I Have Worth

If there was one thing I learned in therapy last week, it was I have worth.

I am stronger than I seem, braver than I believe, and smarter than I think. (Thank you Christopher Robin for such beautiful words).

I learned that I shouldn’t settle,  that I am enough on my own.   It’s pretty hard to ignore the awesomeness it takes to raise two Drama Tweens as a single mom these days.   I’ve had my dark days, but here we are, four years after moving away from my entire support system, in a new duplex, with one daughter a cheerleader, and the other trying out this year.

I learned there is a line in the sand that I put there.  A limit to what I’ll accept and when it’s time to walk away.  I have worth, and if you can’t see that,  you have no room in my life.

I know what I want, and I won’t settle for less.   I want the whole she-bang, not just half-ass here and there.   I don’t want to be squeezed in when you have a second, I want to be wanted.  I deserve that, at the very least.

I don’t have time, or the desire to play games any more.  I know what I want, and if you want it too, great, we’ll work to get there, together.  But I’m not going to waste my time on someone who doesn’t see the future as I see it, with me in it.

I learned a lot in therapy last week.  I learned that victim mentality pisses me off.  Mostly because I spent so many years being the victim in my own life.  It strips you of any power and responsibility in your own life.  I learned how to get my own power back.  I found my own voice, and now I call the shots in my life.   Now I make the rules.

I'm trying to turn myself around

I may or may not have mentioned that last week I spent three days in out-patient therapy.

So, it’s been a week.  Well, actually a week ago today was my graduation day.  I walked out of there with a new p-doc, new scripts for medications, and a new therapist.

And hope.

Hope that things would get back on track, hope that now my life would get better again.

It hasn’t.

I keep saying that the meds need to fuck me up before they can fix me.  And right now, they’re messing with me.  I don’t sleep, and I’m angry all the time. and when I’m not flippin drivers off,  I’m crying.    I’m a hawt mess.  I’m not happy.  At. All.

I know it’s only been 7 days that I’ve been on medication. I know that it takes longer than a week for things to work.  That doesn’t make it any easier when I’m pissed, or in tears, or just indifferent.

I joked today that all I need is a new pair of shoes to turn this shit around.  After call it worked for Cinderella.  Except that it would only make me happy for a short while, then the blahs, the tears, the guilt would all come flooding back.

So, hang with me, don’t give up on me, this has to get better sometime, doesn’t it????

God I  hope so.

 

This is where I draw the line.

It’s been 10 days since I saw Brian and his entire family for who they really are and walked away.   Yes, I know,  I can see the eye rolls out there, the “here we go again” deep sighs, the “When will she ever learn?” questioning looks.

This time?  I walked away.  This time it was my choice.  This time I get it.  I saw what I had been ignoring for years.  I saw him, them, for who they really are and I can’t accept that.  No, that’s not true.  I can accept they are who/what they are.  I can’t accept that into my life.    And so this time, I shut the door.  This time I walked away.  This time I said “I’m done.  I want no part of this any more.”

And that?  Makes all the difference, apparently.

Because there is no nagging doubt, no lingering hope, no strings  left dangling hoping to tie me to him yet again.  This time, it was a clean and final break. Cutting all ties.  Walking away, saying good bye.  Knowing, *knowing* really knowing this time, I’m done.

I am letting go of the past.  I no longer think about ‘what’s he doing today?’  I no longer worry about if he’s at work, or off, of what is happening in his life.  In fact,  have had zero contact with him.

And that, my friends, is peace.

There have been no tears.  None.  He is no longer worth them.  He is not worthy of me.  I am so much better than him, better without him.

Now, that something better.   Right now I believe that something better is just the peace of mind knowing this time, I’m finally done, and this time it’s over, forever, and this is really the best thing I could do.  The letting go, the saying good-bye, the lifted weight,  the freedom to be me without worry.

I live my life now for me.  Without having to answer to anyone but me.

So much so, that last Friday, when I picked up the girls, I drove an extra half hour to have a birthday dinner with one of my girlfriends because she asked, and I had nobody I had to get home to.  Then?  I drove another hour to The Lake, to see a friend I hadn’t seen in years, because I could.

