Chaos, Emotion, and A Glimpse

Emotions are a tricky thing.

A little over three years ago I felt okay. I was still struggling with a bipolar diagnosis and finding my own unique degree of “normal”… but I felt like overall, I was starting to get things together. Life was busy and I was keeping up – full time job, four busy kids, the entire family moving every direction with activities, and a marriage that needed work but that was dedicated. It wasn’t perfect, but I did feel like I was starting to get a handle on things – that if I worked a little harder, and pushed through the rough times a little stronger, than it would be okay… I would conquer the madness.

Even though I knew it was stressful and a struggle to move, I never would have imagined that just a few short months after moving I would find myself in one of the darkest places that I had ever been – in essence the start of a roller coaster of a recovery journey. The emotions that floated around my head had always been extreme, but as I began to travel a new road, research my illness’s, and take off the many masks that I had always worn; I found that I no longer knew how to handle anything – let alone the emotions that ran rampant through my brain, fluctuating with little warning, sending me down twisting paths that always felt like they were trying to trip me up.

 

Three years ago I posted on Facebook, trying to make my life seem exciting and good – showing off our new home that we were settling into and bragging about the beauty of living in the country; I was trying to make it seem like an adventure that I fully intended to not only participate in, but to enjoy. And yet just yesterday, I found myself curled up in the corner – struggling to breathe as I battled emotions so intense that I felt like I had been propelled right back to the beginning of my journey. As I fought through my emotions and worked through the steps that I have learned to bring myself back to the present I grew overwhelmed – upset, frustrated, and confused – over both how far I have come, and how far I have left to go.

Just yesterday, I found myself wondering if it was worth it… if I would ever be the vision of “normal” that I have spent years aiming to be.

And then I was okay again. My mood bounced back up. I smiled… I cuddled… I played with my kids… I felt hope and motivation. I felt good – even if it was only for a brief few minutes before the chaos resumed inside my head.

And throughout the day I used up my strength – my inner monologues and my conscience fighting amongst itself. I used up my patience and my own understanding – I used up my own pool of excess emotion to propel myself through dinner, through conversation, and through the evening with the family. By the time that bedtime arrived, my head hurt and my brain would not shut down. Things people said – the way that I reacted – the things that I did and felt and said and saw… it all replayed on repeat. My emotions swirled back up and as the exhaustion settled in, I wasn’t sure that I could bother to repeat the steps and the process to calm myself down and think rationally.

And the worst part is – sometimes I question it all.

Nights like tonight, where I can’t sleep and my brain works non-stop, I wonder if it’s worth it to keep moving forward on this spiralling pathway that I’ve chosen. I want healing. I want recovery. I want to be able to say that I did it… I conquered those thoughts… those ideas… those reactions. I want to be able to say that I have no more darkness in me, and that medications and therapy and a lot of work has helped to restore my brain to some semblance of “normal”. I know that tomorrow I will mask it again and I know that I will pretend that I am okay as I work through more of my “stuff”. I will smile and make nice, I will socialise, I will bring up normalcy and stigma, and I will talk about fighting and winning against mental health.

But the truth is; emotions are not easy – and fixing chemical imbalances and learned behaviours and reactions, is more difficult than anyone will ever admit to.

Because the truth is hard to admit.

It is never easy to say that you are struggling and that you feel like a failure.

It is never easy to say “I’m not okay” or “I’m suicidal today”. Stigma is everywhere – in the world, in our friends, in our homes, and in our family. Our loved ones become numb to our pain or our confusion – our constantly heightened sense of emotion and our inability to deal with life in an appropriate way. Compassion fatigue allows those who we trust with our baggage to become desensitised – to possibly say the right things but without meaning, or to simply ignore our struggles and our victories.

And so we return to the places we came from – hiding the truth and masking our journey with quotes and inspirational sayings. We pretend that although it may be tough – that we are fighters and that the worst of the journey is over, just a few small hurdles left to clear.

