I Have Never Told This Story Before, The Breakdown to Celebrate my 37th Birthday

Mama’s Losin’ It offers writing prompts every week. And while I don’t usually use them, I have them sent to me on the off chance there is one I would consider using.  One of them was write about what you were doing 10 years ago today.  Ten years ago would have been 2002, and I would have still been married to the girls’ dad.  We would have been married three years, and I was two years away from a divorce.  Muri would have been 5 and starting school, Megan would have been 3.  Their brother, Ian would have been 8.

For as long as I can remember I have kept a journal.  Not a diary, but notebooks that I could ramble in.  And thank god Wal*Mart sells them for less than 20 cents every year when school starts.  I can buy more than enough to last me through that year without going broke.  I have journals from September 16, 1993 up to July 1, 2009.  If ever you want an accurate description of my mood swings read those journals.  If you can stand them.

There are days I ramble on and on and on about nothing important for four pages.  About some guy I was kind of dating, about the girls’ dad  dealing with the first year of our divorce, about me trying to balance money and my manic tendency to spend what I didn’t exactly have on a lot of things I absolutely didn’t need.  There is page after page after page when I write “I just want to crawl into a hole and disappear.  I can’t wait to get home, get the girls settled and just crawl into bed.  Every morning it takes more effort that I am sure I’ll be able to muster, to pull myself out of bed and face each day”.

I have my 37th birthday which is the birthday I celebrated by having my first mental breakdown.  I spent 37 hours in bed crying, not sleeping, and just rambling in my journal. At 1:35 AM of July 4th, I wrote that page up there.

“Yesterday was my 37th birthday and it’s the last one I ever hope to have. I see no reason to stick around to see 38. Even my children would be better off with no mom instead of the emotional grave yard I am now.”

Eight pages of saying goodbye to my family.  At 5:30 AM I wrote “Another sleepless night” and I wonder now how many sleepless nights there had been. I don’t remember them. But I remember fighting so damned hard for weeks to just get through the day.

By 7:00 the morning of July 4th, I had managed to get about two hours of fitful toss and turn sleep which did nothing but make me realize just how far gone I was.  I couldn’t get out of bed. It took too much energy to pull the covers off of me, and the thought of getting up and walking was beyond overwhelming.  I had nothing left to give.

I finally called my mom, and the girls’ dad, they came and took me to the emergency room where there was no psych doctor on call.  I had played the game of ‘put on a good front, hide the horrible garbage that lives in my mind’ for so long that once I was out in public, I appeared fine.  I could smile, I could function, I actually told my mother that I was feeling much better and this trip to the ER was really a waste of everyone’s time. Except that I wasn’t.  I was so exhausted, I was so empty.  It was the manic phase that had hidden beyond the depression of that night. The manic phase that had kept my mind racing in downward spirals, had kept me awake for 37 hours. It was that part of my disorder that took over and hid the depression from the world. I got some medication from the doc on call who really couldn’t give me anything effective, beyond anti-depressants, which… are the worst thing you can give a bipolar in a depression.

By 3:40 PM on July 4th, I was home. I was showered and dressed which was an improvement, but I went straight to the couch and stayed there.  I was exhausted and had no desire to do anything.  I was once again alone with myself.  And even then I was two years from being diagnosed.  The doctors treated the depression because it was easy and obvious. The manic was what I considered normal.

The thing is, even in the midst of it, as I sat there in my bed crying, awake, alone in my own head, willing and ready to give it up, nothing I wrote conveys the depths to which I had sunk.  The darkness I was in, the hopelessness I felt, none of that has a voice in my words.  Even in the midst of my darkest day, I lied to myself, and I lied to everyone around me. Had that been the last thing I left behind, nobody reading it could have known how far down the road of no return I had gone.

I wish I could say that was my one and only breakdown.  I even wish I could tell you it was my worst one.  There have been others.  Reading further into my journal, I spent the month following that night in a manic high, about how my life was perfect, how it was going great for me.  Until August 14th, when I once again wrote

In the darkness where you feel nothing, there is no pain, no rejection, no emptiness. just floating in a void. Can I be there? Can I go there? Where I never have to feel unloved, rejected, forgotten, unworthy, insecure, unsure. In the darkness I don’t have to hear the silence of the phone not ringing.  Am I looking for someone to come save me? You bet, because I can’t save myself, and I’m not sure I’m worth saving. Maybe somebody else does.

Looking back it is so glaringly obvious I needed help.  The mood swings are clear, the depression screams from the pages, barely whispered by my voice.  We missed the signs, most people do at first.  It’s easy to see the depression and treat it, and the manic is just ‘normal’ even when it isn’t.  I have walked a tightrope every day, balancing myself between the two extremes.  Most days I win.