One of those "anger release" exercises...

WARNING: EXTREMELY LONG POST!

Seriously, it's really long.

If you have to pee, pee now.

So... I had intended to do a different anger releasing writing project and instead I found myself "gifted" with a new starting point today. I ended up mixing some of my previous complaints with the newer ones. It might be a little confusing-somehow in my process I blended multiple members of  my family into one. No matter. The process is the important part. 


DISCLAIMER: I tried to embrace my anger. I tried to fan the flames. I tried to dig up compacted rage. As intentional as this is, I am still quite uncomfortable with expressing my anger. I don't know if such phrases are effective. I don't know if it's rational or justified or something I can stand by... I'm trying not to judge myself and I hope you can withhold judgment as well :o) I don't like saying mean things. I empathize and I see both sides so much that I struggle to even own thoughts like these let alone express them on paper, screen, or out loud!

DISCLAIMER PS: The hubby has encouraged me to embrace a "go fuck yourself" mentality. Instead of being hurt and trying to figure out what's wrong with me or how to be good enough, reject the hurtful opinion. Think or say "go fuck yourself" instead of throwing myself under the bus or putting myself at risk for relapse. I don't have to analyze every comment... I can let it go. Push it away. So, I tried to embrace that. In real life I don't really say, "go fuck yourself." Ever. Very weird feelings... Anywho. Just sayin.


Here we go. Somehow an offhand comment set my off...



Maybe you thought it was a compliment today when you said I should be on that show, "American Grit." The thing is, when the host describes the show as a place for people "all who either have lost their grit or never had it" I don't take that as a compliment. 



A) How the fuck can you think that I don't have grit? Do you have that little appreciation for what I've survived? 


It's puzzling to me that you have never seemed to grasp my mental health issues. It's been over 15 years since my symptoms surfaced and yet it seems like you still struggle to acknowledge my disease. I mention something relating to my mental health and I'm greeted with a "deer in the headlights" stare. My husband says that he has given up on trying to explain that this type of illness can't be "cured," that it's part of my body chemistry and brain structure. Do you really think I'm not trying hard enough to "fix it?" Do you think that I'm lazy?

Maybe you don't appreciate the years of my childhood and young adulthood spent in quiet desperation. The years of self-harming and isolation. You pegged me as "the Eeyore of the family." Why does my mental illness define my personality? 

Maybe you didn't notice my instability. You didn't notice my disease sending me into months of darkness or jerking me into weeks of elation. Years of feeling like I couldn't be trusted with my own life; whether that meant wanting to kill myself or being aware that I was too starry-eyed to make responsible decisions. I was impulsive and unstable and trying to figure out a solution all on my own... I suppose these deep-rooted feelings of rejection and abandonment have grown from multiple seeds, I'm sure this is one of them though. You didn't know what to do, I get it, maybe if it felt like you tried I wouldn't feel this angry. I wouldn't feel this heartbroken. You turned away from me and fed my self-disgust. 


And what of the last couple years? Do you appreciate the fact that I spent months barely able to care for myself or my infant son? What about the period of time that I couldn't be trusted alone with my son? Surely you remember the weeks in the hospital. I'm told you visited. I know that you helped drive me to ECT treatments. Do you know how many times the hubster drove me? or drove BB north to daycare then drove south to work then drove west to see me in the psych ward before rushing back to BB and caring for our son throughout the evening-multiple wakings in the night-before waking early to do it again all on his own? (Hubby comment: he only got one speeding ticket!)

Do you see the scars we carry? The scars that bind us? That time broke trust and built trust. I couldn't be trusted with my life or with my son's life. He saved us. Why does the hubby ask so openly and abruptly if I'm safe? if I'm suicidal? if I feel out of control? because dozens and dozens of times I've been in danger. He's been rescuing me. That was our norm and we've made it through. We've made it through and are making a new normal from scratch. Your jokes and teasing about his protectiveness and adherence to routine aren't just annoying, they're insulting.

How can you imply that I don't have grit? Over a year of life-threatening postpartum depression, over a dozen medications tried to stem the crisis, over three weeks in the hospital, over thirty ECT treatments... I'm still here. I laid on a bed and waited for my last breath to try and spare my husband and son a lifetime of trying to save a life I thought wasn't worth saving-mine. My husband ripped that plastic bag off my face and saved my life that afternoon and despite having close to no resolve left, somehow I kept fighting. For him. For my son. And a little for me.

How much more grit do I have to have before I can believe you think I'm enough?

I can't count on that anymore. I can't wait to sense some change in you. I can't play these pussy-footing games of allusion and corroding criticism. I may have started my life in this game with your dangerous rules. I won't finish my life at your game. You can call me sensitive, you can tease me and imply that I'm weak, you can make me feel like I'm flawed beyond salvaging-and then you can go fuck yourselves. Just because you don't seem to realize the damage you cause doesn't mean you are devoid of responsibility. 

I don't need your apologies. I don't need you. I don't need more grit.




B) Do you have that little appreciation for how much I do everyday to try and avert relapse and continue to survive? What kind of grit does that take?


You give the impression that the most important aspect of my exercise regimen in my weight loss and being fit. Maybe all your comments about me "being in the best shape of your life" or "a sliver of what you used to be" are intended to be compliments. In reality? It feels like weight added back onto my shoulders. I feel pressure to lose more weight. To lift heavier weight. To tone more parts of my body and fit in smaller clothes and eliminate rolls and embody some image that you, society, and the shadowed part of me have deemed worthy of pride. 