And I had a blast.  I laughed, I relaxed, I played, I enjoyed… all because I could. Because I didn’t have to answer to him, or anyone.  Because I was on my time schedule, not someone else.

It was heaven.

And for a while, all those years ago,  I thought that Brian was The One.  And maybe he was.  Maybe he was The One to teach me Here is the line in the sand.  He is where you stand, this is what you believe, and this, *this* is not negotiable.

That is important stuff to know.

Like the feeling of being wanted, the feeling of being important to someone, the feeling of being special.  And just maybe that friend you haven’t seen in years will be just the person to remind you of that.

What I've learned in the past 72 hours

Is long past due.

Here.

And to myself.

And it came this weekend.

I am going to tell you what happened as diplomatically as I can.  I am going to protect one person who truly deserves to be protected.  I will protect the rest even though they deserve absolutely nothing from me.   That’s not true, they deserve a lot of things, protection, and respect are not among them.

The thing is, the longer I sit and think about this as I write it, the more I think, what’s the point?  It won’t change anything.  They won’t care. Well, they might, they might get mad.

But there’s more to the story than just this one incident.  And because of that, I’ll tell the entire story.

Brian and I broke up the day after Christmas, but we suck at commitment. Truly. We can’t commit to staying together, and we couldn’t commit to staying apart. (until now.)   We started ‘dating’ again… basically we went to dinner and had sex.  Not really ‘dating’ but he called it that.

We gradually worked back to me being allowed at his mother’s house (where he lives).  Me. ALLOWED.  Whatever. But I felt like I was working, begging, pleading for attention, phone calls, text messages, something to show me he remembered me, thought about me, maybe even missed me. She went out-of-town for a week.  I was ALLOWED to come over every night after work, because A) I brought dinner home with me every night (and was never reimbursed for it) and B) I did the dishes.  I got to spend the weekend she was gone, at the house, and that meant I got to clean the house and do everyone’s laundry. YIPPIE!!!

And yet, I stayed.

The day finally came when he actually needed me.  Because he was working, and something needed to be done.  So I agreed. (This is where the protecting ungrateful people comes in).  Something happened that morning, and to be honest, I lost my shit.  It rocked my to my core.  I was hurt, disappointed, pissed off,  just beside myself.  And could do nothing, because, I was nobody.  I was not the parent, I wasn’t even the step-parent, or the step-parent-to-be.  To be honest, I wasn’t even The Girlfriend.  I was the parent’s fuck buddy.

The parent’s reaction to the situation?  Blew me the fuck away.  My opinion? Because it’s my blog, and my opinion doesn’t even matter in real life, but my opinion? They totally UNDER reacted.  But, then again, I was nobody.  I got told “Butt the fuck out” and then got told “Go Fuck Yourself” in a text message. From Brian.

The entire drama of the entire situation (add to the fact that there were lies being told about me that I was never able to defend, refute, or prove wrong) and I went over the edge.  I wanted it all to go away.  I wanted this shit over with.  I wanted nothing to do with this group of people whose level of  discipline is so much  less than mine, whose explanation was un-fucking-believable.  All I could think was “Who the fuck are these people and why have I been begging to be a part of this family?”

I wanted the hurt, my hurt, to stop.  I didn’t want to die, I didn’t want to go away, I just wanted release.  I knew nothing I did would ever matter to him. I knew he no longer cared, if he ever did.  But I wanted to lash out, needed to vent my anger at someone.

And I was the only one there.

And I vented. And I lashed out.  And I broke down.  Much like I celebrated my 37th birthday.

I spent 10 hours yesterday in the hospital. My bosses sent me.  My best friend called Brian to tell him.  He texted me “Tell her to stop calling me.”  I sent him a text that said “No need for you to check on me unless you actually care.”

He never made the effort.

Today, I sent him one last text message, “Thank you for everything. You taught me that I deserve SO much better than you, and that size isn’t the only thing that matters.”

Where I have a little chat with my body.

Dear Body,

I’ve called you all here together because we need to talk.

First I want to say Thank you to my stomach for not rumbling and grumbling and aching the very second you have finished digesting the last morsel of food I gave you.  You won’t die if you don’t have something to work on 24-7.