My emotions are not okay. My own emotions might never be fully okay or one hundred percent manageable.

After years of working on controlling them, on doing recovery work, and on researching therapies that can help me process and see things differently – I can honestly say that some days I feel worse, being aware of and in a position where I am expected to be able to redirect those emotions, and process things in a more acceptable manner.

A little less than three years ago, I tried to jump off of a waterfall and my life was saved by two police officers who pulled me to safety as I let go over the ledge. I was confused and unable to handle my emotional state – I was depressed and while it was an intentional act, I was also unaware of the depth of my own state of mind, and the way that my brain processed things differently. I wish I could say that being in that place, was the worst day that I have experienced.

But the truth is, it wasn’t.

Some days are utterly unbearable and there are many days where taking my life still seems like an appealing option… a better option than living in this constant fear, pain, and chaos.

But then I remember the good days. I remember the small victories that I am the only one who has noticed – the way that I didn’t go to bed one night feeling like there had been a massive war inside my head… or the way that I controlled myself in an overwhelming situation… or the time I set a date for myself to make a decision, and then I let it pass by. There are victories every day. There are reminders and support systems and people who might not ever “get it”, but who are there. There are the days that I force myself to talk about it – the good and the bad – the victories and the struggles, so that other people might not feel alone any more… or so that someone else might see the battle that I face. There are the days where I say I will not give up – and there are the days where I cannot do much more than sit and pretend to be okay. There are days where compassion fatigue and struggles of their own prevent my friends and family from checking in or from being able to help when I ask… and then there are the days where they are there – a touch, a hug, a tea, a friendly “hello”, and I hadn’t even thought that they noticed.

Three years ago I had no idea what I was doing. I was simply trying to survive in the best way that I knew how – with no knowledge, no true support, and no ability to identify what was really going on in my head.

Today – I still feel the same way a lot of the time. But emotions are tricky, the mind

can be a complicated maze to navigate, and recovery is never a straight pathway. So today – while I don’t understand, and while I have chosen to stop trying to navigate my head for a while, I will talk about it. I will share a bit of the chaos – I will share a bit of my life. And sometimes, sharing a small glimpse into someone else’s head, is the very best thing that you can do.

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Recovery in the Quiet Times

Today I’m taking a quiet afternoon to myself. During the process of self-discovery and recovery, where I have spent hours upon hours trying to understand my own thoughts, emotions, actions, and reactions – I have discovered that I need space. I need time. I need to breathe.

When my husband and I met, we were in high school. Soon after we began dating, our first son came along – followed by three more children, college, and careers. Life spiraled faster than we could see coming and we embraced it. From sun up until sun down we worked – we went to school – we played with our kids – we paid bills – we rushed around from one thing to the next. There was rarely any time for anything else. We were young and we had a family that depended on us.

During this time, my battle with mental illness was just beginning to pick up its pace. There would be many days where sleep was an illusion, fighting became my go-to reaction, and life didn’t make sense. Pushing through, neither my husband nor I really understood why we did the things that we did, how to change, or even what was wrong.

Of course, life simply can’t continue on forever in a tangled, confusing, chaotic mess and so when we crashed – we crashed hard. Both of us faced demons from our past, triggers from the present, and emotional/mental/physical problems that neither of us was prepared to handle. We nearly gave up; on ourselves, on each other, and on our marriage. We didn’t deal with things well – our problems spiraled, my mental health became a severe mental illness and I almost lost my life.

Since then, life has changed for us.

Thankfully, we have been able to establish an incredible support system and have opened up to friends and family along the way. Through our journey – both together and individually we have discovered things that we couldn’t have even begun to comprehend before this point. Things in our life – the way that we think, feel, and act are changing – and as our knowledge grows and we spend hours in self discovery – we continue to find better ways to move through life – both separately and together.

For me, one thing that I have learned – is that I need ‘down time’. Without down time my mind becomes muddled – call it chemical, genetic, or a product of life – it is something that I have learned is vital to my ability to function well.

