Where am I at?

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

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

Because I'm not used to it.

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

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

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

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

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

Acceptance

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

It was exhausting.

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

And here it is:

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

I haven't accepted this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the annoying thing is . . .

. . . I need to write and I want to write but I want to sleep to escape my conflicting thoughts, my racing mind.

I have so many thoughts, so many that won't go away. They hang on, tenacious bastards that they are. They race around and they don't stop and I want them to stop but they don't and I'm so tired of it.

And so I need to write and I want to write but I need to sleep to escape my own mind. Because I can't concentrate because round and round my thoughts tumble and bounce and go.

And it's annoying, and so I'll sleep. I'll write tomorrow. Maybe the thoughts will calm themselves.

Therapy and ACOA

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

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

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

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

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

Here's where we start:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey look! It's Tuesday!

Thank you, Captain Obvious.

I had therapy today, and I always seem to want to write when I have therapy. It makes me all intuitive and philosophical.

Or it just makes me want to get more shit out. I'm not philosophical - come on now.

Therapy today wasn't anywhere near as rough as it was last time (which was 2 weeks ago and was an ACOA talk). But I still feel horribly, emotionally drained. Like, I just need to sleep to escape all these feels.

Yes, I get Loki feels too. But those are different. Because Tom Hiddleston. 

I've been feeling a little more down and irritable lately. I have this sneaking suspicion it has a lot to do with not working with Mr. Chancy Pants anymore. I think I'll still be grieving off and on for awhile. And it's okay for me to grieve. I need to remember to give myself permission to do that. If I hold it in, well, that'll make it worse and will likely cause an emotional explosion. So where does that leave me?

(Yeah, Loki again.) It means I may actually be emotionally fragile sometimes (like I am right now), for seemingly no reason. I'm dealing with grief and loss while still trying to wade my way through managing the bipolar bit of my mood swings and all of the other emotional baggage and healing I've been working on. 

Sounds fun, yeah? Jealous?

Eventually, hopefully, I'll make sense of all of this and I'll push through and be me. And eventually, hopefully, I won't have to work so hard. 

Today is supposed to be different

I'm here at work and it's loud and annoying and I don't even know what my mood is doing today. Everyone here (the labor nurses) is talking about the stupid Obama Care and I kinda want to stab them all. Shut up. Just . . . shut up. Seriously. 

I'm everywhere bad today. I'm down, I'm frustrated, I'm annoyed and cranky and I feel like I'm going to lose it. I'm trying, really trying to fake it till I make it. I'm really trying to stay positive and ignore my feelings and surroundings. Today, it's hard. Today is a day I would spiral, a day that I could spiral. I'm trying not to. 

Which is why I'm writing right now. There are a few things I'm frustrated with at the moment but I can't even concentrate. I want to hide. I want to go home and sleep. Last week was shitty - this week isn't supposed to be. I'm trying. I will make it a good day. God willing.

A little bit about today

I'm going to write about today I think. Maybe more. I'm not sure yet.

See, today was one of those annoying days. One of those days where I feel confused, frustrated, utterly lost in my own skin. One of those days I really hate the mood swings of bipolar disorder. A day where I could burst into tears at any moment for any reason or no reason. Where I have so much purposeless, nervous, kinetic energy that I don't know what to do so all I can do is sleep. And that's what I did. I took a nap. But it was short and light and I couldn't turn off my brain and I was so fidgety and just . . . UGH that I went downstairs to box. Sometimes boxing helps. Today, it didn't.

My son had a cub scout thing today. A hike in a park, geo caching, ultimate frisbee. Fun kid stuff. And fun for the kids. Me? Not so much. Today reinforced that I don't really like kids - except for my own. I'm not good with them. They annoy and confound me. My hubby? He's fabulous with them. He jumped right in there with the scout leaders, working with the kids. I stood back and felt awkward. Probably looked it, too. And I didn't want to socialize. At all. Probably because of feeling everything above, being around screaming kids, and it being bloody hot out. I think I did okay . . . except for wanting to crawl out of my skin.

Dumb thing is, if I had stayed at home, I have no idea what I would have done. I have a feeling I would have stared motionless at the wall, too overwhelmed by my feelings to do much of anything. I would have accomplished nothing. Because of this, I've been keeping my days off busy. If I have appointments, errands to run, cleaning to do . . . I can't spend time thinking about my moods. The more I'm distracted, the better I do.