To my brain, thank you for quicking jumping to something else to think about when I’m bored and food comes across you.  Just because I’m bored (and stomach may or may not be rumbling and grumbling down there) does not mean I have to shove food into my mouth.  There are plenty of other things out there to distract you. Uh, like writing blog posts for here, or You Won’t Go Blind, or even Buy-Her.

To my abs.  Thank you thank you thank you for letting go of all that extra flab I’ve made you carry around.  I’m sure you were glad to see it go.  I am too.  I am also thrilled to see that you are still as trim and flat as ever underneath all that flab.

To my boobs.  Yes, I thank you for your commitment to this weight loss endeavor I’ve embarked on. I thank you for your willingness to be a team player.  I am thrilled that your contribution made the number on the scale get smaller and smaller.  I am not thrilled that with your enthusiasm.  I had gorgeous boobs that I loved and could flaunt a little.  Now?  You all have shrunk.  A lot.  I think you can stop putting forth the effort.  Thank you.

Hips and ass?  Please go take a freaking leason from my boobs.  They jumped on board with this weight loss business and threw away a lot of weight.  A little too much if you ask me.  Why are you so committed to hanging on to the fat?  Frankly, why don’t we see if you could just give it to my boobs.  It would look so much better with them.  What? NO, no, I’m sure they wouldn’t give it away. I’ve had a nice little chat with them.

Ok, legs?  What’s the deal?  I’m walking all over the place, way  more than I used to, and you two?  Are refusing to shape up and grab hold of any sort of muscle tone.  Seriously?  My abs look fabulous… My ankles?  Not so much. And my calves?  I’m afraid cankles are not far off.  Get your shit together.  Seriously.

Overall, Body, I’m impressed and proud of your performance in this weight loss journey.  I’ve started buying some new, cute, skinny clothes to show off the improvements.  We know where there needs to be more work, and who needs to step back and relax.

 

The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn…

What does love look like?  What is love?  Will I ever find it?  Will it ever stay?

All valid questions.

Love is a choice we make each and every day.  It isn’t something that just happens, not some place that we fall, it’s a choice.

For some, it’s an easy choice to make each and every day.  For others, it’s a struggle, one they choose not to make.

I am looking for love.

There… I said it.  I’m looking for love.  But before I can find it I have to define it, at least for me.  What does love look like, what do I want it to be?

I read Britt’s post today about/for Jared and my heart ached with an emptiness from a lack of deep, true, giving, unselfish love.  I want to be able to love someone that much, and be loved that deeply, that truly, that unselfishly in return.

Loving me isn’t easy.  My bipolar makes it a real challenge.  Even when it’s under control and medicated, I’ve learned medication isn’t always the answer and doesn’t always work.  My medication and treatments have to be switched and changed and tweaked a lot.  That is a challenge, and it takes it toll on me, and those around me.  It’s not something I chose, it’s not something I can help.  Loving me is a challenge.

And so far?

Nobody is up for it. At least not long term….

And I wonder if being bipolar, at least for me, means being alone for the rest of my life.  This isn’t the life I wanted.  This disease isn’t what I signed up for.  Even when it’s controlled, it’s still… a guessing game at best…

The greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love and to be loved in return. Letting someone love you is hard.  That means you have to allow them to see your weaknesses and your flaws and trust that they can accept those things as well as your sparkling eyes and witty personality.

They say it’s out there.. you just have to go and find it.  I wonder sometimes if I ever will.

I only judge myself, I am not judging you

“My Love Hate Relationship with My Body” series Part 1 and Part 2

I have written about my body image and my fucked up view of my weight.  I want to make some things very clear.  When I stood on that scale and it said 160, to me I was fat.  Very fat.  Horribly unhappily fat.  I want it very clear that the only person I judge is me.  If you weigh 160 I do not in any way think you’re fat.  Miss Banshee, in her Weight of the World post, put it perfectly when she said “To me, everyone else, EVERYONE else looks…right. The way they’re supposed to. Whatever weight they are. Perfectly normal and fine. Everyone but the image in the mirror. That one’s a freak”

