Time to Air Out Dem Bones . . .

As a patient of M's so eloquently put it, sometimes you have to dig up the bones in the backyard and air them out; that way they don't stink so bad.
And it couldn't be any more true, as I found out today. See, today was the day we talked about my rape. For the first time ever, I talked about it. Openly. And saw it for what it was. Saw it for how it affected me. And saw it for the ugly truth.
And now? I'm sharing it with you. Not the details. No one wants to read that, and I don't want to share it. Read on if you choose. I caution that this may be a trigger, so read at your own risk.
My rapist was someone I knew. Someone I trusted. Someone I loved at one point. He held me down, hands pinned above me, his hand on my throat, squeezing, as he had his way with me. I struggled at first. I fought. I begged, pleaded. He had split my lip, was choking me, and told me to stop or he'd hurt me. So I stopped. I gave up. I layed there, silently crying as my dignity was stripped from me. When he had finished, he told me to get the fuck out of his house . I left. Stunned, ashamed, broken. I drove several miles like that before pulling over to cry. Horrendous sobs racked my violated body. How long did I stay parked before driving home? Who knows. How long did I sit in the shower and cry when I got home? Who knows. I was hurt. I was in shock. I was scared and ashamed and humiliated and disgusted - both with him and myself.
And I told no one.
Not a single soul. Not one. I kept this secret hidden inside, convinced that if I covered it in enough denial, it wouldn't exist. It didn't happen. Who would have believed me anyway? So it was buried. I made up a story for my split lip - sparring in kickboxing. Very believable.
Far away went the secret. After a couple of years it never crossed my mind. The denial was working.
Until 2 weeks ago. When I had my first nightmare in the 12 years since the rape happened. It shocked me. I found myself thinking about it, reliving it almost. It was constantly on my mind. Then I mentioned it in a blog post and showed that post to M.
And here we are today.
And do you know what I realized? The rape was not my fault. I was not weak for giving in - I had no choice - my rapist had already shown violence. I'm not a victim - truly I'm not. I don't let myself be. And by finally talking about this - by airing out my old bones - it proves that I'm not a victim. I'm strong, I survived something horrible and I can now talk about it. It took 12 years, but I can talk about it. And even though it was terribly frightening and anxiety invoking for me, I did it. And I'm proud of myself.
Will this get buried again? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. But I've acknowledged this part of myself, this travesty against my very being. And you know what? I'm going to kick its ass. Oh yes. These bones will crumble to dust before they ever get buried again. 

I don't even . . .

I'm at work. And this morning, I thought I was having a good day, that today would be a good day. But no. I have to cycle. Not very high. Not too bad. But irritable and low. Feeling like crying, and then feeling somewhat normal, and then irritable. Cycling through all of these stupid emotions I can't control. I don't even know what "normal" for me is. I've been dealing with this episode for 9 FUCKING MONTHS. And quite frankly, I'm tired of it. Tired of putting on this charade of being okay. It's like a constant masquerade, only without the cool costumes.
I just want this part to be over. Done. I want to move on and be genuinly happy. Not happy then manic then pissed then crying. It gets old. And complaining about it obviously does no good. But I guess writing about it helps in a way. Otherwise I wouldn't be doing it.
Only 3.5 hours to go and I can leave. It's hard to feel like this at work. Maybe I'll write more later, maybe I won't. At any rate, I got something out, off my chest.

Curse you, moods

Today was a bit annoying mood wise. Started out depressed. I felt like I was going to cry at any given moment for no reason. Just this overwhelming . . . .sadness. And the anger was back.  I kept it under control for the most part. Well, I did my best at least. I snapped a few times. And at certain times, I had pressured speech and racing thoughts. Then back to wanting to cry, anger and over and over spiraling continuously, a cyclone around me I could barely keep reigned in. I picture myself in the center of this cyclone, hair flying wildly as I feebly grasp the ropes holding the wall of dust together, because if I let go, if I can't hold on, everything falls apart. Collapses in a mushroom cloud of destruction without any chance of rebuilding.
That's being dramatic I suppose. It's not like that will happen. But that's how it feels sometimes . . .and maybe the best way I can describe it. I don't know.
I needed to write and I can't even think of anything TO write. I'm tired, I know that. Even with the klonopin last night, I didn't sleep well. And keeping my emotions under wraps takes a surprising amount of energy.
Anyway, short post. I think I'll go to bed. Maybe have more inspiration tomorrow.

I should be sleeping . . .

If you only knew
What I'm trying to do
Trying to prove
Keep my head high
Remain alive
Take it in stride
If you only knew
The turmoil inside
Exposed by my eyes
Hidden with lies
If you only knew
That this would lead me
Back to the start of this
Always
Back to the start of this
This is
Not the end of this yet . . .


