All I want, isn't even close to all that I deserve, but it's a start

I am learning to set boundaries.

I am learning to say “HEY! This is what I want, this is what’s important to me.  This is what I need.  And if you can’t deal with it, if that’s not on your radar, I don’t have time for you.”

I am learning that I don’t have to settle in order to keep someone in my life.  If they can’t meet me half way at the very least, I can’t meet them at all.

I am finding my voice.

And I’m learning I don’t care if they leave my life, they weren’t good for me in the first place.

And that?

Is pretty fucking awesome.

So yesterday, I unfriended Mr I-don’t-have-time-for-you.   I don’t expect a whole lot.  A text message in the morning, one at night, maybe one in the middle of the day.  Text messages at the very least.  They take less than a minute to send.  Clearly he didn’t think about it or have the time to think about it and send a single text message.  And if he’s that busy, there’s no room or time for me in his life.

The phone call came last night that up until then he’d been too busy to make.  I was just too busy to answer.  I just don’t care.  He could call me ‘Sexy” and “Babe” and all those nice little names that would suck me back in.  I just don’t have it in me.  This was never going to go anywhere… so why drag it out.  He was there the day I spent 8 hours in the hospital.  The feelings that were stirred up that day I am convinced weren’t real, they were just a manifestation of  the mania I was in, the mania that had landed me in the hospital in the first place.

I went to my first one-on-one therapy session this week.  One the one month anniversary of my hospital visit.  I have taken steps to get healthy, there is a long way to go.  But I am finding my voice.  I know what I want, I know what I need.  I won’t allow anyone to take advantage of me.  I won’t give more than they do.  If they don’t make an effort, I won’t stick around.  I don’t ask for the moon.

And maybe a few in between.

Is that really asking too damn much???

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.

 

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.

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.

My full-on bipolar weekend

I had a bipolar weekend. It was horrible, terrible, angry, sad, mad, awesome, fantastic, party all night, laugh till it hurts, cry till there are no more tears, scream until I have no voice, and everything in between kind of weekend. Actually, it was exactly that weekend.

I ran the full gamut of emotions this weekend. I have been so frustrated for so long about so many things by so many people. And putting voice to those frustrations was getting me nowhere. Nobody was listening or paying attention. I had asked of them, over and over, and still… crickets.

I reached my breaking point. My boiling point. My I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-the-consequences-I-just-want-to-be-heard point. And so I spewed forth all the frustration and anger and exasperation I have been feeling for weeks now.

And once you let that genie out of the bottle? That bitch don’t know when to quit and get back in the damn bottle.

I was so tired, and frustrated and angry, and feeling unheard, and unimportant, and overwhelmed, and stress, and… and…. Yeah.

Then, after spending an entire day blowing up time after time, I dressed up and went to a party. I got the hell out of dodge, out of my house, away from the anger, the frustration, the fear, the stress, the edge, and I partied. (Thank you company I work for but will not name here, because I do have some small degree of a life that is not spewed all over the internet. But if you live in/around/close to/have driven though St. Louis it’s a name you’d recognize).

I laughed, and ate, and drank, and laughed, and danced, and drank, and laughed, and partied.

All. Night.

And it was fun. I had a blast. And it felt good.

To blow off steam. To leave all the ugly at home, far behind me, for a night, and just hang out with friends. All the ugly would be there when I got home, I could pick it up and carry the stress and the weight and the drama around later. For one night, I was going to let loose, and have fun.

And I did.

The next morning. When I woke up? The drama of the day before was there but the anger wasn’t. The I’m sorry was.

I just needed to blow out the pipes. I needed to left off some steam.  I needed to at least put a voice to all that I had been feeling and all that I was sure was going unheard. The yelling, crying, talking, begging, screaming, stomping day, followed by the drinking, dancing, laughing, partying, having a great time night was just like resetting my emotions, so that I could start over from a fresh place.