers carry on with their stories, so happy and oblivious to how difficult it is for me to even speak. Because I may say the wrong thing because I don't know how to act. I've been described as "socially awkward". I've even joked that that's how I should introduce myself - "Hi! My name is Cami and I'm socially awkward." Sometimes I think I should.

I have trouble opening up to people because of this. Meeting new people and having to talk, to carry on a conversation often brutal. The other night I had dinner at a friend's house. Her and her husband were there, along with another friend and her husband. Which is usually okay. But my friend H had another of her friends over - one whom I hadn't met - and I nearly froze. I didn't know how I should approach the situation. It should be easy. Talk. Share things about yourself. Interact. Why is that so bloody hard? I floundered. I was quiet at times. I tried to find a common ground - something we could talk about - and I just couldn't quite do it. I wanted to hide. I wanted to leave. I didn't know what to do or what to say and I felt ashamed of myself for being so me.

I don't fit in. I don't belong. I've always been the weird one, the strange one. I've always been the funny one and sarcastic one, which are good traits I guess, but I've always been an outcast. In school I was shunned and ignored, as if people knew I was hiding something. I'm sure that was only my perception, but the feeling was prevalent.

And that black void follows me to this day. I can't shake it - I don't feel I ever will. No matter how much people tell me otherwise. I'm missing something. Whatever it was or is, it's gone.

11. Adult children of alcoholics are super responsible or super irresponsible.
Once the child from an addicted family gets older and forms their own identity, the ACOA may either strictly follow a schedule and wants everything in order, controlled- perfect. These adult children often struggle with anxiety, OCD, perfectionism, and eating disorders.
The opposite result is the ACOA who is a party animal. This adult child may develop an alcohol, drug, or other behavioral addiction. This ACOA may live a life very much like their addicted parent, or they may "shape up" and get their life together, with appropriate support.

I am the super responsible one. Good grades in high school and college. A BA in biology, BS in nursing, married, house, son, ducks lined up in a row. I've never been in trouble with the law, never done drugs. I actually did drink for awhile - about 3-4 years from ages 19-23, only on weekends. The typical young person thing to do. I like things ordered. I have little quirks that are a little OCD (the toilet paper goes over the roll - if I'm at your house and it doesn't, don't worry - I'll change it for you). At work I have certain ways I do things, certain steps that I take, in order. I hate when things don't go as planned. I like predictability. I want to know what I'm doing each day and if something changes I'm liable to fall apart.

My brother, on the other hand, was the irresponsible one. He  partied, experimented with drugs, got several DUIs, dropped out of college . . . It's interesting that we went the opposite way with this. Luckily he did manage to "get his life together" and is doing quite well.

12. Adult children of alcoholics are extremely loyal, even in the face of evidence that the loyalty is undeserved.
"Why do you put up with him?" Adult children of alcoholics/addicts are used to dealing with just that- an addict. They are used to either taking care of an addict or seeing others take care of an addict. Drunken fights and broken promises is normal to the ACOA. Growing up, the child of an alcoholic was probably told "it isn't his fault" or "he didn't mean it, he was drunk."
Because of these lowered expectations, an adult child of an alcoholic/addict frequently ends up in a relationship with another addict, abusive partners, or otherwise unhealthy relationships.

Growing up with an alcoholic parent actually made me do the opposite - I wanted nothing to do with people who drank. I wanted no part of it. I was so sick of dealing with everything with my mom that the thought of doing that with a boyfriend or husband was not an option.

I did, however, run into issues in a different manner. I was in an abusive relationship and found myself making up excuses for the abuse ( he really loves me, I must have done something wrong). For a brief time I tried defending him and then it was convincing myself that his behavior was normal. After 3 years I knew something was wrong but didn't have the courage to leave for another year.

13. Adult children of alcoholics are impulsive. They tend to lock themselves into a course of action without giving serious consideration to alternative behaviors or possible consequences. This impulsively leads to confusion, self-loathing and loss of control over their environment. In addition, they spend an excessive amount of energy cleaning up the mess.
The last trait is fairly self descriptive. The ACOA will struggle with falling into unhealthy patterns of behavior, in whatever form it might take.