Body dysmorphic disorder. My sister has admitted to having serious body image issues to some degree.  I will admit to having this same disorder to the Nth degree.  I don’t know where either of us get it.  (In an email to me, when I asked her this question, she is able to explain to me exactly why she feels this way.  I wish I was so self aware and insightful.) I don’t remember specific incidents that would have cause it. I remember, when I was a teen, wearing the latest fashion, which was short shorts (like up to my hoo-ha short) and half shirts.  Bare mid-drifts were the fashion in the 80’s.  (thanks Madonna)  And like most teen girls just discovering their sexuality and the power their bodies have over the boys, I dressed to show off the most skin.  My Dad didn’t like it.  What father would?  Compound that with the fact that he was a preacher, and had an image to maintain, I was an embarrassment.  I probably should have been embarrassed if I had any common sense.  But even then, the comments he did make were more about the fact that even when I was dressed, I wasn’t really dressed.  It never had to do with my body.

From the day I sat in the bathtub beside my BFTS Debbie, I have hated my thighs.  I haven’t always acted on that hate, but I have always thought my thighs were too big.  Ever since my high school friend commented on my flat stomach, I have been hyper aware of my stomach.  There were many nights I would lay in bed and if my hip bones didn’t protrude above my stomach by 2 inches, I worried.  If my stomach wasn’t hollowed out, I would worry I was getting fat.

My body turned 40 a couple of years ago.  And with that momentous birthday came a changing of the guard.  The weight that was all too easy to pack on thanks to cheesecake, margaritas, and pasta three nights a week, now stubbornly clings and refuses to budge or leave.  That’s not true.  The first 30 fell away pretty easily once I eliminated the cheesecake, the artery clogging Sunday morning brunches, Saturday afternoon lunches at Applebee’s, and the weekends full of margaritas or rum and coke.  Add to that the stress of the break-up, and it’s surprising 30 pounds is all I lost.  It should have been more.

But here I am, still not happy with the image in the mirror. Summer is right outside my door, and right now none of my shorts or skirts fit. But, I am determined I will not spend this summer in jeans and a frumpy old woman’s swimsuit.  This time? I’m going to do something about it.  The right way.

My love hate relationship with my body Part II

For Part I of this series, go here.

After my first baby, the rules of my control game changed. It was no longer about controlling what I did or didn’t eat.  It was all of a sudden all about getting back into my own damn clothes and the numbers on the scale.  My son was born in October.  By Thanksgiving I was back in my own jeans (size 8 ) and by Christmas I was back in my skinny jeans (size 5).  I was fueled by the envy of everyone around me who was amazed at how quickly I had gotten back to my pre-baby self.  I lived on the attention.

I spent the next 13 years playing this game.  My weight fluctuated between 115 and 120. I was still just as obsessed with the numbers on the scale and the numbers on the labels of my jeans.  And yet, every time I got pregnant, the games stopped, but started right back up again, the day I came home from the hospital.

By the third go round (after the birth of Newt) I recognized the pattern. I knew in my head that it was unhealthy, and yet I was helpless to let go of the control, and the attention it garnered from my friends.  It wasn’t long after Newt was born that my marriage to the girls’ dad changed.  To be honest, I always had a difficult time with PPD (thanks BPD) and their dad had his own version of PPD.  The fights were epic and our relationship was out of control.  The one thing I could control? My food intake.  And I controlled it with drill sergeant precision.  The numbers on the scale reflected just how happy or unhappy I was in my relationship.

I wasn’t happy in my marriage.  It wasn’t good.  So I sought my happiness in my weight.  I believed, wrongly, that if I could just get down to 100 pounds life would magically be perfect, fairy tale happy.  I starved myself.  I popped diet pills, I used laxatives.  I stopped just short of throwing up but only because I *hate* with a passion that burns brighter than a thousand suns to throw up.  I had my limits.  They were few, but I had them.

They day before I finally left the girls’ dad, I stepped on the scale and the number that day? 98 pounds.  I am 5’ 7”.  At this point? My size 3 jeans were hanging off of me.  I was wearing sweatshirts because I was always cold. I had no body mass to keep me warm.  That day?  I stood on the scale, saw 98 and just stared.  I had won the game!  I was under 100 pounds for the first time since I started this game all those years ago!  I had reached my ultimate goal.  I was winning.  The competitive voice in my head said “Way to go.. now lets see HOW FAR under 100 you can go!”.  The reasonable voice in my head said “Look you’re unhappy here. This is proof that this relationship will kill you.  Get out.  Save yourself and your kids.”