I'm just frustrated. I just want to be better and not have the mood swings. I'm focused so much on not self sabotaging and stopping negative self talk that I truly expect I'll just *poof* be better and everything will work out perfectly and I'll be okay and happy. And, well, I'm shit outta luck there because sadly, that's not how the world works. That's not how bipolar works.

I know I'll have these bad days. I fucking know this. I know I'll have full on mood episodes. I fucking know that too. But I forget. Because in my mind, I should be better

That's all I got. I'm too pissy and annoyed and close to tears to write anything else. Tomorrow will be better. I got shit planned.

Stupid

This entry might be a bit messy, certainly not poetic. I have a flurry of confused, scared, angry, and desperately sad thoughts running through my head. I'm trying to make sense of them and I'm only partially succeeding.

I've been doing crappy. We know this. I've been sinking again, floundering for my happiness. And then something happened. Something that I thought was wonderful and amazing and gave me hope - real, concrete, tangible hope. And then that something was taken from me. And I've sunk again.

I worked with Chance on Friday and was told that he was being retired and possibly put up for adoption. The whole session my brain churned with "what-ifs". What if I could adopt Chance? I could see him and groom him and work with him every day. I could have my dream. These thoughts were a whirlwind. So much so that I filled out the adoption paperwork after my session. It was a long shot . . .

Yesterday I got an email from N saying that Chance's previous owners were okay with him going up for adoption. I cried. I sobbed. I couldn't stop. I thanked God and cried more. I should mention that I've been needing an emotional explosion for the last week. This email . . . it opened the floodgates. So much came out. Joy and hope with Chance, sorrow and hate and sadness with everything else. I talked to J - he said we'd discuss when he got home.

I looked up boarding facilities, researched hay and feed prices . . . you name it, I looked it up.  When he got home I bombarded him with all the information I had collected. And he said we couldn't afford it. A slap in the face. I was dumbfounded. My eyes brimmed with tears, lower lip threatening to quiver. I fought back the tears, briefly, and shut down. It didn't last long. I went to the bedroom to let it out. I cried hard again, but silently. I didn't want him to come in. But come in he did. And I shut myself down further.

Shortly after that, I went to bed. I slept with the Chance plush I had made myself.

I'm in shock over how much I'm mourning the loss of a horse I never even had. I feel like a failure. I feel like I've failed him. I feel like I've failed N because I can't adopt him. I feel like I've failed the few people I told about the possibility. I feel like I've failed myself. My husband. My son.

And that makes no sense. But in a way, it does. I pulled a very bipolar stunt - I was impulsive, jumped in feet first, and failed to see the big picture. I latched tightly, insidiously, to this glimmer of hope and plowed forward moving entirely on emotion. And, as what happens often when I do something like this, I'm devastated when it doesn't go my way.

Now, being hopeful and excited that a dream might come to fruition then having it fall through will create mourning and sadness in anyone. Don't think I don't know that. This isn't a feeling unique to me because I have bipolar - this is a feeling experienced by everyone at some point. It's normal. It's natural. The bipolar bit - the bit that is the most frustrating - is my overreaction to it. The amount I've been crying, my anger, my complete feeling of failure and hopelessness . . . that's not normal. See, I was already feeling and doing kinda crappy, and now I have this superimposed on it.

I'll get through it, I'll move past it. I'll try to separate what feelings are normal versus my overreaction. I'll try not to overanalyze. I'll try not to beat myself up. I'll try to be gentle. I'll try to remind myself there are other things worth being happy about.

I was going to say "other things worth living for". But I'm trying not to be fatalistic, even when I feel that way. I have reasons to be happy and positive and optimistic about . . . I just have to remember how to be that way . . .

Losing it. . . .

Sometimes I feel
Like I wanna leave this place for good
Under the ground
I'll live down there without a sound
And never hear
These hissing voices all the same
I'll disappear
Cause living makes me feel ashamed

I must believe
There's more above us and below
I must believe
Stranded with this bitch called hope
It keeps me here
When all I wanna do is go
It keeps me here
When all I wanna do is disappear

If this is it
When all we have and ever will
If this is it
Time is running out and standing still
I'll leave today
Cause there's nothing left to keep me here
I'll fade away
I'll turn my back and disappear

           - The Bravery
(italics added for emphasis)

I don't even know anymore. I don't know what I'm feeling or if I should trust what I'm feeling. I'm struggling right now. Grasping any little shred of hope I can. But I'm falling. I feel like I'm slipping.