It's not healthy.

My mental state is more important than the state of my ass. I exercise every day to try and maintain my mood stability or actively battle back anxiety and depression. I go to the gym despite my social anxiety, despite feeling inept and insufficient, despite feeling like an outcast and poser. I go to the gym and try to push myself hard enough to be able to push back the disease I will live with for the rest of my life.

It doesn't really matter how much I can lift. The kind of strength I need most can't be provided by regular exercise.


You tease me for my "OCD" while loading the dishwasher or trying to keep the refrigerator organized. Okay, that's not how you do things. Fine. I do it different and for a damn good reason. 

I'm not OCD-which is a  clinical disorder and not something to be joked about-I am sick. I am sick in such a way that I have to avoid any extra stress whenever possible. I am sick in such a way that I have to be mindful throughout my day about big and little choices-from doing dishes or taking medication. 

I am sick in such a way that unloading the dishes and finding several of them dirty because the machine was overloaded or loaded ineffectively can be unduly upsetting. I'm sick in such a way that having sharp knives scattered throughout the other silverware instead of contained in their own section can increase my impulses to self-harm. 

As for a disorganized and sometimes unsanitary fridge or a cabinet stuffed with mismatched Tupperware? If I'm having a bad day, opening a door and being confronted by these things can send me into a panic or distress me in a way that contributes to a depressive episode. Not to mention feeling the criticism and rejection from you verbal teasing in each carelessly placed item. And seriously-why would you want to put your fruits right by (or on) your raw meat!? 


I have to live this way to live. It's working for me and that's what matters-at least to me, my husband, and our son. Don't think that I resent it-it is a lot of work and it's also the greatest sense of stability that I've ever had in my life. My mental state may fluctuate and get dangerous from time-to-time; dinner will always be at 6:00 PM. The silverware will always be sorted and easily accessible. The yoghurt will always be on the same shelf. Baby Bananaface will always have a set bedtime. That stability, having something I can count on, gives me comfort and confidence that I didn't have before. It helps me cope, it helps me thrive.

You want to live in a hurricane made by your own hand? Go ahead. You want to swallow your feelings and eat your loneliness? Go ahead. You want to bury yourself in cheap trinkets in lieu hearing "I love you?" Fine. I'm sick of trying to satiate the needs you don't claim responsibility for or even acknowledge. I'm not interested in maintaining this legacy of delusion and self-imposed suffering. I take this heritage and try to set it aside day-after-day for my own good and for my husband and for my son.

Y'all can sit in your burning building on your own. I'm leaving.




Whew. I tried NOT to edit much. I tried NOT to hold back or censor. I'm sure that this isn't everything though. I have a hard time handling anger. I think this was a step in the right direction though.

What does this mean for the real relationship with me family? I have no clue. I do think that I can't expect them to change or expend too much of my energy fighting to change things. I have to take care of myself in other ways first and that takes a lot of my time and energy. I think it's all right to simply accept things and accept that I don't have to fix it. I can move on and live the best life that I can without making everything neat and perfect.

CONGRATS if you read this entire post.

 You have eyes of steel ;o)

Challenge

I just wrote about the 51%-er mentality and wouldn't ya know it-it came up with force this weekend. Funny how a certain level of awareness and insight can mean baloney in the real world!



I went to my first Saturday CrossFit workout. They're different from the weekly classes because they allow anyone and everyone to attend instead of limiting the class size. It's busy and a bit confusing, at least for this newbie. The workout of the day was quite intimidating and considering how much the veterans were groaning made me feel like I had no chance at all. Not to mention the stress and anxiety of a new, challenging social environment.

I felt isolated. Alone. Delusional and highly doubtful that I had any chance of making a complete fool of myself. Before we even started talking about the workout I noticed my heart rate was heightening, my breathing shallow, my eyes tearing, and the familiar desperation of panic creeping toward my chest. I managed to pull it together-including the other opportunities during the workout when I was ready to breakdown.

Anyways.

The workout as prescribed involved such:
>1 mile run
>100 pull-ups
>200 push-ups
>300 squats
>1 mile run

I had to modify since I can't do pull-ups yet or very many full push-ups. I did jumping pull-ups and box push-ups. I also partnered up with someone so we could each do half the prescribed numbers. We did that for most of it except we got mixed up with the pull-ups and we each did 100 of those.

I did. I was slow. I was hurting. My last mile was in slow-mo and even though I was alone and trudging, I never stopped shuffling. I didn't stop and walk, I kept going. Reminded myself it was a competition. At the end my partner returned and cheered me on and encouraged me enough that I could whip up all my last energy to run faster to the end.



After it all, I was proud of myself. It hadn't been perfect. I still felt exiled from the "official CrossFit gang." Still, I tried to focus on the fact that it had been my 7th day at CrossFit and I hung in there during a notorious workout.

Getting home and sharing with my family was disappointing. They seemed dismissive and not interested in details. I felt like a failure again. I felt alone again. I showered and tried to be productive, I was just too spent from that morning's workout. Rested up a bit and then got back to chores and such.

Unfortunately, the fancy cake I was gonna try to make again blew up in my face. The fucked up sponge was enough to rankle me quite thoroughly. Then I ruined the first steps to my buttercream and gave up. I had been so agitated when I started baking. The hubs said I had said the f-word more in five minutes than I had in two weeks altogether. He was right!