I listened to reason.

I left.

But the games didn’t stop.

I allowed myself to eat and put on enough weight to get above 100 pounds, but just barely.  I couldn’t give up all that I had gained (or lost as the case may be) but I couldn’t survive weighing less than 100 pounds.  Also?  When everyone you know is expressing grave concern about your weight you kinda can’t ignore it or them.  So you do the bare minimum, whatever it takes to get them to leave you alone, without giving up the game.

That was seven years ago.

Five years ago this August I met Brian.  Four years ago next month, I moved to be closer to him, get away from the girls’ dad, and give the girls (and me) a better life. I was still playing the games.  Food was still the enemy.  Brian’s family? Loved to eat.  They loved to cook, especially his dad.  And they ate real food.  Steaks, shrimp, crab, lobster, pasta, biscuits and gravy.  And drink? Margaritas or rum and coke, Mimosas or Bloody Marys for breakfast.  And the cheesecake.  Oh god the cheesecake.

I played my games for a while, but his family? Made it their mission to put some weight on me.  And when faced with all that food, all that glorious, fabulous food it’s hard to play the game.  Then Brian said “I love you.” and then promised me bling if I just gained some weight, and promised to love me for ever if I would just stop playing the games and get healthy.  And did I mention the cheesecake?

Slowly but surely the food, alcohol, Brian and his family won out over my rules.  I was safe, I was secure, and I was loved.  It was ok to eat.  And I ate.  And slowly, one by one, my outfits stopped fitting.  My jeans got too small, my shirts were too tight, and the numbers on the labels of my clothes got bigger and bigger.  There were days I would stand in the bathroom looking at my reflection crying for all I had lost (or gained…)  Crying because I had never seen myself at a normal healthy weight and I hated this ‘fat’ me.  Crying because I was losing the game I had played most of my life.  It was at these times Brian would tell me “I love you, and I love this, and you look wonderful, and healthy and please stop crying.”  I would tell myself it was enough. I would tell myself it was ok to be ‘fat’ because Brian loved me.

It wasn’t that long ago that I stood on the scale because absolutely nothing fit any more.  None of my clothes fit, I had started buying new clothes, with double digits on the labels.  The number on the scale? 160.  The only other time I had weighed anything close to 160, I was 8 months pregnant with a baby.  This time? There was no baby.  This time? I was fat.  Nobody commented on it. Brian’s family still told me I looked good. Brian still told me he loved me and the extra weight.  But that wasn’t enough. I didn’t love me.  I didn’t love the extra weight.  I had lost.

I knew I had to change things, but I also knew I couldn’t go back to my games again. I couldn’t go back to anorexia and lose the weight that way.  My girls are 11 and 14 now and they watch me.  They pay attention.  They would notice, they would see the games that I played and the dangerous ways I fought to lose the weight I so desperately hated.  I knew I had to change, but when you know there’s a cheesecake in the fridge that his mom bought just because she knew I loved cheesecake, it’s hard to change.

When Brian and I broke up in December, all of a sudden the steaks, and pasta three nights a week went away. Suddenly there was no cheesecake calling my name before I went to bed each night.  Now, there would no longer be biscuits and gravy and bacon and eggs for breakfast every Sunday.  There would no longer be lazy days spent watching television in bed, eating and napping a lazy Sunday away.  And without much effort at all, 30 pounds fell away.

I’m still not happy.  I am happier than I was at 160, but I’m not where I want to be.  I am playing the numbers game, but not obsessively like I did years ago.  Frankly, I like food, and I’m just too lazy to play those stupid games.  This time, I am watching what I eat and not eating nearly as much as I used to.  Just this weekend, since the weather finally warmed up, and we’re only a couple of blocks from the school, the girls and I went to the track and walked around it. That is something I can do every night.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss the game.  There are times I wish I had that kind of self control again, but I know this time? I have eyes on me, I have daughters that I influence and I don’t want them to live the life I lived with anorexia.