I'm becoming more and more detached. I'm just . . . here. I'm only taking up space. I'm trying to feel. I am. And I don't. I hate this so much. I'm desperate. I've thought about taking pills . . .

Briefly. But the thought was there. I can't do this. I can't. I'm not strong enough.

What I'm feeling right now, besides the detachment, is the depression. It's coming back despite my best efforts. Despite being back on Cymbalta. Despite everything. And I can't . . .

I see M tomorrow. Chance on Friday. What do I do in the meantime.

Also? I took a break in writing this to cry. The big, ugly cry with snot everywhere. Had to hide it from my son. I think I'll cry more, too.

God help me.

As Good As It Gets

Have you ever seen that movie? If not, watch it - pretty good flick.

And this is how my life seems. It's as good as it gets. No matter what I do, it's as good as it gets. Which is frustrating beyond belief. I'm tired of it, and I'm losing hope that it will ever change. In fact, I'm close to giving up.

But what's so bad? It's not like I'm suicidal or even close mood wise to where I was in February, so what's the big deal? Well, the big deal is that I'm not enjoying my life. Not much at all. Watching my son play with his friend . . . I'm annoyed. He does something cute or says something funny . . . I smile and feel nothing. My husband hugs me or kisses me or tells me he loves me and I return the favor but I feel nothing, or I get annoyed or I don't even know any more. I fake my way through conversations at work and try to avoid people. I'm a hollow husk of a person.

I've written this before. I know I have. Because this seems to be my new normal. If I'm not actively depressed, I'm a flat, withdrawn, empty, lost, confused shell. People don't understand this feeling - or lack of feeling, I should say. I'm not even sure I can accurately describe how it feels.

But I'll try.

Picture this: A desolate wasteland, a desert. Dead skeletons of trees litter the landscape. It's hot - the heat blurring the distance creating mirages of unknown things. A dry wind is blowing causing tornados of sand on the dunes and puhing the occasional tumbleweed by. There are no clouds and despite the sun being high, the light quality is that of a washed out twilight. The air is thick and it's hard to breath without your lungs burning. It's oppressive. It's unyielding. And there's this overwhelming sense of . . . . something ominous. Something not quite right. You can't put your finger on it . . . . but it's there.

This is the inside of me. It's what I imagine when I close my eyes. I can see it so clearly - it's burned into my mind. On the inside, the inside of me, in the middle of this wasteland, is a robot. A robot devoid of emotion. This robot is me.

I'm lost. I'm lost here and I'm scared. Except I'm not really scared. Because I'm not sure I can truly feel that. I'm kinda wandering around, staring at these skeletal trees, and trying to figure out what is going on. And in this robot body, in this dry landscape, I see the things around me - my family and friends, coworkers, strangers - and I struggle to be a part of that world. I can see the blue sky out there, hear the birds chirping . . . . but I can't grasp it. I can't move past this desert with its skeletal trees and sand dune tornados. But I try. The robot grasps for anything tangible, anything to hold on to. But it all too often slips through . . . .

There's despair with that, but that, too, is short lived and muted. No feelings last long in the wasteland. The wind takes them away with the tumble weeds.

That. That is how I feel. I don't even know if that makes sense. It probably doesn't.

Today is a bad day

Today is a bad day and I don't really know why. There's no reason it should be. I have ideas, maybe, but I don't know.

Let's start with how I feel, shall we? Today I actually feel depressed. Before, I've just been feeling down, weird, withdrawn, annoyed . . . but not depressed. Today though . . .it's a different story. All the other feelings, they're still there, but now we've thrown in that other one. That one I've been trying to escape from for so long.