Bit of a random poem. Haven't written poetry since high school. That's, well, 15 years. But it's been floating around in my head, so I figured I ought to get it out.
And yes, I should be sleeping. But I'm not. Insomnia setting in, racing thoughts again. Quite lovely. That's sarcasm, by the way. If you know me, you picked up on that though.
I've had a couple of "normal" days. Thank god for that. Less manic symptoms, no real depressive symptoms. I'm hoping my lithium levels are becoming therapeutic now. Because the racing, the not stopping, the shaking, lack of concentration, the nervousness . . .all of that is getting old. It's slowing, leaving. Seemingly. And away it should stay, locked up in the recesses of my mind, a tidy coffin of black and red with gold filigree . . .
I don't think I'm making sense. I've taken a klonopin to help me sleep . . .so I may ramble. Who knows really. This is more stream of consciousness anyway. And my own blog. So I'll write how the fuck I want. That was rude. Oh well.
I keep getting nervous about my next therapy session. I dropped a bit of a bombshell 2 posts ago. I had printed that post for M to read, to better understand my confusing thoughts . . .and, well, those bombshells? We're going to be talking about them. Yes we are. And it's terrifying. I've never told ANYONE ANYTHING about them. Ever. At all. Not even my hubby knew. He found out by reading my blog. Sorry hon. Thinking about it fills me with dread like I never thought it would. I always thought, hey, no big deal. You got through, you moved on, it doesn't affect you. And I truly thought it didn't. And then . . .it randomly comes out in a blog post. Which must mean that it affects me in some way. Maybe it's through my relationship with M that I somehow now feel comfortable enough to talk about it. But I have to admit, it had been on my mind for a couple of weeks before I wrote it. Like I was looking for a reason to bring it up. A reason to get it out in the open . . .but what the hell do you say? Oh hey, by the way, I was raped and sexually assaulted. Have a good weekend! It's not something you bring up in casual conversation. Or, if you're me, then you do. Because you're an idiot and you don't have proper filters or self control. (I mentioned my nervousness about talking about my rape to my 2 best and trusted friends. In casual conversation. WTF, self? Obviously, they didn't know, and didn't know how to react. Whoops.) I should also mention that this was after it was decided by M and I that we were going to discuss  this topic.
So yes. I will talk with M about it. we'll see how it goes. And then, if I'm comfortable, and J wants to know what happened, then we can talk about it. Which is equally, if not MORE, terrifying. I don't even know.
Kick in klonopin. I should sleep. I need sleep. No sleep makes the racing worse. And I had a busy, overstimulating day at work. An almost full resuscitation on a newborn in a delivery I did. Gets the adrenaline pumping, the mind moving . . . Though I kept us from having to do chest compressions. Go me.
I don't think this post will make sense in the morning.
You're welcome.

It's All So Strange . . .

That last week has been . . . .interesting? I don't know what it's been, quite frankly. Saturday was the Dirty Dash which was quite fun. It was also the night I wrote my last post. Sunday we had friends over for lunch, which went well - no anxiety or anything. Monday, more of the same. A little anxious, irritable. I guess I should mention that on Thursday night (prior to the weekend) I started taking Klonopin to try and knock out the mania. Dr. C also upped my dose of Lithium to 1200mg. The klonopin . . .oh god. I was so loopy and out of it the first two nights. I couldn't even walk straight and I'm only on 1mg. And then the tiredness lasted through half the day, balance was off. Let's just say I didn't like it.
So yes. Tuesday. I didn't take the klonopin on Monday night. Didn't want to. Got to work and was exceedingly hypo manic. More than I've been in a while. Racing thoughts, pressured speech, a need to constantly talk, constantly move, unable to focus, no verbal filter, I had to move to pace to fidget to DO things, to talk, I was anxious, who's watching me? . . .it was a nightmare. J had taken Tuesday off just because and I actually had him bring a klonopin to my work. I only took half. I was too scared to see my patients until it kicked in. I could've gotten myself in trouble just by opening my mouth. I got some "concerned" looks from coworkers. Fuck what's wrong with me, is all I could think. But the klonopin kicked in. Within 20 minutes. I calmed down. I could function. But at what cost? I was flat. Emotionless. I didn't care about anything. All I could feel was mild irritation. Depressive thoughts started to creep in later. Feelings that nothing mattered. Nothing. I wanted to cut again. And then? The klonopin wore off. Guess where I was. Manic again. Goody. No in between. No middle ground. One or the other.  So frustrating. I wanted to pull out my hair.
Wednesday? Meh. Not bad I suppose. I was at home. I sewed I think. It's a fog. A klonopin fog. Thursday? I seemed to be okay. Mostly normal? See, the thing is, I don't know what normal is anymore. I'm so worried about being hypo manic that ANY elevated mood scares me - whether it's "normal" or not. I get anxious more. I'd say it was a good day. Busy at the baby factory, kept my irritability mostly in check. I had klonopin with me just in case. At the end of the night though . . .mania. Oh yes. My old friend. My mind and mouth were a mile a minute. There was no way I was going to be able to sleep. I wanted to sew and draw and workout and sculpt and maybe write a novel and hey I have Halloween props to make . . . So in goes the klonopin. My new steady friend. I was able to sleep.
Today now, Friday, I was mostly hypo but mixed. I had energy. Oh did I. Finished 3 Halloween props, made a stuffed animal for my son, went to the post office, shopping. I felt impatient, anxious. I kept thinking about all the other things I needed to do too. Laundry, dishes, bathrooms, vacuum, dust . . .maybe tonight, while everyone sleeps I can clean quietly. Or sew. I need to stock my shop. STOP. I decided to take a half a klonopin (so as not to be knocked out). And then what? Flat. Irritable. Tired. Annoyed.
It's frustrating. I can't just have a happy medium. I'm mixed, I'm hypo manic, or I'm nothing. The meds are great, don't get me wrong. I'd probably have been hospitalized if I wasn't on them. But I wish there were less side effects. Heh. Doesn't everyone?
I work tomorrow and I don't want to. I'll have to bring klonopin just in case. I'm not taking any tonight. I know I have to go day by day . . .take each as they come . . .and not worry about the future too much . . .but that's hard to do when my mind WON'T SHUT OFF. That's all that cycles through, over and over. The one thing I can't shut off.
Well that was a pointless ramble I guess. I had it worded so eloquently in my head. I'll blame the drugs. I DID take klonopin today.
At least next week I can look forward to to therapy with M, getting my hair colored, and bipolar support group.