Personally – I find this frustrating.

It isn’t that I don’t like life – in fact I do very much like living a full life. I like to go out. I like to spend time with friends and family. I like to explore new places, things, and people.

I also like to be alone.

Sometimes I need to be alone.

Sometimes I need to take a break in the middle of the week – I need to sit on the couch with my feet up and a book in my hand. Sometimes I need to close my eyes and have a short nap. Sometimes I need to literally sit and do nothing.

And yes. Sometimes I get frustrated with myself. Sometimes I wonder why I can’t have endless amounts of energy like my husband seems to have. Sometimes I wonder why I can’t function in the same way that everyone around me seems to be able to – pushing through and just faking it.

But I can’t. Believe me, I’ve tried.

I have spent countless days in misery as my mind became overwhelmed with pain and fear and anger and confusion. I have spent time in the presence of people where I have broken down, unable to continue on a conversation because I have put myself into a situation that I cannot handle at that time. I have been to the point of suicide because I simply can’t do life anymore. I have felt like my brain has been cracking down the middle, fighting with itself – two sides of the canyon – one side yelling at me to be normal, to keep going, to just ‘suck it up’, while the other side of me begins to see things, hallucinate, become unstable, paranoid, or simply dark.

I have fought through instability, mania, depression, and borderline rage. I have struggled to find level – and I have struggled to keep myself from falling down a rabbit hole more times than I can count. I have spent more time than I care to remember in hospitals, in counselling, in groups, and in study – trying to understand why I just can’t function ‘normally’.

And finally, I have spent time fighting. Fighting with myself. Fighting with others. Trying to explain to them – what I can’t even explain to myself. I have spent hours crying because I can’t do what I desperately want to do. I have spent time debating, explaining, and eventually silent, because others in my life simply don’t get it. I have felt guilt over relaxing, and fear over a fight that I was sure to come, if I spent those moments quietly – if I cancelled plans, or if I just said no.

But now, after years of work. After walking a recovery journey that fills me both with pride and frustration, I finally have the confidence to say enough is enough. It doesn’t matter. I don’t question a diabetic that needs insulin. I don’t question a cancer patient that needs rest. I don’t question a person struggling with an illness on why they need time to recover. I respect it. I respect them. And I respect myself.

There will always be people in my life who don’t understand this need I have for time, space, and silence. But I don’t need them to understand… now that I understand, I get it. Not everybody needs the same thing that I do – and not everyone is going to see what not having these things will do to me. And that’s okay.

I’m okay with that.  And that, is how I know how far I’ve come.

That is how I know – that regardless of whether or not other people may understand my actions towards my recovery and myself, I know that I am doing what I need to do – with confidence, with guidance, with support, and with determination. These are the things that I have learned. These are the things that will ultimately ensure my success.

So now, I’m going to go sit quietly in the corner of my couch, my kids sent outside to play in the sunshine, my husband puttering around the house, and a book in my hands. No justification. No fighting. Just doing something that I desperately needed to do today, to avoid a break. Just being me.

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Two Roads to One Destination

Whispered truths.

Admissions among friends with the clause that nobody can know... or requests that they don't say anything to a certain person or a certain group of people.

Fear of judgement. 

Fear of the unknown. 

Fear of failure. 

I want to say that I am stable on my road to recovery. I want to write about how I embrace myself and all the quirks that come with who I am and the way that I think, act, or feel. I want to say something profound - some truth that will be earth shaking. I want to be solid in my thinking - to say that it is all  a straight pathway as I navigate my journey. 

But I can't. Because I'm not. 

I still have good days and bad days. Lately? It's been manageable and I have seen some major improvements in my thoughts and my behaviors. I have been sorting out my routine and my life, sticking with meds and putting in the work required to live in stability. 

But it doesn't mean that my journey is over or easy at all. In fact - it's almost the opposite. 