Yes, I can be very impulsive. And impatient. And selfish. Once I get my mind set on something you better get out of the way. J and I can be at the flea market and someone is selling puppies. Well, we're getting one. I don't care if we have a dog (who dislikes other dogs) and we don't have the time, that puppy is damn cute and we're getting it! J, thank God, is the voice of reason and takes over. We're at a grocery store and they're sampling cheesecake. We're going to buy all the cheesecake! I don't care if we don't need it and they're $13 each. We're buying the cheesecake. I'm becoming bored with my job and am thinking about changing the area I work in. Oh, there's a job posting for a day shift in an area I'm not sure I'll like? Screw it! I'm applying!

You get the point. I do this with so many different things. And I get impatient and almost frantic about my decisions and can become very selfish and only think about what I want. I don't care what anyone else says or thinks or feels at that moment - the only thing that matters is my one-track mind and the decision I made. Sometimes this has lead to arguments because I'll do something without talking it over with J (like spending money). And I always feel like crap afterwards. And I have to try and make amends and I feel like an idiot and am left wondering why I ever did it in the first place. And that's not a fun place to be.


The next 14 characteristics are taken from the ACOA World Service Organization. Many of them are the same as above, but there are a few that are different. The ones that are similar, I'm not going to write about as it's covered above. The ones that are different, obviously, I'll be writing about.


 1. We became isolated and afraid of people and authority figures.

I was never aware of this aspect until later in life - most notably in the past few months. That's not to say it wasn't there - I think it always was - I just never acknowledged it. Let's start with my past though - seems like the logical way to go.

 

Growing up I was always shy (and yes, I've always known that). I never said much, especially in social situations. Even when with friends say, during lunch in high school, I could barely talk. I worried about what they would think and I was nervous and uncomfortable. It took me a very long time to come out of my shell, so to speak. I was okay speaking with teachers, most of the time, but my hands would get clammy and my heart would race. I was this way when I started working, as well, and it was only after I had been at my job around 2 years that I started to open up.

 

I truly started opening up when I started college. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that what started this openess, this willingness to talk and interact, was a manic episode and alcohol use. I was with my ex, hanging out with his friends, and partying . . .and then you throw in the hypomania . . .well, I became a bit overzealous at times. Maybe the experience served me well - I made friends, I had more fun, I had less anxiety (at least in the case of interacting with people - my relationship with my ex is another story).

 

I think I had a period of time where I wasn't as shy, wasn't as anxious. I became outgoing, inappropriate, loud, trying to be the center of attention. The big part of course was the innapropriateness (let's be honest - I had no idea how I should act). After my son was born, I started to become more withdrawn again. J and I would be at a store or something and I would want to know the price of something - I was too nervous to go and ask. If I was told something (like needed car repairs) I would go along with what was said because I couldn't stand confrontation.

 

And in the last year, since my near suicide attempt, it's become much worse. But not in all areas. At work I'm the picture of confidence and authority. I know my job, I know it well, I'll bark orders during a code and take control. No anxiety interacticg with patients or doctors (in fact, I like to boss the doctors around). But in my personal life, not so much. When J and I hang out with friends - very good friends - I have a hard time opening up. I feel like I can't relate and I'm quiet and all I can think about is leaving. J has a huge family and at get-togethers (most notably last Christmas and this thanksgiving) I can barely manage. I become excedingly withdrawn and tend to either stay by myself or stay by J's side. I feel overwhelmed and want to leave, leave NOW. But I can't. And I go to the bathroom a lot so I can hide for a few minutes. And I'm surprisingly NOT ashamed to say that I'm glad I work this Christmas - that way I don't have to go through the uncomfortable, suffocating anxiety that I experience there.

 

 2. We became approval seekers and lost our identity in the process.

This is similar to one above.