Rapid Cycling, Hooray

Yes, I know it's been awhile since I've written anything. This is for many reasons. Reasons I won't go into. Today's writing is just for me. So I may say things you may not know the definition of. And I'm not going to explain it. And for this, I'm sorry. But sometimes I need something just for me.
The last 2 months I've been in a mixed episode. Maybe slightly longer than that, I'm not sure. I had tons of stress and other circumstances that threw me into this episode. One was trying to go down on my lithium. BIG mistake. Others don't need mentioning here - I know what they are and how they contributed. So on came the mixed episode. Ups and downs. But they were somewhat manageable. Then, it got worse. The mania side mainly. Racing thoughts, pressured speech. I saw Dr. C and we agreed that I needed to go back up on the lithium. Done. I thought I was golden.
Nope. Not so much. Then came the rapid cycling. The ups and downs that came every few hours or minutes. Feeling like I could burst into to tears at any minute for no reason. The anger, the RAGE that would wash over like a tsunami, pulling me under its currents with no escape, helpless to reach the surface. Anxiety. About everything. The racing thoughts still, pressured speech, word vomit, inability to sleep . . .shaking, paranoia, scared, exhausted. Lost.
My days are made up of me trying to keep all of these feelings bottled up, under wraps, so know one knows - family, friends, coworkers, AND patients. I have to bite my tongue, lest I offend someone. I have to breath, slowly, deeply, lest I punch someone or the wall. I have to walk away lest I start sobbing uncontrollably. Constantly I have to keep myself in check while inside I'm withering, crumbling, dying. I constantly wonder if people know, if they see past my shaky facade. Do they know how badly I hurt? Do they know the anxiety I feel? Do they know how lost I am? How empty? And worse, do they know my anger? My irrational, explosive anger? So far I've only taken it out on a wall and an elevator door . . . but, sometimes I worry.
I want to cut. So bad. J still has the blades all hidden which is good. For at home at least. But at work I have access to unlimited scalpels. And the temptation . . .to just get one and and go to town. My leg probably. Fewer people would see it. I've not fallen into the temptation. Mostly. I did take a plastic fork to my hand. It's not deep, barely visible. but it kept me from the scalpel in my pocket. I've punched the wall, a box and the elevator doors at work when the anger and sadness was too much. No one knows I've done this. Suicidal ideation is starting to come back with all this. Hooray to that. And the scary thing is that I have a whole bottle of Klonopin in the medicine cabinet. It's very tempting. But I don't want to die.
I DON'T WANT TO DIE.
Let's get that clear. But I want this turmoil to end. I know it will, eventually, but right now I see know end in sight. I try not to catastrophize this, but when you're in the throws of  it? Pretty hard not to. My emotions overtake my intellect. Plus, what's annoying, is that I see myself taking on the roll of the victim. This is not me. I'm NOT a victim. I never have been. I was raped by my ex boyfriend, verbally and emotionally abused by him and, luckily, only hit once. Not a victim. I was sexually assaulted by my manager in the back room at Albertsons when I worked there. Not a victim. (Also? I've never told anyone about those things before). Never took on the victim role. NEVER. Because that's not who I am. And now? I see myself doing that. I have bipolar disorder. Poor me. Look at me suffer.
FUCK THAT! That's what I try and tell myself. I'm stronger than that. And when I was controlled on my meds? It was true. I was stronger. I was NOT my bipolar disorder. Right now I have no idea what I am. A ball of emotional wreckage, ready to self destruct at a moments notice. Feebly trying to keep my head above the rising current while the undertow gains constant strength.
Sadly, I'm now having a harder time talking to anyone about this. I have a feeling that people are growing weary of my mood instability. J especially. He's tolerance seems to be slipping. Not all the time. But the past week . . .I don't even want to mention anything to him. I don't want to burden him with this. My close friends? They've heard and dealt with so much from me. My other friends? They don't want to hear it. Coworkers? Fuck that. All I can say is that thank God I have M to talk to.
Anyway. That's me right now. Lost and stuck and sinking. Ever down. Always down.

