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.

In which I spill one of my deepest darkest secrets

You might want to pull up a seat, get comfortable.  Might be wise to put down your drink, or at least be aware of the spit-your-drink-all-over-your-computer-screen potential this blog post might have and take all necessary precautions.  To some of you who have been with me for a while this won’t come as a complete and total shock.  To you newbie readers, (and to everyone I work with who reads my blog) this is news to y’all.

I don’t even know where to begin to tell this story.

I spent the longest time blaming the problems in my life on other people. It was easy enough to believe that the girls’ dad was an asshole and that my life would be much better/easier if he would just pay his child support.  It was easy enough to convince myself that Brian wasn’t being nearly as supportive as I thought he should be. (the truth was he was being way more supportive than he needed to be).  My life was a complete and total mess because everyone else in my life had let me down or wasn’t holding up their end of the bargain.

The problem with blaming my shitty life on everyone else is that, that leaves it up to them to make it better.  My life was never going to get better, as long as I left the responsibility up to them.  In order to get my life on the right track I was going to have to own up to the mess I was in, take responsibility for my part of it (which was approximately 99.8% of it) and change it.

Last night, I finished cleaning up a major part of the mess that used to be my life.  For those of you who have been with me for a couple of years, you already know that I spent two weeks in jail in 2008. (insert screen spit guard here).  For those of you who are new here, that’s a link to the Chronicles. They aren’t quite done yet (I’m recreating them from when my blog ate my archives.) but you get the jist of it.

I want to say that those two weeks were enough to wake me up and make me take control of things and get it cleared up.  I can’t.  Sure it was a wake up call, but I still let things slide, and it caught up with me.  The final verdict was, 2 years probation in one county (which was completed and discharged in September of this year) and 14 days is jail in the other county.

Due to the fact that I’m a single parent and the girls’ dad lives half a state away, I was allowed to serve my time, 24 hours at a time, every other weekend.  So starting April 17^th, every other Saturday night at 6:00 PM, I would show up at the county jail, check in, be booked in and spend 24 hours in a holding cell.

Last night, at 5:30 I walked out of the county jail for the last time.  My 14 days have been served, and my probation has been discharged and for the first time in over two years, I have nothing hanging over my head.  For the first time since I moved to St. Louis, I am free.  My life is now, finally my life with nothing looming over me.  I have a fresh start.

I can’t begin to put into words how good it feels to finally step up and take responsibility for my life and know that I’ve worked hard to get to this place, but that’s just it. I have worked hard. I got to this place on my own.  My life, for the first time, is good. Really good. I’m beginning to realize dreams coming true.  I’m begging to see results from hard work.  Dare I say it? I’m beginning to be proud of who I am.  Proud of what I do.

I’ve been back to court and won a custody battle for the girls.  (Tate has gone on to become a cheerleader this year in school) I’ve managed to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table without child support for over two years now.  For the first time since our divorce, the girls’ dad and I seem to finally be on the same page and have found a way to be friends and I can’t begin to put into words what a relief that is.

I could say that part of my refusal to take responsibility for my fucked up life had to do with my BPD.  My life was a trainwreck when I was not being treated, or treated properly, for BPD.  Once I found a good doctor and we started working on my medications only then did I step up to the plate and take control and responsibility for my own choices, actions, life.  Only then did I start to turn it around.

So, I stand here today, free.  To everyone else, that’s called Monday.  To me, it’s something new and exciting and full of promise and hope and potential.

Days of Truth, Day 3, Forgiveness

Day 3 of the 30 days is Something you need to forgive yourself for. Great jumping-elmo-on-a-pogo-stick how long do we have here people?

I can start off with the obvious… there is this, or shall we include this?  (sorry if the links in those posts don’t work, I’m still rebuilding my archives). Believe me I have a laundry list as long as War and Peace of things I ‘should’ forgive myself for.

That’s the thing about me, I can forgive a whole lot of people a whole lot of things, a whole lot of times, but when it comes to me? Yeah, not so easily, not so often, not so much..

It’s easy to say “I was a total card carrying member of the fucked up freak show because I have BPD”.  It was easy to blame all the shit going wrong in my life on my BPD because in doing that I didn’t have to take any sort of responsibility for anything I did in my life.

TOTAL FAIL.

I am not proud to admit that it took me entirely too long to finally get a clue and figure out that well, I am ultimately responsible for my own decisions and I am *not* my disease and I have to take responsibility for my life.

I am on medication now.  That helps.  It also eliminates my ‘excuse’.

But I still have to learn to forgive myself for my past.  I am not the perfect mother, I am not the perfect girlfriend. I was not the perfect wife (clearly).  But I can find a way to forgive myself.

Eventually.