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'm not here today, I'm at my OTHER place, You Won't Go Blind

Follow this link to my post over at You Won't Go Blind

It’s been just shy of four months since I got that fateful text message ending my four year relationship with Brian.  Yes, already, four months.

I’m back in the dating pool again. Something I swore I would never do.  Apparently I lied.  I’m back on Dating websites looking for Mr. You’ll do until Prince Charming comes along on his white stallion.  Because we all know that Prince Charming? Won’t waste his time on dating websites.   Wait, maybe I don’t want Prince Charming.  I mean, he’s been married three times already (Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and Cinderella.  Who all divorced him due to his uncontrollable womanizing and Hero Complex. Clearly)

Anyway, in the past four months, I have come up with a list of prerequisites for your dating profile if you want to date me.  I wrote about them over at You Won’t Go Blind.

Please, go show me some love?  I’m not finding it on the dating websites. Clearly.

 

 

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.

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.