It's been awhile, yeah?

It's been a month since my last post and I don't know where to start. The past month has been a bit up and down for me. I'm not too pleased with where I am emotionally or mentally. I still feel sub-par. Like I'm floating along just below the surface of the water - I see the light, I see where I want to be, but I can't  quite reach it. Top that off with random bouts of irritability and agitation and you can see where I'm at. I don't feel depressed per se, but not me. I'm not sure how to explain it.
I've been doing a lot of thinking/meditation on all of this lately and I've come to a conclusion - I think I may be sabotaging myself. I think I'm so used to how I've been feeling - this down, irritable, withdrawn version of myself  -  that I don't know how to feel good anymore. I may have 1 or 2 good days, where I actually feel mostly like myself, and then BOOM! It all goes to hell again. But here's the ticker - I think I make it go to hell. I think feeling down has become familiar, comforting almost. And feeling good, well, that adds anxiety into the mix. How long will it last? Do I really feel good? Do I feel good because I'm getting manic? I think I've so conditioned myself to feeling bad  that I switch to it automatically when I start feeling better. I try not to. I do. But I don't know how to make it stop. I do positive, inspiring readings in the morning, I work out, I tell myself that it's going to be a good day, that I'll have fun and be happy and not berate myself. And it works, for a short period of time. And then I start thinking about things. My weight, my eating habits of the day, something at work that upset me, all the meds I'm on, how long it is until my next therapy appointment, the fact that I have no PTO time saved up, the fact that I have laundry or dishes to do, or that I haven't sewn or drawn in awhile. The negative thoughts spiral in until I'm beating myself up over nothing in particular, doing it for the sake of doing it. And I can't snap myself out of it. I try. Believe me, I try. I try deep breathing, meditation, telling myself that the thoughts are wrong and not to believe them. But they persist. Sometimes not even consciously. Sometimes, I think they are buried down so I'm not even aware of what I'm doing. Well, on some level I am, but I feel powerless to stop.
Take today for instance. I should be at work right now, but I was put on call. Now, most people would be happy for an extra day off. But me? No. It starts a spiral of self loathing. First off, I think about how  have no PTO time so I'm not getting paid. Next, I think about how my hubby feels about it. In my mind, he's mad at me and thinks I was called off on purpose and thinks I'm just being lazy. Then, I'll try and push that aside and make a plan for the day. What am I going to do with this time off that I wasn't counting on. and this, this part is the hardest for me. Because I get anxious. Then I procrastinate. Then I spend too much time on the computer procrastinating more. Then, I beat myself up over procrastinating which makes me feel worse and I accomplish even less. Which leads to me feeling worse and lazy and stupid. I should just be able to get off my ass and get stuff done. But I stare off into space. It's exceedingly annoying. And I know this happens. I know this is what I do. And yet, I can't seem to stop it. That's why I think I'm sabotaging myself from feeling good.
On another note, in therapy this week M started asking me about my mom. It was an emotional session and I realized how much I miss having an actual mom. One I can talk to, one who I feel is there for me, one I can confide in. Truth be told, I don't feel like I can talk to my mom. I'm so angry and bitter about the alcoholism and the lies and the past that I can't bring myself to really talk to her. I can't move past all the hurt I felt growing up. Add to that the fact that my mom still drinks and lies about it. I just . . . I can't. But I never acknowledged how much it hurt me until M threw it out on the table. Maybe we can explore that more. Maybe I can move past the pain and learn to forgive. Maybe.
Also, last night was the first meeting of M and Dr. C's bipolar support group. And I loved it. It was wonderful and I think it will continue to be wonderful and helpful and fun. Yes, fun. I had fun in support group (how many people can say that?) and actually felt a little like my old self. The one who jokes, the one who fills awkward silences with equally awkward remarks, the one who smiles and laughs naturally and often. I want to feel that more. I had it last night and now I crave it. That is my goal. To be that person. To stop sabotaging myself so that I can get well, truly well, and be the person I'm meant to be.
Now how the hell do I do it?