The further down the road to recovery that I travel, the more I see from those around me - the expectations that once I'm good - I'm good. An unspoken agreement that I might be able to slip back a step or two, but to completely fall down, is unacceptable. The looks and whispers and judgement that I see and/or hear when I say that I am having a difficult time and when I say that I need to do something different than what is acceptable to my friends or my family.

It comes from everywhere and it isn't deliberate. It simply isn't understood. 

I have a diagnosed mental health condition. My brain might never fire correctly on it's own... it might mean that I will travel a lifetime of medications, counselling, and constant self monitoring. It might mean that I will slip and fall and need help getting back up. It might mean that one day I will not appear to be the person that I appeared to be the day before.

Right now I'm doing somewhat okay... and I truly hope that I remain stable and level and in control. 

But I am also aware of the possibility that I might fall. I am aware of the fact that I might need to take some extra steps to ensure that I keep going on the correct path - even when it causes you to look twice at me.

Sometimes I make decisions based on my mental health - something that I don't usually admit for fear of being misunderstood or of being seen as weak, or excusing behavior. Sometimes I feel close to my breaking point - about to slip and fall, hanging on by a thread because of a fear of doing something that I need to do to maintain stability. 

It's a constant truth. It's a constant secret. 

Recently I made a big decision in my life, that really brought out this fear in me. I gave very few people the real reason that I made the decision that I did - bringing in other factors in my decision and making those the focal points. I avoided the truth... and the truth was that it was something that I needed to maintain my stability. I could feel myself falling down this rabbit hole, spinning wildly and trying to hang on for dear life. But I could feel my grip slipping and in the end I made the decision that I felt was best for me, my health, and for my family. 

But I didn't tell people that. Even those closest to me. I made other excuses and gave other reasons, but I didn't just come out and say that my health required me to make that choice. And it was because of this fear. This hidden feeling of judgement within me. 

Is it real? The judgement, the looks, the lack of understanding?

I can say yes with certainty. It is something that I have discussed at lengths, in conversations with family and friends that have left me vulnerable and afraid, worthless and like a failure. Conversations that have expressed frustration and impatience with me for being the way that I am, and not being able to just do what everyone else does. Conversations that have left me questioning who I am, what I'm capable of, and whether or not the people in my life are better off without me. 

I wish that I could say that I didn't care about the opinions of others or about their judgement and their misunderstanding of me and my situation. I wish that I could say that the looks, the comments, and the hurtful words slid right off me, never sticking, never bothering me. Although I try to let that be true, it isn't always the case.

Thankfully I'm in a place now where I can try and fight that fear. That need to whisper and keep my reasoning quiet. I am in a place where I can speak up and fight for what I need to maintain a stability in my mind. 

But sometimes it still hurts. Sometimes it is still difficult to explain. Sometimes it doesn't even make sense. 

But I can walk away knowing that I am doing all that I need to do to stay sane and to stay level. I can stand tall and firm and know that just because those around me might not understand, it doesn't mean that I am wrong, or weak, or making excuses. 

I can also try and raise awareness. I can stop the whispering and talk in a firm voice. I can say what I need and why I need it. I can show those around me that I am strong and capable despite my illness. I can take care of myself and ignore the fear of being different and of being judged. 

I can stand out. I can stand firm. I can stop the whispers, the lies, and the secrets. I can make having a diagnosis and living my life in a way that works for me, okay. 

Because I am okay. I am fighting, and I am working, and I am changing. My diagnosis does not define me, but it does help me find the pathway that works for me, sometimes, there is more than one way to live, more than one choice that can be made.

Sometimes there are two roads to one destination and while one might look different, or frightening or simply strange; sometimes it is the best path for your journey.  

 

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Labels, Labels, Everywhere

Woman. Mother. Wife.

Bipolar. Borderline. Psychotic. Unstable.

Balanced. Stable. Healthy.

Unhinged. Wired. Manic. Crazy.

Happy. Sad. Up. Down. Chaotic.

Overwhelmed. Exhausted. Scarred. Incapable.

Me.  As I am.