My love hate relationship with my body Part I

I spent Saturday morning reading the posts over at Curvy Girl Guide.  I have never considered myself a ‘curvy girl’ but I have a love/hate relationship with my body.  To say that I have body image issues?  Is like saying Charlie Sheen is crazy.  He’s Shite Crazy.  And I? Have body issues.

I clearly remember the first time I hated my body.  I was 9 years old.  Yes, 9.  My best friend Debbie came over to spend the night.  Debbie was The. Most. Popular. Girl. in 5th grade.  Everyone wanted to be Debbie’s friend. And this week? She picked me. (yes, this week, that’s how we rolled back then. Crazy stupid now, but then? Life or death. Period.) Oh, and you should know that the goal of being someone’s friend was to have a sleepover.  That was the crowning moment in a friendship.  The irony of that moment?  Once you had a sleepover, the friendship was done.  We would go to school the following Monday (sleepovers were always on Fridays) and start looking for a new friend because you could only be friends with one person at a time.  Anyway.. that’s an entirely different blog post for another day.

So, Debbie came to my house for a sleepover!  I was making it big!  I was going to be the 2nd most popular girl in 5th grade because I was Debbie’s BFTS (Best Friend till the Sleepover) and she was spending the night at my house!  She rode the bus home with me, we did all the usual girl sleepover things.  (she had a training bra! She let me wear it! Scandalous to a preacher’s daughter.) And then, for whatever reason, we had to take a bath.  So, because we were BFTS’s and we did *everything* together, we jumped in the tub together.  (what? Back then? That wasn’t weird at all.  It was the 70’s still.  DO.NOT.DO.THE.MATH!) We sat side by side in the bathtub, legs stretched out in front of us.  And we could sit side by side. Know why?  Because Debbie was no bigger than a minute.  She was tiny.  Ethiopian tiny.  And sitting there beside her, I saw her skinny tan legs, next to my pasty white thunder thighs and for the first time in my entire life, I was jealous.

And ashamed.

And didn’t know what to do about those feelings.

True to form, Monday morning, back at school, Debbie and I both started looking for new friends, which had everything to do with the Friendship protocol, and nothing to do with my body envy.  But I never forgot…

My first bout of anorexia came my Sophomore year of high school.  Thanks to genetics I had always been a bit on the skinny side. I had always been one to eat whatever I wanted and never worried about my weight.  My sophomore year I had strep throat twice and that spring, caught mono.  With the sore throat and all the sleeping going on, eating just got in the way.  So, I didn’t.  When I finally went back to school, it was fun to see how little I could eat in a given day.  It became a game, a contest with myself.  It got to the point I was living on a Hostess Cherry Pie and a carton of milk a day.  That’s it.  Period.  And some days I would only eat half of the cherry pie.

But even that? Had nothing to do with my weight.  It had everything to do with my ability to control how little I actually ate in a day.  (and the attention/envy of everyone around me. Finally I was the Debbie in the friendships I had.) It was a game I played with myself.  I didn’t think anything of it.  I was blissfully unaware of the number on the scale, because I never stepped on a scale.  I was completely unaware of how I looked until a friend of mine commented on how she wished her stomach was as flat as mine. (At that point I was all “YES! Somebody wants to look just like me! Just like I wanted to have legs like Debbie’s!)  I didn’t think there was a problem, even when my dad brought home nutritional drinks and told me I had to drink one before breakfast and before dinner every day. He meant before as in drink them and then *eat* something too. (I drank them, because he made me, but I didn’t eat anything the rest of the day.)  By this point, it was a contest of wills.  I had been winning the “How little can I actually eat” game I played in my head and I was not about to let my dad lose it for me now.  I distinctly remember vacation trips when we would stop at an all you can eat place for breakfast and I would have 1 piece of sausage and a glass of milk.  That’s it. That is how far my control had gone.

My anorexia never started out about my weight, it always started as a control game I played with myself. I eventually started paying attention to the numbers on the scale. Obsessively paying attention to the numbers on the scale.  Because those numbers? Were the scoreboard in my control game.  Those numbers determined if I was winning or not.