 

3. We are frightened of angry people and any personal criticism.

 I really, really hate angry people. I'm certain that their anger is either directed at me, or caused by me. No matter what the issue is. This is especially bad with J. I'm convinced that any time he is upset or blah or mad or anything that it's because of me. It's all my fault. And I try desperately to find out what's wrong, what I did, and how can I make it right. 

I do take criticism poorly. I hate to be criticized. I take it as a personal attack and that it means the person thinks less of me or dislikes me or I must have done something wrong. It could be criticism about how I fold laundry or something completely stupid and I get defensive, angry and upset. Even if it's jokingly and I know it's jokingly, I don't take it well. I overreact and either get upset or mad. Sometimes to the point of completely shutting down.

 

 4. We either become alcoholics, marry them or both, or find another compulsive personality such as a workaholic to fulfill our sick abandonment needs.

No. Sort of addressed above, but definitely not. I don't drink, J doesn't drink, our friends don't drink. And I don't think anyone in my life has any type of compulsive personality. Apparently I wanted to buck the trend with this one. Probably because I didn't want to follow in the footsteps of my mom.

 

5. We live life from the viewpoint of victims and we are attracted by that weakness in our love and friendship relationships

 This one has got to be the hardest for me to write about. The most difficult to acknowledge. To myself. To anyone. You see, I like to think of myself as strong. I've been through a lot. A lot. And I've always been adament that this or that didn't bother me. That I didn't dwell on the past or even recent issues.
 

And that is a complete lie.
 

Do you know how difficult it is for me to admit that? How much it physically and emotionally pains me? And I'm not being dramatic - I'm being dead serious. This goes against everything that I make myself out to be. Everything. I'm not a weak person. I don't want people's sympathy or attention or anything. 
 

And yet I do. And yet I crave it. And I loathe myself for that. I'm embarassed by it. I'm so distressed by that that I'm tearing up just typing this. I don't want to be a victim and yet that's exactly what I am. I'm a victim of my circumstance, my past, my upbringing, my bipolar disorder. As much as I attest that I'm not - that's exactly what I am.
 

I do things subconsciously . . .and yet it's not subcouscious because on some level I'm aware of what I'm doing. When I started talking about my rape and abuse from my ex I was truly distressed by it. Honest to God distressed about it. But I played it up a little. Maybe acted a little more distressed than I was. Maybe a little more dramatic when I talked to J about it or talked to my two closest friends about it. Of course, I'm not a victim so I made sure that they knew that - even though I was very much playing the role. Maybe I needed the attention, the support, the affirmation that I truly had gone through something traumatic.
 

But, as J pointed out, I had kept that all burried for 12 years and it hadn't bothered me at all in that 12 years. Why was I making such a big fuss over it now? I don't know. I don't know why. Because I don't want to be the victim but I want the attention of being the victim. And I hate this. I hate this about myself. I'm suppossed to be strong and push on.
 

But I don't. And with this exercise, with me very honestly looking at my behavior, I've noticed things I have't acknowledged before. Another thing I've noticed is using my bipolar disorder as a crutch. A crutch for my behavior, for whatever. But I don't do it often (thank God), and I want to stop that before I do. And I keep going back to why the hell am I doing so horribly this year with the depression and mixed episodes and the stupid thing is that I know why and I've written aobut why but I still don't accept it. And I see this cycle over the past year and I see things moving in the same direction with continuous bouts of depression and not getting better and then I wallow and I dwell on everything and I become a victim and slave to my bipolar disorder. And apparently it causes me to write long run on sentences.
 

The point is, regardless of how much I do not want to be a victim, I very much am one. This is a new view of myself - one that I neither wanted to admit to myself or anyone. And now I don't know what to do. I don't know how to change or move forward or stop the behavior. And I want to stop. I don't want to be the victim anymore.

 

6. We have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility and it is easier for us to be concerned with others rather than ourselves; this enables us not to look too closely at our own faults, etc. 

When I look back, I'm not sure how much this applies to me. I now that now I do tend to take more responsibility and I think I'm more concerned with others, but I'm not entirely sure. Sounds a bit wishy washy doesn't it? See, I tend to put others ahead of myself, sometimes to a fault maybe, but this one is difficult for me. 
 