My mind found every little thing to be mad at and whipped up a rage in me. That angry mixed with deep sadness left me in quite a state. After I officially bombed the cake and gave up, I took a sparkling water and wandered out to the side of the house to breath and try to let it go.


Really struggled today embracing that 51% mentality. I'm afraid of where this mood instability is going. Not convinced that I'm making any progress in trying to radically accept my family.

I think the growing pains with the CrossFit gym and navigating a new social arena (extra stress) on top of the ongoing stress of living with my family has destabilized me, I was hoping the new gym situation would help give me relief-and to a degree it does-there are also a lot of stressful facets to it.

Whew. Basically, I'm still learning. I'm still trying. Many moons ago when I started at the Y I was the nervous outsider without a clue and then I became a memorable face. I have a chance at doing the same there here, it's just gonna take some time.



Willingly took Ativan this morning. Usually its the hubster that suggests such a thing. This morning I was struggling and becoming highly agitated so quickly, I knew I couldn't manage without something drastic. On top of the Ativan I turned on Pandora on my phone and plugged my headphones in to drone out the noise around the house. It was all too much. A slammed cabinet or a dropped child's toy sent me into shakes and agitated breathing.

At one point after cutting into a bag for a baking project I got the urge to cut. Thought that just a little scratch on my wrist wouldn't be a big deal. Then I thought that any scratch was a big deal. I started shaking and closed my eyes against a flow of tears. I struggled to discard the scissors and ended up tossing them toward a counter and backing toward the freezer to put iced sponges on my face. My mom noticed and I told her to get rid of the scissors. After a few minutes I got back into my recipe and calmed down a bit. Still afraid of what could be coming if that urge was that strong.



One day at a time. One damned minute at a time.

Reflection

I've been concentrating a lot on focusing my attention on the now and participating fully in the moment to help maintain my mood and well-being through the tumultuous holiday rush, but as New Year's nears I find myself looking back...

It's been quite a year. 2016 wasn't an easy one, that's for sure!

**I've plugged in some random photo highlights that may or may not correlate to my text, but I hope you enjoy them!

Thinking back to last January, I was in the hospital. According to my blog I went to my aunt's memorial, but I can't remember because of all the ECT treatments. For a good chunk of time I was doing so much ECT that I wasn't allowed to drive.

For a big part of the year I wasn't able to be alone with Baby Bananaface. It was too overwhelming or didn't feel safe.

For a while the hubster confiscated my tweezers because I was having a hard time controlling my urges to self harm.

In the spring I tried to kill myself.

Another chunk of my year was dedicated to TMS treatments multiple times a week. Throughout it all I've been on and off more drugs than I can name trying to find a mood stabilizer that'll work for me. To top it off I had those seizures and got diagnosed with a seizure disorder and got a prescription goin' for that...

There's been a lot between those headliners, including countless tears and hugs and kisses and fears shared between me and the hubster. Nights and days where I didn't feel safe. When I wasn't sure if I'd make it to the next day. When I didn't believe that I could ever find happiness or stability again.

Thankfully, things are changing. I have come far enough now that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I have hope again. I'm still working on the confidence part but my faith is certainly growing and despite the hiccups along the way I haven't given up.

So much has changed... I've come so far this year.

I'm driving again-even taking BB to and from daycare. I'm making meals and able to safely use my tweezers. I'm socializing and going to the gym nearly everyday. I'm even thinking about finding part-time work soon.

I've felt like a failure. I've felt broken. I've felt hopeless. More and more I'm feeling hopeful. I'm feeling strong. I'm feeling proud. I am surviving.

I'm glad to put this year behind me and I hope to have more positive memories to stir up this time next year :o)

Don't really remember doing resolutions much but I think I will be concentrating on keeping up with maintaining my health and moving forward.

I wish everyone a wonderful 2017 and thank you all for sharing 2016 with me.

Lastly, let's hear a big cheer for baby steps! Hoorah!

U is for Unsatisfied Urges #atozchallenge

This post is part of my first year doing the A to Z Challenge and I happen to be writing under the theme Gratitude: The Things That Keep Me Alive. This is a relevant theme for me as I am struggling with postpartum depression, and also have diagnosed anxiety and bipolar II (just to let you know what's going on with me-it might be pertinent as you read the post below). Thank you for stopping by and reading my post!

U is for unsatisfied urges because A) it's a double-U and I thought that was cool and B) unsatisfied urges are why I'm still here and not only do they mean "Hey, you're alive" they also provide little moments of glory like, "Hey, you really wanted to do that and you didn't, way to go YOU."

TRIGGER WARNING 

(self injury & suicidal thoughts)

I've been having more "better days" than I have in a long time but I still struggle with the occasional urge to do myself harm or even worse. Not too long ago I had a plastic bag in my hand I felt the urge to put it over my head come over me. I stared so hard at that bag I'm surprised it didn't melt. I quivered, my hand clenched and trembled, I shook my head and furrowed my brow and then the hubster walked in and said, "Uh nope. We are throwing that away, okay? Right now." He plucked the bag out of my hand and chucked it, quickly gathering up the second bag from our shopping try and putting the kibosh on that urge.