In the midst of these games I was playing with myself, I had three babies.  Each time the pregnancy test came back positive, the food games stopped. I never worried about the weight or the amount of food I ate the entire time I was pregnant with any of the kids.  It was never about me then, it was all about the baby.  But the day I came home from the hospital, I wanted that weight gone.  That is when the games became about the weight, the numbers on the scale, the size of my jeans.  After my first baby, the rules of the game changed.

To be continued….

Aiming Low Does Good Spotlight: Mental Illness. This is My Story

The ladies (and Gent) over at Aiming Low are spotlighting mental Illness in their Aiming Low Does Good series. According to Britt, they have had an overwhelming response to their spotlight this month, and have decided to post links to other blog posts about personal experience with mental illness.

The truth is, mental illness still has a stigma attached to it, and due to that stigma, many people go untreated.  There is no shame in having a disease.  And mental illness is just that, a disease.

This is my story.

Back in May 2007, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  My then boyfriend and I were having a huge fight.  Let me rephrase that.  I was having a huge fight.  He was sitting there listening to me say these horrible, ugly, mean, vile things to him, about him, and he never fought back.  He never said anything ugly to me, he never raised his voice, he never got mad.  It had all started because I had seen a message from a girl I didn’t know to him, on his MySpace page. (Don’t judge, nobody knew about Facebook back then).  And as quickly and unexpectedly as it started, I stopped. (The fight. Not the MySpace page. He kept that? Far longer than he should have.)  I literally sat on the floor, knees drawn up to my chin, and couldn’t say another word.  Not wouldn’t.  I couldn’t.

The next day I called a therapist and made an appointment to get help.  I sat in the doctor’s office that afternoon telling her “I distinctly remember hearing all these vile, horrible, hateful words coming out of my mouth, crying inside, and my head screaming SHUT UP! But I couldn’t. And then? That was ALL I could do.”  It made no sense to me.  I didn’t want to say those things,and yet, I couldn’t stop them.

Bipolar disorder is a chemical imbalance in my brain, and means some of the things in my brain don’t fire just right. But because it is a chemical imbalance that means that there isn’t a set course of treatment. Medicating bipolar disorder is a guessing game.  What works for me for 4 months, may stop working.  The dosage may have to be changed. Often.  I can be on as many as 5 different medications at a time, or as few as 2.  My brother says it’s like riding the roller coasters at Six Flags without the price of admission.  Also? He’s jealous I get to experiment with so many different kinds of drugs.  (None of them the “good” kind).

The problem with bipolar disorder is I never know exactly what is going to trigger a mood swing.  I can cycle from manic (very hyper, very active, agitated, easily distracted, full of energy) to depressed and back to manic again in as little as a couple of hours, or as long as months.  When I’m manic? I can clean a house, I *love* to shop (and my girls? Love to beg me to go to Target.  It doesn’t take much begging) and I can write a novel (albeit not a very good novel because it very seldom makes any sense. My thoughts are all over the place.  It’s like ADHD on crack.) If I am too far on the manic end of the spectrum, I am bitchy, cranky, ready to rip people’s heads off for looking at me wrong.  When I swing to the depression end of things… I want nothing more than to sit around in my sweats and watch movies and avoid the rest of the world.  Unfortunately for me, neither of those options work for me as a single parent.  I have to function, no matter where I am on the bipolar spectrum.

Bipolar disorder is hard to diagnose.  The depression mood swings are easy to see, easy to diagnose, easy to treat the symptoms.  Most people and doctors can easily recognize the depression signs.  It when you start to move out of the depression into a manic phase things get tricky.  See, manic?  It always fun and exciting and better than depression.  So when I start to go manic it’s like the depression is lifting.  I don’t realize there’s a problem, that I’ve gone too far, until I am very manic and that means not sleeping, and talking all the time, and can’t focus, and snapping at people.

What can you do if someone you love is bipolar? When someone hasn’t slept in days, or hasn’t been able to get out of bed for weeks, they aren’t in any place to be able to help themselves.  Encourage them to get help, offer to call their doctor, go with them to their appointments, help them be aware of their behavior and their mood swings.  Learn all that you can about the disorder.  Knowledge is power, and the more you know, the more you can understand and the more you can help.