And I'm thinking now, trying to come up with examples and what I see is I did put my ex ahead of me - big time. He was always first. I didn't do it that much with friends to be honest. I put my mom ahead of myself - tending to her and worrying about her when I needed the attention. But this is about all I can think of. I hoestly believe that J would describe me as selfish now. That I've been doing more things for myself rather than for our family. I'll spend several hours painting instead of doing housework or paying bills or running errands. When I have money in my paypal account from Etsy sales I'll spend it on me rather than on the family. I want what I want and I want it now. Who knows - maybe I've become this way because of how my past has been.

 

 7. We get guilt feelings when we stand up for ourselves instead of giving in to others.

  This one is up in the air. I don't get guilty when I stand up to others. One, I rarely do it, and two, I only do it if I have a valid point to make (otherwise I'll tend to defer). Now, if I don't give in to something or someone, I can feel guilty. J might want to do one thing and I might want to do another, but I'll go along with what he wants to avoid feeling guilty and to avoid hurting his feelings (although most likely his feelings wouldn't get hurt).

 

 8. We became addicted to excitement

This one is quite interesting. I am an adrenaline junky. Not to the extent of most - I don't play risky sports or go skydiving or anything like that. But at work . . .boy howdy. Resuscitating a baby? Oh my God yes please? Code on an adult? I'm there in seconds. Post-partum hemorrhage? Let me in there. Stat c-section? Please? May I go? My coworkers think I'm crazy for this, but I absolutely love it. You know what else I love? Tea. That fact is irrelevant but I figured I'd throw it in for fun.

I'm not sure why I'm so much in love with doing things like that. I don't know how that relates to growing up in an alcoholic home. If anyone knows, please enlighten me.

 9. We confuse love and pity and tend to "love" people we can "pity" and "rescue."

I'm not so sure I do this. I don't confuse love with pity. I don't pity my husband or friends or co-workers, and I love them (well, most of them). And the very few people I pity, I don't love. Maybe another one I'm bucking the trend on. 
 

10 .We have "stuffed" our feelings from our traumatic childhoods and have lost the ability to feel or express our feelings because it hurts so much (Denial).

I hid my trauma. I hid the drinking, I hid my abuse and rape, and I pretended that they didn't happen and didn't affect me. For awhile (a little over 12 years) I felt nothing about my rape. Had virtually forgot about it. I ignored my feelings about my childhood. I did deny that part of me. It's certainly much easier. 

But now that I started opening up about it, I can most certainly feel it. The feelings came flooding back and it was almost too much to bear. But besides all this, and before all this, I was still able to feel. I felt everything else except my past. 

 

11. We judge ourselves harshly and have a very low sense of self-esteem.

This one is addressed above.

 

12. We are dependent personalities who are terrified of abandonment and will do anything to hold on to a relationship in order not to experience painful abandonment feelings, which we received from living with sick people who were never there emotionally for us.

I've never considered myself as dependent, but when I think about it, I am. At least a little. I don't depend on most people - in fact, hardly any. And I think that this stems from the fact that growing up, I could only depend on myself. So in one aspect, I'm very stubbornly independent. 

And at the same time, I'm so very dependent on J. I would be lost without him. There's so much that he does that I wouldn't even know how to do or approach - I don't even like taking my own truck in for an oil change. If he weren't around, if our relationship faltered . . .I don't even know. I would try everything to keep us together, to keep him with me.

One thing I hate to admit, especially writing it here because he might read it, is how dependent on my therapist I've become. Obviously, he's helped me so much, more than he'll ever imagine, but I'm so terrified to not see him. What will I do then? It's strange, I had never seen a therapist in my life until last January. And now I can't imagine not seeing him. It makes me feel pathetic and stupid and like I can't take care of myself. And I can - I know I can - I've done it my entire life. It's just that I feel so much better after each session. I've learned so much, released so much tension and anger and bad feelings and memories and it helps me feel better about myself. And I look forward to it. And now . . .now I'm definitely dependent on it. And that truly does make me feel weak. Because I need it. Because I'm scared about not going. Because eventually, I won't be going every week or every two weeks or every month. Eventually I won't be going at all. Fuck.