So why the change? Why is today so bad? I have only a few ideas, none of them very good. First: I saw M yesterday, and I brought him a copy of my previous post to read. We talked a lot about it and about how maybe I'm trying too hard to be perfect at getting better and still being a wife and mother and RN, etc. Which may be true. I have been trying hard to keep myself from getting worse through the mixed episode and this downward trend. And I haven't truly relaxed much. Not as much as I'd like to. All my days off are spent running around with appointments or errands, or playing with my son (not that that's bad, but it's nice to just sit and read). And then M said that he thinks I'm closer to full depression than I think. I disagreed with him. I'm managing, most days are okay (not great, and I have bad ones, but they're okay), I'm functional. But he said he's a little worried. And my thought with this is, if I had this notion in my head that M thinks I'm getting bad again, maybe it's becoming a self fulfilling prophecy. I don't really believe this, but it's something to think about.

Second: When J got home from work yesterday, we talked a little about my therapy session. He's very apathetic about everything pertaining to my mental health. At least that's how it seemed. Like he's given up and me being depressed is just the "new normal" (his words). This is how it is so why bother trying anything to fix it? He mentioned again how he thinks I latch onto something so that I become more depressed - that I'm doing this on purpose. And I'll be honest - that hurts. And then I start thinking, what happened? What event? What thing? What thought? What whatever that could possibly have started this? And I can't come up with anything. Nothing. But I'm wracking my brain for any explanation. Maybe J has an idea. And maybe he could share it with me. But I just don't know. And maybe this hurt and trying to figure this out is contributing to my mood today - I think this is probably true.

The good news, I guess, is that I got to come home early from work today. Which is a very good thing. I was not in the state of mind to be delivering babies. I'm distracted, irritable, withdrawn, annoyed, depressed, snippy, having trouble concentrating, and feel on the verge of tears.

But I'm home now, and I'm probably going to nap. It's much easier to sleep and ignore how I'm feeling. I don't feel like coping right now. I feel like hiding.

I had an epiphany. . .

Well, no, not really. Or maybe. I don't know.

Anyway, this always seems to happen late at night or insanely early in the morning when I'm in that not-quite-asleep-but-not-awake-either state of mind. Needless to say, I did not get up and write this then - shame, too, because I think it would come out more eloquently. But I'm going to do my best.

I've mentioned that I've felt "weird" lately. Not depressed, not me, not always okay, not sure what the hell is going on. Like I'm in this strange holding pattern and there's all these lights and sounds and whispers and I can't quite see the ground I'm flying over.

There's this part of me right now that doesn't care. About anything. She's very flippant and blase, short and to the point, quick to anger and annoy, and very much dissatisfied with everything. Dissatisfied with work, family, friends, coworkers, meds . . .everything. She's dissatisfied with and tired of everything. No longer does she want to do things right. No eating healthy. No going to the gym. No meds, no therapy, no mindfulness, no trying. Nothing. She doesn't care. She doesn't feel - other than anger, frustration, annoyance and hollowness - so how could she even begin to care?

Now this part of me, sadly, has been gaining a foot hold. She whispers seductively in my ear, her breath hot on my neck. It's so much easier not to care. When you don't care, you're not let down as much if things go wrong . . . .everyone else can handle it. You really don't have to worry about anything . . .no responsibility . . . Her words are poison, her breath acrid and stinging . . . but alluring. There's something sweet about the promise of not feeling and not caring . . . .

Except . . . .

Except for the fact that I do care. See, there's this other part of me - the part that's actually me - that's screaming out in tyranny over the false prophet gaining ground. NO! This is not who I am! I am a mother, wife, friend, nurse, artist, sister, daughter, idiotic goofball and I DO care! I DO feel!

And I want to care and feel and do things right. I want to be me.

And right now, these two are in a power struggle. Over me. Over who I am, really. And as they fight, what's left at the center is who I am now. The person who can feel, but doesn't all the time. The person who functions and copes and for all appearances looks in control and put together . . .but who is floating along the surface in limbo, barely participating in life. There are moments - sweet beautiful moments - where the real me shines through . . .but there are moments where the other one stands front and center, feeding me with lies.

Who I am right now, with this power struggle going on, is the girl who is withdrawn and quiet. She is often slow to smile and distances herself from others. She stays on the surface of conversations and offers little to them and often seems to be staring off in the distance, unsure of how to act or what to say. This is me right now.

I am the "me" of my childhood.


(now, I may elaborate more on the "me of my childhood" line later on - I'm still mulling this over in my mind - I have some interesting thoughts)