It's amazing how many different words float around in my head on a daily basis - contradicting thoughts, emotions, and definitions. It isn't that I try to label myself. It isn't that I want to label myself. It just is what it is.

The fear wells up in my head on a daily basis - the thought that I'm sick and that I'm not complete - the idea that I'm missing an essential piece of who I am.

I want to define myself - I want to know exactly who I am.

But the problem with that... is that I truly don't know from moment to moment what that will look like or even why I crave it.

But I do.

Maybe it's the thought that I will always be unwell, that I will always have the threat of another breakdown looming over my head. Much like an alcoholic will always be an alcoholic - I will always have Bipolar Disorder, I will always have a history of being unstable. Medications can help to keep me level. Counselling and recovery programs can help me get to the root cause of my problems, they can help me analyse my behavior and show me what I do and why I do it. But as it gets easier to address my issues and even easier to recognize my own faults, triggers, fears, and episodes - it also makes it more constant... giving me an awareness unlike anything I have ever known before.

And I look around me and I see people - everyone with their own label that I can see them trying to overcome and I wonder if I will simply replace one label - one problem - with another.

And I see online - articles about identifying the Borderline in your life - telling spouses, family, and friends of those with the disease about the horrible things that a person with a Borderline personality will do. I see the other side of the argument... pages and articles written by those with Borderline, Bipolar, Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, OCD or any number of Disorders begging those in our lives to understand - to love us anyways... to be patient and kind and loving... we don't want to be this way.

And then I flip through more social media. And I see the meme's... the ones that say that you can change your life - you can be whoever you want to be - you are stronger than anything - only you can make yourself happy - only you can love yourself - only you can define yourself.

And that's the thing - there's truth to all of it. A little bit in each. But it isn't as simple as that either.

I give myself labels every day.... some days I feed off of a word - a diagnosis. Some days I spew that word out, that label with hatred - swearing that I am more than that. Some days I just feel resigned to it. I am this. I am that. I am good. I am bad. I am sick. I am healthy. It is my fault. It isn't my fault. Some days I just wish it was clear.... I wish that labels could be stuck to our foreheads when we wander outside - so everyone could see what we ourselves feel like - so that everyone could see that every person out there has something that they are insecure about - something that they doubt - some way that they see themselves or feel about themselves.

Some days I wish it were like that - but only with positive things.

Photographer. Friend. Child of God.

Strong. Overcomer. Courageous.

Authentic. Honest. Friend.

And I wonder - why can't it be. Why can't we wear our labels proudly? Some days we are not going to feel positive, but maybe - maybe if we remember the positives a little more often, they'll shine through a little stronger - overpower the negative a little bit more. Maybe then our beauty will be the first thing we identify by and the first thing that someone else sees.

Maybe instead of the woman who tried to kill herself and that struggles with Depression and Bipolar and Borderline Personality... I will be the woman who is kind and thoughtful and empathetic and strong and courageous.

Some days I will fail at this. Some days, my own labels will overpower everything else and creep up on me and define me. But on the days where I am able - on the days I can say with pride - "my diagnosis doesn't define me" those days I will shine. Those days I will help erase stigma. Those days I will help another find hope. Those days will strengthen me. Those days will be the ones to propel me to keep going - to continue fighting - to continue talking.

Those are the good days. Those are what I want to define me in the end.

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To Those Who Have Stuck Around

I had always been the odd one out. Periods of isolation, enthusiasm, obsession, and short-lived friendships were normal for me. I thought it was just girl-drama – that nobody was really as close as those best friends that they portray on television. I didn’t realize or understand that my clique-jumping and inability to really get close to someone (without becoming obsessive, envious, or eventually angry) was really the early stages of my Borderline Personality Disorder rearing its head. I also didn’t realize that my hobby-jumping, sports switching, club shifting – followed by periods of doing nothing – were indications of Bipolar Disorder. To me, I was normal - I didn't understand why I wasn't like everyone else.