It's not always just me that's battling back urges, sometimes it's a team effort. Other times, it is just me. Like when I walked to the library the other week and wanted to walk in front of traffic, especially the big buses that I knew couldn't stop on a dime if the world depended on it. I didn't pander to those urges even as they haunted me on my way to the library and on my way back. The same with my urges to jump off (I always think fall off, 'cause really, I don't think I'd jump) the overpass by our home. I didn't do it.

I haven't cut myself. I haven't banged my wrists. I haven't burned myself. I have left those terrible urges unsatisfied, and though it's a struggle in the moment to do so, it's quite satisfying when I've gained some distance and positive perspective to know that I've won a battle (or won a thousand battles really).

What urges do you fight? Do you have urges that used to haunt you and no longer trouble you or is it an ongoing battle? How do you handle losing the battle? I'm working on being kinder to myself when I stumble :o)

Sometimes, I just don't know...

This weekend has been confusing.

Sweet, wonderful family moments and time with the hubster interrupted every so often by my urges to self harm or thoughts of ending it all entirely. I've been popping more anti-anxiety pills than I have in the entire last week and feeling pretty miserable, tense, and worthless.

The hubster brought me an anti-anxiety pill with a glass of water and I asked him to get the glass away from me and he asked me to take the pill and I asked him again to get it away from me and he told me take the pill and I started sobbing and sob-saying "get it away from me!" until he did and gave me my plastic Nalgene and asked what was up with the glass (after I took the pill). I told him how I've been envisioning breaking the glasses around the house and using the shards to cut my wrists.

You know that point where you cross over from, "I'm having a rough time" to "Man, am I fucked up?" That's me right now.

What a weekend.

What a frickin' weekend.

Another day or two of this and I'm back to the ECT. Yipee-freakin'-yee


Did I post a link to this article yet? I can't remember. Oh well. Here it is again.... "When You're in the Gray Area of Being Suicidal."

A Little Big Update

What's up with the meds?
So I was running high on lithium (thus the tremors and maybe a little of why my mild state of hypothermia on the mountain was a bit more kukoo than I expected) and now I'm back down to 900 mg at bedtime. The Seroquel wasn't working and I was already backing that down but my depression was so severe last week and the last couple days that my psychiatrist is ramping up that dialing down=I take 100 mg for two more nights and then no more Seroquel. Instead I have started taking Risperidone 1 mg and will for those next two nights and then up it to 2 mg at bedtime. I'm also taking Klonapin in the morning for anxiety. I'm not sure if it does anything....

Symptoms?
I'm having those "danger is everywhere" thoughts, feeling a little paranoid and irrational. It's pretty unlikely that our downstairs neighbor (been writing passive aggressive notes to us) is going to blow up her apartment in an attempt to kill us or sneak in and turn on our stove top to try and burn us down but that's where my mind goes lately. I'm having body aches and tiredness beyond tiredness, lack of appetite but nomming junk food and chocolate when nothing else sounds good (hell, the chocolate doesn't even sound good!), I have some angry outbursts still, been struggling to cope with the baby for very long, oversleeping, and still obsessive about my sister and my mother and not feeling like I'm moving on. Self-harmed on Monday, scratched my right forearm with my left nails. I should be disappointed in myself, but I just don't care.

Side Effects?
Still waiting for tremors to go away. Wiggly worm legs and arms after evening meds is back.

Motherhood?
Nursing during the day and sometimes in the evening but he bit me several times last week and this weekend and that had made me angry and not willing to breastfeed (along with my very poor mood). It's been better lately but I have a therapist telling me to wean and a psychiatrist asking if I am still breastfeeding so I'm not sure how much longer I'm going to make it. Part of me is heartbroken and disappointed, but for the most part I just don't care about much anymore.

Wifedom?
Ugh. The hubs and I have little moments or normality but lately there has been more lapses in communication and resentment building. I feel like he doesn't help me do certain things around the house but he's busy with work and taking care of me and the kid and the dog and other things, but I can't feel appreciative, I just feel frustrated and angry. He's not a saint, don't get me wrong, but my reactions are amplified for whatever reason and unreasonable... Part of me is concerned, but, again, for the most part I just don't care. I just don't want him to bother me. I just want to be alone. No kid. No husband. The dog is okay. Usually.


Overall?
Still not good. Not good at all. Today I got up at 8:30 am and made it through breakfast but ended up back in bed for 45 minutes before I could actually start my day. The hubs worked from home Monday, Tuesday, and today. This is not sustainable. I'm not functional. This isn't fun. And at the same time... fuck it. I just don't give a rip. I'm miserable, I'm sad, and I don't give a fuck.

So, not good.

I think I'm safe, but I did self-harm Monday and have had suicidal flashes. Psychiatrist wanted me back in the hospital and I said no it would "just set me up for another fall, I don't have support (IRL) when I get out and I just slide back down." She also recommended something called TMS which I haven't had much time to look into. So, I slog on.

Now, I shall draggeth myself to the gym.

Bad, Bad Morning

I've passed exhausted and have arrived at desperate. The sleep deprivation with the anxiety kept me awake last night, my body tensed and my mind racing. This morning the hubster was home from work and helped with B.B. but didn't leave me to my rest (see GIF above) which lead to angry outbursts and subsequently darkness.

Last night I was scratching myself with tweezers and this morning the harmful soothing continued with matches and scissors. Eventually the suicidal fantasies began and while not quite a full-fledged attempt, something like it occurred. A white flag? A plea? I didn't really plan it out or really try to succeed, but I ended up in the hallway clutching a plastic bag. In my weak mind's fantasy I could tape the bag around my head, cuddle into bed and simply drift off, dissolve into nothingness as I've so often yearned.

