Bipolar is Not a Conviction, but Sometimes it Sure as Hell Feels Like it

Or How being on Twitter may have ruined my relationship.  Forever.

This was my Twitter stream on Friday.

The girls were at their dad’s this weekend, and because of a manic episode that exploded all over Twitter, I was sitting at home alone instead of at Brian’s house with him this weekend, reading blog posts drinking coffee. I was catching up on some posts I hadn’t read in a while, when I came across a sentence written by Pamela at 2 Much Testosterone.

Mental illness is a life long conviction.

Maybe it’s just me, and my recent County Jail Tour of 2012, but “conviction” sounds so, well, final.

There are those out there who see mental illness as a death sentence. Not just those who have been diagnosed with a mental illness, but also their family, their ‘friends’, their loved ones.  Mental illness is as hard for us (the mentally ill) to understand and live with as it is for those who love and live with us.  Maybe harder.

I was diagnosed with bipolar II, rapid cycling, mixed episodes in May 2007.  (basically I’m the Lindsay Lohan of bipolar disorder) For a while, I used it as an excuse for bad behavior, poor choices, bad decisions.  I refused to take any kind of responsibility for my life because I was bipolar I couldn’t help it.

Mental illness isn’t a conviction.  Conviction implies guilt of wrong doing, which implies choice.  There is no guilt or wrong doing in having a mental illness. It implies I’ve done something wrong, and now I will pay for it the rest of my life with this mental illness.

Except that mental illness isn’t a choice, and isn’t a result of bad choices or bad behavior. Mental Illness, bipolar specifically, is a disorder.

Disorder: to disturb the order of, to disturb the regular or normal function of.

To disturb the regular or normal function of.  Our brains, the chemicals, the neurons, are disordered. They don’t function properly.  Our illness in not our fault.

What we do about it, how we chose to live with it, that is.

I have been told by several of my doctors along my path of treatment, that I am a hyper aware bipolar.  I am fairly aware of my mood swings, and know when to get help.  I am also aware of triggers.  I am usually really proactive in my treatment.  But there’s that part of my diagnosis, that rapid cycling part, that says every once in a while things get away from me and I swing really far off the goofy crap-o-meter too fast for me to be aware and take steps to prevent it, control it, or minimize the fall out from it.

That happened this week.

I had back to back court dates on the 9th and 14th. While I was pretty sure I knew what to expect, court dates are still very stressful.  I had asked Brian for some things that I didn’t think were a very big deal, but I put a lot of expectations on them.  I apparently didn’t convey my wants to him clearly and the day didn’t go they way I had wanted or envisioned. That disappointment was huge to me, even though to him, or probably anyone else, it would have been minor.  Meredith has had two a day cheer practices this past week, and one a day cheer practices the week before, so that meant getting up early (and getting her up earlier than her summer routine) and driving her to cheer practice every morning, cutting into my daily routine,which throws me off too.  The girls are going to back to school, so there was the whole school supplies, schedules, decorate lockers, meet the teachers, get physicals, run around that also cut into my routine. There was also the bills.  The catching up on rent that I couldn’t pay while I was in jail, the usual water, electricity, the court fines, the limited income that just isn’t stretching as far as it should. And to add insult to injury, I had expectations of Brian this week that just weren’t getting met, or at least I didn’t think they were, and I was feeling shut out of his life.

A whole lot of stress, a whole lot of upheaval of my routine, a whole lot of demands being made of me, and a whole lot of expectations being made by me that I felt were going largely ignored.  Sounds like a whole hell of a lot of triggers to me.  And oh my god were they.  Every day it grew, every demand, every expectation, every need, every want, every outstretched hand needing, wanting, demanding, expecting something.  Innocent things said or done took on a look of guilt, and proof.  Everything said to me by anyone, or by me to anyone was wrong, oh so very wrong.  I felt like I was yelling into a vacuum when I asked for what I needed from everyone.  I was disappointing everyone around me, I wasn’t doing enough, I wasn’t being enough, I was asking too much. I felt shut out, pushed away, I felt so god damned all alone when I needed someone the most.  I wasn’t being heard, and I was spiraling. Both into a mass depression, and clear out of control on a manic rocket that I could no longer control.

I tried, oh dear god I fucking tried to control it all, and keep it all normal on the surface.  I fought hard to ignore all the dangerous comforts I could have reached for to quiet the war raging in my head.  I ignored the alcohol hidden deep behind everything under my kitchen sink.  I ignored the pain pills the doctor gave me for the tendons in my hand.  I ignored and walked away from every other coping mechanism I had ever turned to before.  I fought so very hard.

And it wasn’t hard enough.