 

13. Alcoholism is a family disease; and we became para-alcoholics and took on the characteristics of that disease even though we did not pick up the drink.

I'll be honest - I'm not exactly sure what this means. I mean, the statement says that I would take on some of the characteristics that my mom displayed, and that makes sense. I'm just having a hard time with this. I don't know which behaviors. Some of the above characteristics seem as though they could fall under this category. Others, not so much. And maybe there's a whole host of other traits that I might be exhibiting.

Thinking back on my mom's behavior, she lied, she yelled, she overreacted, she constantly felt sorry for herself and blamed her situation on external factors - sometimes vague, sometimes something that made absolutely no sense (in a drunken stupor one night she blamed her drinking on not receiving a paycheck from Disneyland from when she worked there as a teenager). She was often unreliable and uncaring and distant. She had three broken marriages and only the third I can remember. And she treated my step-dad like crap. He was the nicest man and she yelled at him and accused him of everything under the sun. I don't know how he put up with it as long as he did.

That was when she was drunk.

When she was sober (typically until around 6pm) she was caring and loving and interested in our school work and our days. She could be fun and I could joke with her and feel close. She took very good care of us as we grew up, despite her drinking. There was such an opposite in her behavior from daytime to drinking time.

I think I try to emulate her good characteristics. Everything I wanted in my mom is what I try to be for my son. Seeing how she treated her ex-husband, I made a promise to myself that I would never treat my husband like that. Ever.

I don't know if I'd consider myself a para-alcoholic. Maybe in some ways, I guess, if any of the above numerous characteristics apply. But I'm trying my best to not be like her.

 

 14. Para-alcoholics are reactors rather than actors.

What? A nuclear reactor? Am I a nuclear reactor?

I'm assuming this means that rather than taking action, I react to a situation. Is that correct? I don't know. That's what I'm going with. 

So do I react, or act? Both, I think. I often do tend to sit on the sidelines, not making much of a fuss about anything. Jumping in when I need or want to. I'm very rarely the catalyst for anything. Almost a bystander to my own life. I've let opportunities pass me by because of low self esteem, feelings of inadequacy, not knowing what to do or say. I know I've done that. That would be reacting I suppose. 

But I can and will take action. I can be that "actor" in my life. Give me an emergency situation and I'm the one in charge, making things happen. Sadly, however, is how little I see myself doing this. Being the actor. Is it fear of confrontation? Fear of disappointment or letdown? I'm not quite sure.

I know this post is ridiculously long. Trust me - I know. It took me countless hours to write this and I've only just scratched the surface. I researched and thought about and contemplated everything. And I thought long and hard. I learned a lot about myself in the process. Including things that I didn't really want to know or admit or acknowledge, but that I needed to in order to be able to move on. To move on through recovery and my life. If I understand the things I don't like about myself, I can learn to change them. If I understand where many of my characteristics and behaviors come from, I can learn why I react a certain way or say or do certain things or have such strange feelings and always feel different and isolated. (and I can still write awesome run-on sentences). 

And even with as long as this post is, I still have so much more to learn. So much more to figure out. This is an ongoing process, one that most likely will take the rest of my life. I'm going to view that as a challenge. A challenge to learn more about myself. A challenge to learn to love myself a little more. And a challenge to change the aspects of me that I don't like and enhance the ones I do.

No doubt I'll be posting more on this in the weeks/months/years to come. And I look forward to doing so. And if you've read this whole post, you win the internet. Congratulations! You're the proud owner of the internet!

Now I'll leave you with this: a song by the amazing Amanda Palmer. It's called "In My Mind" and it's a wonderful song. The first time I heard it I cried. And then I listened again, and cried. It fits me so perfectly. Every word I can relate to. It's the first song in an very long time that has actually moved me. So enjoy it, please.