But I froze when I saw the baby sleeping in my room. I couldn't do it with him there. I couldn't move. The hubster noticed my activity from his place on the couch, set aside his work laptop and upon assessing the situation rushed past me, transferring Baby Bananaface to his crib in the other room. He returned to wrench the bag from my hands and supervise me, resuming his work via laptop sitting on the bed next to me.

My body was painfully clenched as I lay on my side, feeble tears dripped onto my desperately clenched hands that were shoved under my face. I mumbled and muttered a weak begging mantra, "Please, get me a bag. Please, just get me a bag."

Eventually I slept.

More angry words. More desperation. Eventually I couldn't sleep or rest anymore and took a shower around 1:00 PM, finally eating and drinking around 2:00 PM. Speaking with the hubbo, my voice is small and quiet. I feel weak and ashamed. I know it's not all my fault, it's the illness, but I feel penitent, as if the horrible episode were selfish indulgence.

The sitter is here to help with baby but I don't think that she helps, he cries nearly the entire time. I haven't seen him for a few hours, tucked away here the bedroom. I don't feel compelled to intervene as I usually do but it still pains me to hear him cry. I suppose that's a good sign.

I have an appointment on Sept. 1st with a clinic that specializes in postpartum care but it feels so far away. The sleep deprivation, the anxiety, the painful, sticky thoughts about my family and the feeling of abandonment and worthlessness hangs over me. There are decent moments but so much of my day takes place under shadow.

I'm still slugging along but it feels so messy, like everyone else is in the desirable areas of the Candy Land board and I'm stuck in the swamp-what is it? chocolate? molasses? I always wanted to be the ice cream queen, clean white and blue, similar to the Snow Queen from the Shelley Duvall's Faerie Tale Theatre, my favorite episode. Whenever we went to the library on base I would race over to the VHS section and search for it, renting it over and over. You'd think that Elsa from frozen would've appealed to me, following this chain of images, but no.

Also loved the image of the angel food cook lady from this cartoon... funny the images that stick with us from childhood? So strong after all these years.


The rain is gone. The sun is back. Insult to injury as far as I'm concerned.

Forecast: Cranky

Another shitty day in Hannahland. I'm exhausted and not catching up enough on sleep this weekend despite two naps yesterday. And on a late night brownies related note, my period is kicking my ass again. Woke up yesterday feeling like my cervix had whiplash. So that doesn't help.

Today I couldn't sleep in, bottomed out with dark thoughts mid-morning and scratched my fingernails up and down my left arm to soothe myself into a very low but somewhat functioning level for a shower around 1 pm. We are hoping to get out of the house and pick up my thyroid meds along with a few groceries.

I am not really caring about much at this point but I did manage to get a few pictures taken as requested. As usual, B.B. doesn't disappoint!

Fair warning, my earring "action shots" are rather odd but the fused glass earrings I got are studs (due to anticipated baby interference) and rather difficult to capture in a selfie I discovered.

I've been told I have small ear lobes so I was a little worried about how they would fit, but they are just the right size and quite flashy. Leave it to the hubs! I was eyeing much more subdued pairs, but he sees the brighter more audacious side of me that is so often subdued. Not that these are "risky" but certainly more colorful than I usually wear!

The Pitfalls of Living in Hiding

Living with a mental illness means hiding in plain sight for me. Most people IRL don't know I have bipolar II and while I have been more open with my first family and even in-laws, and occasionally I leave mental health related comments on FB pages I follow, I tend to remain incognito. (The hubbo would say "unacknowledged" vs. incognito)

This week my hiding in plain sight tactic set me up for an uncomfortable situation.

One of the ladies I met through a board game gaming group invited me out for a walk (we ran a 5k together before Baby but then kinda fell outta touch). Well, she had received some "bipolar texts" from her mother and proceeded to talk all about her crazy mother and her bipolar-oh, and her mother happens to be on cocaine. For whatever reason the bipolar was emphasized as the offending aspect much more than the effect of hard drugs... never mind the mixing of the two.

It was awkward for me to be walking along hearing her rant and deprecate bipolar and even self harm and suicidal episodes ("if you don't get it right the 1st time, and you do the same thing the next time and fail again, obviously it's just for attention!") completely unaware that I had personal experience with all those issues. 

I couldn't bring myself to say, "Well, I have bipolar II and I have cut myself, banged my wrists, slammed my head against walls, I've written suicide notes, I've wanted to die and I'm not the same as your crackhead mother." ***I could probably come up with something better to say, more meaningful, but I can't think of it ATM***

The whole thing made think of how I live my life with so many people not having a clue who I really am. I suppose this isn't a strange thing, I'm certainly not alone in this, but that awkward walk conversation really brought it home for me and made me wonder what being "out" would be like.

Living in hiding wasn't really a choice, it just happened. I grew up with feelings not being okay and mental health being irrelevant AKA ignored (if we don't acknowledge it, there isn't a problem!). I'm not sure what living honestly would look like, it's not like mental health comes up in casual conversations, but sometimes I want to take up arms and make a stand.