I saw something on line, something that I’m sure was innocent, but added to other things from the past two weeks, didn’t look innocent to me.  And I went to Twitter to vent and rage and say all the things I was feeling, and thinking, and doubting.  I didn’t really believe half of what I tweeted, but god I was so mad, and so scared, and hurt, and frustrated from asking, begging, yelling, for what I needed from everyone around me and not being heard.  The manic/depression that I was fighting so hard to keep from everyone around me got away from me.

And they found out.

And it hurt them. And they don’t understand.  And they’re pissed.  Mainly Brian. Even though he wasn’t the source of all this anger and hurt and frustration, he ended up being the target. I said some awful things, no matter that I was only putting voice to my own hurt and frustration, it hurt him.  And I can’t go to him and say I didn’t mean it, it was my disorder.  It sounds like a cop out.  It sounds like I’m refusing to take responsibility for my own actions.  “I just needed a place to vent”  “I just needed to blow off steam”  “I just wanted to be heard”

It hurt him.

And I may have lost him.

Because lets face it, I’ve put him through a lot this year. And this was just one more thing on an already too long list of things this stupid fucking disorder has put him through and I’ve expected him to live with.

No, I can not wholly blame my bipolar disorder for the fucked up mess my life is, but I can’t discount it, or discredit it altogether either.

Maybe when he has time to cool off, maybe when the mad and hurt ease a little, maybe in a few days he’ll hear the repeated I’m sorry and I love you’s.  But probably not.  And that’s the price I have to pay.  I can’t blame him for walking away, hell I would run away from this disorder if I could.  He has the choice, he has that freedom.  I don’t.  You can expect a person to love you through hurt and pain and storms for so long, and I think this time, he’s reached his limit.

“I’m sorry” won’t be enough.  Maybe “I’m leaving” will be.

First love, True love, Forever love

I seem to be reading a lot of blogs lately and finding inspiration in them.  I’ve read several posts about Forever Loves.  At 43, I don’t believe I’ve met my forever love.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I never will. 

Sure I’ve been married. Twice. I knew neither of them would be forever.  I’ve been honest about the reasons I married them.  Neither was because I was head over heals I can’t live without him want to spend the rest of my life with him in love.  Oh, I did love them, as best I could as the person I was then with what I understood about love.  All of which was painfully inadequate. 

But they were not total failures.  I have three amazingly brilliant, funny, good looking, outgoing, wonderful kids. (yes, I’m wearing mommy goggles) I have a good relationship with my 2nd ex husband, and my 1st ex husband could fall of the face of the Earth and I wouldn’t hire the search party to find him.  Oh, there would be a party, just not the searching kind.

Then there was Brian. I can honestly say, from the beginning, I thought “This is it. This is forever love.”  The stubborn hopeless romantic still wonders what if.  (look, that’s honest, but it doesn’t mean it will happen, but you know, when you believe that this is it it’s hard to let go of that, no matter what.) After 5 years, and countless break ups, it’s probably a safe bet that he isn’t my forever love. 

But he was as close as I have ever gotten.  He’s probably as close as I’ll ever get. 

My first love? I was 12. In 7th grade.  His mom made him break up with me in 8th grade because she said he was getting too serious.  At the time I thought she was cruel and I cried for a week, my poor 12 year old heart was shattered for the first time.  I thought I would probably die.  Turns out, she knew him pretty well.. he tends to get a bit obsessive.

The thing is, I hear people talk of true love, forever love, lasting love, a certain security in knowing that while their partner could leave on any given day, they know that they know that they know that they won’t.  And that is something I’ve never had.  I’m willing to accept that I never will.  Does it tug at my heart? Sure it does. Who doesn’t want to find someone who loves them, accepts them, wants to be with them day in and day out and not just on good hair days?

I believe in true love, forever love, lasting love, committed love.  I just believe it exits for other people.  At 43, I’ve missed the boat.  I chose to give my heart to men who wouldn’t protect it, who would end up breaking it, sometimes over and over again.  I’m done giving my heart away.  It’s too beat up, banged up and bruised, used and abused, I’d be hard pressed to find anyone willing to put in the work to heal it.  I’d be even harder pressed to find someone I’d be willing to let try. 

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 have had enough.

I have been spreading my wings.

No, actually, I have been staking my claim.  On my life.

I have spent an incredible amount of time in my life not rocking the boat.  Keeping my opinions to myself, agreeing to keep the peace, and going along with the status quo even when it really just rocked my core.

Know how well that worked for me?  It landed me in the hospital.

It was that fateful day in the hospital a friendship was born.  Via Facebook and text messages, I reconnected with a friend from high school.  He threatened to kick my ass, because I was being stupid.  I told him to get fucked.  It was destined to be love.