He’s been with me for seventeen years now. We have survived through the emotional roller-coaster – the turmoil, the ups, the downs, and the chaos; and some days I truly wonder how we made it.

It’s on these days when I sit and think about it, that I don’t really understand it at all. Don’t get me wrong – I love my husband with all of my heart, but I know that I am not an easy person to live with, and some days I am definitely not an easy person to love.

You see, I didn’t just wake up one day at twenty five years old, suddenly psychotic and breaking down – sick of life and unsure, and well, mentally ill. Looking back through work that I am doing, I can see the traits as they developed through my childhood and early adolescence. I can see peaks and valleys, I can look back on the skewed thinking and my alternate view of the world around me, and now that I know better, I can honestly say that that is where it all began. As the years went by and life became busy and hectic and stressful – triggers were found out and I came up and down and to the edge of the cliff mentally, several times before it all became too much, before I was finally unable to handle it myself, and before I finally began to get help.

Sometimes I was mean and angry – I yelled and I pushed my husband (and others I love) away. I didn’t know how to process things and it was the only defense that I knew and that I trusted. Other times, I was energetic and ambitious – my dreams were infinite and I could tackle the world around me… I was obsessive and perfect, my life looked like a happily ever after to those outside our little bubble. And then, then I would fall – depression would engulf me and our happy family was miserable. I would become isolated, disinterested, hateful, and self-loathing. Everything appeared blackened and I dragged my husband and a few select people through my darkened world as I contemplated life – but more often death. As I threatened suicide, ran from my home, slept in my car, placed myself in dangerous situations, and scared the hell out of people that I desperately wished could help me, but who didn’t know what to do.

And yet, they still loved me. They showed me kindness, forgiveness, patience, and overall love. Even on the days where I believed I couldn’t be loved, and that I didn’t deserve any of it – they stayed. They put up boundaries for their own safety. They stayed awake and stopped me from leaving the house. They called the police. They let me sleep on their couch. They talked to me. They didn’t doubt my heightened feelings. They tried everything that they could, and they kept me safe.

I know that some days were harder than others. I know that at times I drove my husband to the brink with worry for me. I know that some days, he (and others) had no idea what to do. I know that on days where I would disappear and they worried for my safety, they did what they had to – they continued on. They cared for the kids. They cared for my husband. They prayed for me. They confronted me. They took my anger and they made decisions in my best interest, sometimes against my own judgement.

I wish I could say that now that I am stable and on the right track, that things were easier. But that would be a lie. Because when the disease is in your head, in the way you think, react, and control situations, you can’t just turn it off. The work that I am doing helps. It has made a dramatic change in me and I can honestly say that I can handle more of my triggers, better than I ever have before.  But there are still days and moments when I know that I am difficult to say the least. I know that there are days when my husband wishes that I were ‘better’, and that I could just ‘stop’, the way that my brain works. I know that there are times when I do or say or fight for something and he wants to blame my mental health, because sometimes that is easier. I know that there are some days when he wishes there was no mental illness to blame. In other relationships, I know that others do not understand and I know that I still hurt others when I isolate myself or react badly to a trigger or situation.

Trust me. I know.

And I’m grateful. I am so very grateful that they try. I am grateful that they don’t give up, and that I don’t scare them away. I am grateful that they worry and that they check in on me. I am grateful that I am even a thought in their day.

And I am grateful to my husband. It isn’t easy to be married to someone with a mental illness, and we have definitely gone through some very rough times in our marriage, but we’re together… we’re struggling through the murky days and coming out to brighter ones… more often, longer lasting, and more vivid than we’ve ever known.

So on those days that you wonder if what you’re doing helps or if it's worth it, remember - we see it, we feel it… we just can’t always say thank you in the moment.

Keep reaching out to those you love. Keep the conversation going – when your loved one is doing well, ask how you can help when they’re not. Take time to make sure you are grounded, but know that your presence in their life is invaluable when they are struggling. They know it. They’re grateful.

I’m grateful.

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