Part of what motivates me is my own loneliness. All the days and nights I wonder if other families go through what we go through. I wonder if there are other seemingly "normal" folks that hide their pain, struggle in private, feel as lonely and isolated as the hubs and I. I wonder if my living honestly would help them feel better, if maybe in the long run it would combat my loneliness as well, help create a more accepting community around me or in society. It's so invalidating hiding like I do, every dishonest "I'm fine" to each "How are you?" leaves little tears in my heart.

But I also hide because of fear. I see what people write and hear what people say, things like what my friend said that perpetuate erroneous stereotypes and cultivate fear. I've seen the blank, terrified stares of someone who has no clue how to react when they hear me talk honestly and openly about mental illness, and I've read the "just kill yourself" or "I'm glad they're dead" comments online.

I don't know where I'll end up with this, living in hiding or leading a charge for acceptance or something in between, but I know that I need to keep thinking on it. 

Argh. A break would be nice.

Give a gal a break. I'm not just talking a break from Baby, I'm sure that would be helpful, but I'd rather have a break from my warped, messed up self. I'd like to have a day where I can make it through without wanting to self harm, being able to take care of my child as well as I'd like, eating and sleeping in a healthy fashion.

That's the break that I want. That's the Publisher's Clearing House prize, The Price is Right showcase, the lotto jackpot that I wish to win.

It won't happen. There is no ticket I can buy, there is no luck involved. It's a slow grind, tooth and nail, a fight to get those days.

I just have to keep believing that someday I can make it there.

And this is where the hubbo starts singing "Don't Stop Believin'."

My Morning Mind

Woke up this morning and it didn't take long before I was thinking of bad things. Repeating images of me hanging or a bullet going through my head or drowning myself in a tub or cutting myself. I even imagined buying straight razors at the store.



All these negative images aren't fun and are no help, no solution.



Yesterday was bad. I cried so much throughout the afternoon my eyes were swollen this morning. I half-expected the hubster to stay home from work but when I woke up this morning to a screaming baby he wasn't here. Can't say I blame him. I know that he has obligations and that he supports our family but on days like this it feels like he goes to work to escape me.



Also stuck in my head in that song from "The Wedding Singer," the one where half was written pre-breakup and half post? I even see Jon Lovitz in my mind saying, "she's losing her mind, and I'm reaping all the benefits...." Only I'm not sure what benefits he sees.









So angry. Angry at my sister, my mother, my situation, the world. Feel so betrayed and abandoned, yet also feel like I don't deserve any better. Basically, life sucks. Life sucks and it's nothing new, and I'm getting sick of this new normal.

Almost There

It's Thursday. I'm almost there, almost to the end of the week. Not that the week or specific days means much it just feels safer when I make it to the weekend, when the hubbo gets home and I'm not "hanging in there" on my own.

This week was different. After Sunday being as rough as it was the hubster worked from home Monday and my mom came up that afternoon and stayed most of Tuesday as well, then my dad came up Wednesday afternoon. Not only was it helpful having extra hands to hold baby or help out it was grounding having people around.

It's weird, it feels like a good thing/bad thing that having other people around makes me "suck it up" a bit. On one hand it's a negative because I minimize my struggles and hide my pains, on the other it's a pro because it prevents some wallowing. Even if it's bad and good it doesn't matter, it helped me get through the week without major issues. No self harming, no suicidal thoughts. Still had some harming Baby thoughts but not nearly as many or as intense and still had anxiety and issues sleeping but it's getting better. We've adding half a melatonin to my regimen and that seems to help.

In other news, we've moved the moving day up to Monday instead of later in the month. I'm still anxious about moving and sorting and cleaning and if we'll like the new place and coping with feeling unsafe. Not that our new place is any safer or less safe than this apartment, it's just strange and new and it feels scary to me. I'm assuming I'll normalize, it'll just take time. I don't think there is any legitimate reason to be afraid otherwise the hubster wouldn't have rented it!

So, I'm doing all right this week. Caught up in a boatload of supplements, herbal teas, compresses, self care, and baby care but doing better with it all. I'm still worried for the future. We're looking into postpartum doulas, which seems like it would be helpful and a relief but also worries me a bit because of the money.

Not looking forward to traveling and social stuff this weekend for my sister's graduation. I'm wondering if basking in her pregnancy drama is going to have ill effects on me but I also think varying our routine might be a good thing. Hitting the road in measured doses is usually good for me, too much stress can make it have the opposite effect though... So we'll see.

Wish this friggin heat would subside. Running the fans all day is make my nose run a little much for my taste.

Tattle

The hubster had quite the day yesterday taking care of me and Baby. I was able to feed and watch Baby a little but he was main caretaker nearly all day. I recovered my balance a little for the evening and we were able to go for a walk. It was actually a little out of order my perk up in mood....

Usually I break down and we talk things out then go for a walk or "get back on the horse" trying to take care of me but this time I asked if we could go for a walk and felt lighter and started talking without a break down. I had him read a journal entry and a blog entry and he got to open up about how he's been feeling.

It was heart wrenching but good to hear his perspective (great even). He isn't always that expressive but sometimes he comes up with some wonderful turns of phrase. He said that day he had been mourning me, that when the darkness comes it completely erases the real me, I disappear, it's like a mini coma. It's not just a bad mood where I'm still Hannah, it's night and day and I'm not myself. He was so sweet emphasizing that in these times I'm not myself and that I can't feel bad for what I think and do because I'm not myself, it's not the real me.