The conversations continued outside the hospital, and progressed from text message to phone calls.  Long phone calls.  Three hour phone calls.  We felt something.  We made plans for me to come see him.

It was as good in person as it was over the phone.  We laughed, we talked till all hours of the night.  it was fun, and easy and perfect.

And then life interfered.  He got busy with family, I started therapy, he got a job, I juggled the girls schedules.  The phone calls stopped, the text messages dwindled.  I tried to keep it going, but it was clear his life was too busy, too crowded for me.

I sent him a text “I’m tired of fighting to be a part of your life.”

He responded with “What’s your problem?”

I sent another text, “You have a life there that I can’t be a part of.  I can’t come see you there, you won’t come here.  You’re busy with family friends and your job.  There’s just no room for me.”

That? Took a lot of courage, on my part.  But what I wonder now is this:  Was any of it real or were the feelings I felt at the beginning due to the mania?  Did I imagine it, exaggerate it because I was manic.  And now that I’m getting my head straightened out, and I’m not as manic or crazy, it’s not as appealing.  I’m seeing it for what it was.

He phoned and called me Babe.  That? Is a gold-plated Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.  I’m a sucker for a guy who calls me Babe. And yet?  This time I couldn’t.  This time I knew it was just him trying to reel me back in, but nothing would change.  It’s not like his family would magically disappear, or his job would instantly get less demanding.  I would still be an afterthought, something to squeeze in when he thought about it.

I deserve better than that.

Therapy taught me I have worth.  Even with my disease, I have worth.  That anyone worthy of me will love ME, want ME, and my illness won’t be an issue.

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.

Changing my mind set in the dating game

This dating business?

Sucks.

Seriously.  I know why we do this crap when we’re younger.

Because we can.

Because when we’re young, and the guy turns out to be a douchenozzle, or he blows you off, or stands you up, or disappears, or lied on his profile, or the date just sucks we truly believe “Heh, he’s the problem. Not me.”

Now that I’m older, and dating again?

Not so easy to sell myself that same bullshit. Even if it isn’t bullshit.

I haven’t blogged about it, but I’ve made no secret of it on Twitter, that a few weeks (months? really? has it been that long?) I went back to the dating website where I met Brian.  (What? It’s free!)  I’m not looking for my Prince Charming. He won’t be fishing anyway.  But it would be nice to have someone to hang out with so I don’t spend all my weekends at home alone.  Or out on the town alone.  Or drive my friends bat-shit crazy begging them to entertain me.

I made a few quick changes to my profile, added a new picture, and waited without any real expectations.  I didn’t wait long.  Hello?!? New fish in the sea, fresh meat. Everyone’s coming out to check out the new chick.  (Even a couple of girls. WOOt! Everyone wants a piece of me!) A lot of young guys, looking to hook up (ignore), a lot of ain’t-no-way-in-hell guys looking way out of their league (ignore), a few I talked to, but just didn’t feel any real need or want to talk to them on the phone or in person, and a couple I actually talked to on the phone, and a couple I actually met.

One guy in particular had some potential.  His profile had the same sense of humor I have.  I got it. I thought he gets it.  We exchanged a few messages, and then phone numbers.  Our first phone conversation was an hour long.  He’s on Twitter and Facebook (no I never went looking for him).  We exchanged real-life email addresses and emails and a few more phone calls… and then?

Gone.

Radio Silent.

His profile said “I’m taking a break. Good luck to all of you still fishing.”

But nothing to me. No phone call, no email. no text message.

I am not heartbroken over this. I figure this is part of the game.  Maybe he found someone he really connected with.  I wish him the best of luck, truly. But couldn’t he have told me that instead of falling off the face of the earth?

Or maybe he was abducted by aliens.

Or, when he got my real-life email address, he looked at my google profile, which links to my Twitter, Facebook, here, my review blog, and well, from there? It’s just follow the flashing neon lights to find out way more about me than you ever dreamed you wanted to know.

Of course, I figured, *that* had to be it.  That had to be the reason why he fell (or jumped) off the face of the earth.  He read my blog, he found my Facebook page, and my Flickr account, and everything else I have on line…

And ran scared.

Or jumped.

It took a little bit for me to realize how destructive that line of thinking was.  So what if he ran (or jumped) because of what he found?  What he found is a version of me.  Sometimes a cartoon version of me, but still… a version of me.  If he couldn’t handle it, didn’t like it, or was intimidated (yeah, that’s what it was… intimidation) he’s not the right guy.

I was all this on-line with Brian…oh wait, bad example.  That didn’t work out.

Ok, I have a lot of friends who know me in real life, and know the me that is on line and they like both versions of me.  But when push came to shove, when things fizzled, my first thought was “What was wrong with ME?” and it should have been “What the hell is wrong with him?” or “Oh, well, he just doesn’t get me.  Next!”

I had a date this weekend.  With a guy. Saturday night.  And I didn’t drink any alcohol.  (thanks Petron) The date? Almost perfect.  All on my own.  Without my best friend tequila.  And if this one doesn’t work out either?

I’ll be batting about average.

I can't not find words to adequately express my thanks

I can not begin to find the words to adequately express my thanks to all my readers.

I got a message from Melissa today, at You Won’t Go Blind, offering me a writer position at that website instead of just a guest poster.

She said that my first article there, is still getting lots of reviews and she asked if I would be interested in submitting articles on a regular basis.

And with that simple message?  I saw more of my dream come true.

So for those of you who followed me over there for one day? Pack a bag, you’ll be following me over there more and more.

I took another step towards my dreams coming true.  And I owe a huge part of it to you.

I'm a guest blogger!

Back in January, Sassy Scorp posted she was looking for people to write guest posts for her blog.

I’m a self proclaimed attention whore, and relish the opportunity to meet new people so I jumped all over that.

Today? I’m over at Sassy’s Place, Single Mama in LA.  She’s a single mom like me.  We’re not ‘mommy bloggers’, and we both wish there was more of a single mom blogger niche out there for us.

In the meantime?  We’ll create our own.

So go read about my insecurities about getting naked with someone new.  Nothing like going to ‘visit’ a new bloggers place and getting naked all over their blog.

I’m klassy like that.

It's just a ring. Except to me? It was everything.

I had to go by Brian’s house this past week for a couple of reasons.  It was only the 2nd time I have been there since we broke up in December.  While I was there, I gathered up some of my things that were still at his house.   Mainly clothes, a battery charger for my Nikon.

And my Jessica Simpson shoe box.

In that shoe box?  All the cards, all the jewelry boxes, the wrapping paper and bows from all the gift Brian had given me over the past couple of years.  Yes I am a pack rat.  Or I’m sentimental.  Or frankly just a dork.

Also in that box?

The diamond ring, the jewelry box it come in and the gift bag that I gave him for Christmas.  The day he broke up with me?  I told him I wanted that ring back because frankly it meant everything to me, and he didn’t deserve to have it.  At the time I wanted to hurt him as much, if not more, than he was hurting me.  I’m not sure I did.  I’m not sure it bothered him at all.

Since then?  I have offered many times to let him keep it, and he never wavered.  He never changed his mind. He consistently said “I told you I would give it back.”

And he did.

Now, I have the ring.  And the jewelry box, and the gift bag.  I have every piece of jewelry he ever bought me (minus the ring that is kept safely at the bottom of the lake.) I have the boxes the jewelry came in.  I have the cards he bought me for my birthday, for Valentine’s Day, for just because he loved me.

But I have that ring.

And what am I going to do with it?  I mean, really?  It’s just a ring.  He didn’t wear it but an hour.  It’s just a ring.  I have placed too much meaning and value on a ring that was too little too late and couldn’t save what was already gone.  I have toyed with the idea of taking it back to the jewelry store where I bought it and asking if I could exchange it for something for me.  And yet… that stupid ring? means something to me.

There’s my problem.  I place too much sentimental value on THINGS.  Jewelry boxes.  Cards.  Tickets to movies, races, concerts.  I have CD’s of our Yahoo conversations that we had years ago.  I have every email we ever sent each other.  I have pictures of him, of my girls, of his kids from our first weekend together.  The pictures? They suck.  I was a horrible photographer then.  But I have them.

Because I cling to shit.

Because it meant something to me.

An email.  Or a Yahoo IM.. meant something.

And now this ring?

Shouldn’t mean anything at all.

And yet?

It does.

I tried to wear it one day.  Just because hello? it’s a gorgeous diamond ring.  The problem with wearing it?  To me, it’s his ring that he didn’t want.  And by not wanting it, he didn’t want me.  (NOTE!!!  That sentence right there? ALL 100% me, my feelings, my thoughts)

I took it off.

I put it away.

I don’t know what to do with it.

It’s just a ring.

And yet?

To me, it was everything.

 

 

Please go show me some love, just keep the crazy to yourself

Remember a few days (maybe weeks) ago when I said that Melissa had lost her mind and agreed to let me write a few blog posts for You Won’t Go Blind?

I went live today.

With rules for dating parents.

No, not rules for how to date parents,  rules for parents who are dating again.

So, please, go over to You Won’t Go Blind and check me out.  Leave me some love.  Show Melissa I can bring a whole lot of new readers to the place, just like my milkshakes bring the boys to the yard.

Oh, and don’t mention my dating history.

She doesn’t need to know that yet.

Thanks.