He opened up about feeling wore out and clarified that while he hadn't been talking about my self harm or the mood dip it was because he doesn't like to bring it up when I have a good day and talking about it while I'm down isn't always helpful, so sometimes he just bites his tongue and waits for a more stable tine to discuss things.

He also mentioned that he had texted my mom. He had asked what her schedule was for the week and if she could come up as I was having some mental health issues. She responded with a lot of excuses and odd references to my neighbors, recommending I go down there with the Baby and sit with some neighbors. Not helpful and no inquiries into how I was really doing or how bad things were. Not surprising but definitely disappointed him. As many times as she will say "I'm always there for you" her idea of support can be hit or miss.

Surprisingly though my dad called while we were out on our walk. He and the hubster talked for several minutes about the state of things and eventually the hubster handed the phone off to me. The second I heard my dad ask, "Haven't been feeling too well, eh?" I broke into sobs. Thankfully we weren't in a super exposed part of the walk but it was still a public break down!

We talked for quite a while and even though my father still has a hard time understanding what my illness is really like and how mental illness works he listened and tried to be supportive which was helpful. I think part of him still sees mental health as a thing of willpower and thinking about this made me want to type out a hypothetical letter to him...



Dear Dad,

I know it's hard for you to understand my sickness. I know it seems like something I should be able to beat and make disappear, something that I should figure out how to fix and keep fixed but it doesn't quite work that way. You may even think that it's a question of personal strength and that my relapses are due to a weakness in character, a lapse in discipline, or laziness-I sometimes think this myself-but that's not how it works. Sometimes I can avoid the pitfalls, but other times it's just a storm passing over me... It's complicated.

Sometimes I have regular ups and downs like "normal" folk. My emotions are reasonable, my reactions modulated, my mind and judgement is sound. But when I have an episode or a relapse my brain becomes hijacked by the disease. My logic is corrupted and rational thinking becomes nearly impossible. All my knowledge, experience, and wisdom is overwritten by a mental virus-sometimes it's a hypomanic virus, sometimes a depressive virus. 

When the hypomania hits I feel overly positive, make rash decisions, think that I can do much more than is reasonable, feel so jazzed I only sleep for 4 hours each day (I normally need 8-10 hours of sleep). Sometimes these switches sneak up on me, my mind tells me "it's just a great day!" but it's really the illness. When the symptoms are "feeling good, being up beat, and getting a lot done" it's easy to think "what's the big deal?" but it is a big deal because when I get on a high like that it disrupts my sleep and routines and sets me up for a big fall.

When the depression hits self harming and suicide become rational ideas, I can barely get out of bed, sometimes simple movements (like shifting position on the couch or reaching for a water bottle or wiping my nose) become nearly impossible as if I'm stuck in a vat of crystallized honey, I have panic attacks and anxiety, near constant tension in muscles all over my body, and a sick, sucking feeling in my stomach. Sometimes I will sleep for 12 or more hours a day, other times I struggle to get 5 or 6 hours, either way I suffer and struggle to get back on a healthy schedule. 

In a severe relapse it can take weeks for me to myself righted again, sometimes it can take months-I'll have good days thrown in there but I've had years where I'm stuck between hypomanic and depressive states without being "normal" for very long. It's a big factor in my weight gain since both states can affect my appetite and often put me in a place where sweets and carby foods are the only thing that ever sound good to eat.

I know that I have many things to be thankful for and that it's hard to imagine me really believing that everyone would be better off if I were dead but when my mood dips down it really, truly seems like the best thing for everyone. Having been suicidal multiple times a year (sometimes as often as multiple times a week) for over a decade it's become a very familiar idea and it's easier to slide into that depth of mood each time I relapse. It's like the path in my mind has become worn down and whenever my mood fails my thoughts take that path of least resistance, ending up at suicide as a solution. It seems crazy but that's because it is, I'm not in my right mind when these thoughts crop up, it's not my true logic, it's the disease's tainted logic, the sickness' programming overwriting my own.

When I self harm it's a similar situation but slightly different. My logic becomes skewed but it's also a very physical compulsion. The physical pain relieves the mental and physical pain caused by the depression, it distracts my brain from rerunning the suicidal and depressed thought sequences that loop in my mind during an episode so that when I self harm I very often feel better for a short time. It's a coping technique, a negative one but one that works quite often. It doesn't make sense to hurt yourself to heal yourself but it can be like a hard shutdown that reboots me-the virus or diseased thoughts usually return, it just interrupts the episode and gives me a momentary reprieve.

This is only a bit of what I go through. I'm not sure how to explain what the hubster and I have been through and what this illness really looks like day-to-day and over the years, it's such a big deal. It's a huge part of our lives and who I am but at the same time it's totally NOT me. It's hard to comprehend an invisible illness that masks itself as personality, that hijacks someone from the inside-out, a disease that doesn't just coalesce in physical symptoms but expresses itself using my voice, my movement, my thoughts. If I didn't experience firsthand I would say it sounds like a cheesy sci-fi flick, but that's just what it is.

I live my life sharing my existence with an illness, not simply sharing my body like arthritis, diabetes, or a heart condition. When my disease flares up it takes my body and my soul and my mind, expressing itself over all planes of my existence not just the physical, which makes it so hard to see it for what it is and not mistake it for the real me.

It took me a long, long time to realize these patterns and understand the nature of my illness (heck, I'm still cracking the code) and it was exceptionally hard for me to accept it as a fact of life. You may say, "why accept it? fight back, don't accept this, reject it" but it's not something I can excise. Drugs may dampen the effects but they don't kill the virus and very often they suppress the real me, prevent me from feeling any natural highs or lows, prevent me from experiencing happiness as well as sadness in addition to the troublesome symptoms. 

It's a losing game. The best I can do is try and maintain a preventative lifestyle and avoid symptoms cropping up, and recovering as quickly as possible when they do. There isn't always a way to win in life, sometimes a tie is the best we can do, and living well with Bipolar II is almost always a tie of sorts. I never really defeat the disease, it's always there but when I do well enough I get to be "there" too instead of overwritten.

I don't know if you'll really understand any of this but even when you don't you're able to listen and be supportive and I really appreciate that. I just hope that you aren't disappointed in me or think that I don't try hard enough to fix myself, because I'll never be "fixed," this is part of my genetic, physical, mental make up and it's something I'll live with for the rest of my life no matter how hard to try to make it disappear. I guess that's what I really want you to understand. That I try even though there is no cure. That I'm not a failure because I can't cure an incurable disease. 

Love,
Hannah

Oh Jolly, One Good Day Before Back to Bad...

Wanted to go to the hospital Friday. Wanted to be in a room that wasn't my own, no laundry, no dishes, no packing, no obligations just me and Baby doing our thing. Unfortunately my bare bones existence consists of tons of supplements, struggling to consume enough nutritious foods, runaway thoughts, anxiety, all over tension, and now even castor oil packs to try and reduce the inflammation of my perpetually plugged duct-not exactly a prime situation for rest and relaxation.

I've never been to the hospital for my mental illness, I imagine it might be more frustrating and complicated than helpful in many ways, yet it remains a hazy last resort I cling to. Deep down I know it's not the respite I need, so I keep at arm's length to protect the possibility, protect the illusion of a safety net.

In reality, it's all on me. The only help to be offered would be drugs pushed down my gullet-and I can't go back to drugs. The side effects and lackluster results aside, the one thing I'm doing "right" is feeding my baby and going on meds may take that away from me. I don't know how I could handle losing the one thing I can do right at the moment. It's a scary proposition.

It all feels like too much to juggle. I can't cope unless things get better and things can't get better without me taking care of all my shit, yet I'm hobbled. No matter what the hubster may say, I don't see any help for me. He's barely keeping it together helping out more with the baby and coping with his work stress, not to mention handling most of the cooking and trying to force feed me. I'm not ill enough to be helped by a medical facility and I'm not well enough to help myself much. One alternative is to hope things get worse, another that they get marginally better so I can fix it myself.

Today is another shitty day. Started out well enough but has devolved to paralyzing tension, more scratching on my forearm, and some wrist banging. As much as I'm afraid of the self harm escalating I'm more afraid of my mood completely bottoming out and having to go on medication. I guess there isn't really an upside at the moment, just fear on top of fear with anxiety and self disgust for flavor.

Yesterday was good enough. Beginning to look like I can't string together good days though. At least my ongoing crazy dreams are entertaining.

Freaky Friday

Started off okay enough this morning despite little sleep and hardly any food I made it to the lactation consultant appointment on time, just a little harried. The appointment went well and while I felt frustrated I didn't feel overwhelmed until later at the grocery store when I was trying to find the stuff she recommended. I couldn't find what I was looking for, I got teary. My appetite was already suppressed but then I could hardly find something I wanted to eat, just walking became difficult. My mood just went downhill from there.

I cried it out this afternoon while taking care of baby and force feeding myself, took a nap after his afternoon feeding and thought I made a bit of a bounce back but that didn't last long. I slid back down again and couldn't eat the food the hubster prepared for dinner. In fact, I could hardly move. It took me several minutes to make a simple adjustment in my chair, my brain-to-body pathways seemed to be filled with molasses. I could barely speak and made no facial expressions, I was frozen. This after more tears and anger and muscle tension.

Once I got moving again I thought I was going to start rebooting and making my way out of the funk but I slid back again after the hubbo talked about "we'll do things differently this time, there are options." I don't want to go on drugs, I don't want us to be dealing with this all on our own and have the hubbo picking up all the slack and us saving face-and it really doesn't seem like we have options. There is no help around the corner, there is no community support, I was suffering and all I could do was sit and suffer. I ended up sobbing more and even flailing and straining, yelling in an angry outburst.

Eventually I settled back into a little paralysis than earlier, then rolled over to feed the baby again. While I fed him I ruminated on something the hubbo said in response to my weakly mumbled "I want to cut myself." He said, "that's a temporary solution, this is temporary, it'll pass." It struck me. They say suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but if self harm is a temporary solution for a temporary problem, doesn't that compute? It computed beautifully at the time.

After the feeding I dragged the nearest pair of scissors across my forearm several times. Just deep enough to break the skin and make a burn but not deep enough to bleed. I had begun to feel relief before I even got up to get them, the decision calming me. It would all be better shortly. And it was. After the scratching I felt relieved. I could finally eat, finishing the spaghetti reheat the hubbo presented to me and going for some Ben & Jerry's on top of that. I even drank water. I felt better. Able to smile, move freely, function.

It's hard for me to understand why self harming is such a big deal. I have a feeling it's part of the episode and I may not be in my right mind, but I feel like it helped me a lot tonight. I was ready to lay in bed and marinate in my misery but now I feel like I can get on with life. I hope the feeling sticks around.

Guess we'll see.