Beautifully Broken

I used to believe that I was defective, incapable of obtaining and keeping the same things that supposedly normal people liked to flaunt as though that was the definition of success. By all measurements to western society… I was a failure… broken marriage, broken mind, struggling finances, lack of motivation at times, and a death wish.

Broken.

It’s such a powerful word with a strong sense of permanence. If something is broken, it might get fixed, but it will never be good, whole, or worthy of feeling new; and that was how I felt. Even when life began to make sense again, when God provided, my marriage flourished, our kids grew strong and healthy, and my mind became more stable; I kept this image of broken in my head – I might be glued together for now, but how long would that glue hold strong?

As a result of this fear in me that the fix was only temporary, I learned to hang on to things that mattered to me. I learned to manipulate situations and I learned to fight dirty. I became the angry, bitter woman that lived inside my heart, always fearing the worst and always waiting for disaster to strike. I acted on impulses and emotions, on feelings of justified anger and deserved pain. I loved my family, but anybody else who threatened to break any piece of my already broken life apart was destroyed in my rage… relationships trampled on, people pushed away and broken down, things left behind and ruined.

Over the years, life continued on. Cycles repeated. Treatment ensued. Problems were either worked on, or set aside to be worked on at an appropriate time. Sometimes I fell down along the pathway to recovery, the puzzle that I had been working to piece together for my life shattering as I fell backwards. It was a fragile thing. This thought, this stubborn belief that develops in life that convinced me that broken is bad.

I didn’t realise that the worst was yet to come.

In just over a month it will be three years since I hit a major turning point in my life. November 6, 2014 I tried to take my own life, and in reality, I should have died that day. On that cold and rainy Thursday morning, I felt the most broken that I ever had, and while it was neither my first nor my last suicidal day, it was the day that I truly began to look into the mirror and see the brokenness displayed.

I was broken.

Today, I woke up after a hard and messy day yesterday that bled into a hard and messy morning this morning, and the only word that I could think of was broken. I felt that familiar pang – the reminder that no matter how much work I do, or how far up the path I go, I will always slide backwards, the puzzle will never be solved… I will never be whole.

I felt that familiar nagging, the one that’s always in the back of my head, the one that’s asking me to let go of the hard work and the recovery and make poor choices, the one that wants me to sabotage not only myself, but those who try to intervene. I felt it and I began to embrace it.

And then I looked at the jigsaw puzzle my mom gave me for my birthday last week. I looked at the bottle of puzzle glue sitting on top of the box and I envisioned my spirit, mind, and body as a puzzle – pieces scattered everyone. I pictured myself putting the pieces carefully together and building a stronger me – one that won’t bend or break or fall, loading the glue on in layers to prevent cracking or breaking ever again. I pictured my soul as a complete picture, everything in line and making sense… everything normal. And then I framed this puzzle in my head, a beautiful wooden frame with a piece of glass keeping it together. The image worked. It made sense, everything added up and in line.

And then I pictured the future. I saw a new piece coming into my life and wondered where it would go if I already had everything together, clear cut and organised. How could I add new experiences on, new knowledge, work, recovery, new friends, or even life events when I had already completed the puzzle? I couldn’t.

And then in my head, I saw the puzzle fall to the floor, breaking apart and ready to be built again, ready to add in the newly discovered pieces. As the pieces scattered all around me, they suddenly took on new meaning, new life as I put them together on a different angle, took out some of the stuff holding me down, and put in the new pieces that I’ve picked up along the journey. As I did it, a new picture began to emerge... a new vision of whole, complete and normal.

Today I feel broken.

But it isn’t that I feel unworthy, ugly, scarred, or useless. Today I feel broken because today I am learning new things and adding new experiences into my puzzle. I am learning from the past, and l am looking to the future, unsure of what may come, but ready to build and add and discover. New relationships are being forged daily and old relationships being repaired or let go... new life events, new mistakes, new beginnings... new puzzle.

Today, broken is not a permanent feeling – it is not a failing to succeed or hold it all together or to always make the right decisions. Today, broken is my strength. Today, broken is beautiful.

Read more »

A Glimpse of the Aftermath

"Goodnight girl," I laugh as I tuck her into bed, kissing the top of her head and trying to avoid the inevitable grab that she gives me, holding my arm, my leg, or any part of my body close to her. Joking around and laughing about how I can't leave her and how I have to stay, to sleep in her bed with her. Prying her arms from around my neck, I drop them to her bed and back away, laughing some more and talking about the outfit that she has laid out on the floor for the next day, hoping that it distracts her before bed. I feel the guilt eating me inside, but I refuse to give in to her playful, passive resistance, knowing that she will be fine and knowing that she will have to learn to trust me again. But still I give her one more kiss, one more hug goodnight.

Just a week ago, I pushed her trust to the limit when my husband and I went out late at night to try and catch the Northern lights on camera, leaving the kids at home with the oldest to put to bed. When I came in after midnight I went to her room and made sure she was tucked in, however I didn't wake her up as I knew that she preferred for me to do. Instead I slipped into bed and fell quickly asleep...  until an hour or so later when I heard my bedroom door open and felt her presence slip just inside the door for a minute while she monitored the room to ensure that I was there, breathing quietly and leaving as quickly as she came, moving back to her bed and turning on her little television and VHS player - popping a favourite Disney movie in to help her sleep.

"Trust me." I tell her regularly.

"Are you alright?" She asks the second that I seem out of sorts - the tears, the quiet, the headaches, the naps... anything out of routine, and she is aware, checking my status, ensuring that I'm not leaving her. 

"I love you." I tell her (and all of my children) daily, sometimes hourly, sometimes more. 

"It's just a cold" I say as I sniffle and wipe my nose, her face etched in worry as she watches me closely and cuddles a little more throughout the day. 

"I promise, I'm okay." I have to say, more than I should... because she doesn't trust me. She doesn't know... she can't be sure. 

"You aren't going to have to go back to the hospital... are you?" She asks quietly, the fear evident in her voice - memories of me being in a locked ward and denying my kids visits, ashamed and unwilling to introduce them to the world that I'm stuck in for the moment.

Out of all four of my children, I see the impact of my decisions the most on my daughter. Although she is 11.5, there are days where she reminds me of a toddler, the way she snuggles and clings to me, insists on sitting just in the same room as me. She doesn't like it when I'm sick, she doesn't like it when I leave, and she is often terrified when I say goodnight. 

I have gone through many episodes in the last 5-8 years to do with my mental health. Throughout my episodes, the one thing that remains consistent is that I never wanted to hurt my kids, and during my decision making process, somewhere along the lines I have often decided that they were better off without me. It is one of the biggest lies of mental illness... the one that warps the truth and forces you to see the burden that you have become, the way that you will hinder or hurt your kids if you remain in their lives, or simply if you remain alive at all. 

Several times I left home over the past five years. Several times I tried to end my life. Several times I simply thought about it. Several times, I didn't know what to do so I just ran, disappeared without a trace. My mind was paranoid, delusional, warped, and at times psychotic, but the safety and the health of my children always seemed to be constant. But that is where the problem lies... when you think you are doing what is best for them, by hurting yourself or disappearing completely from their lives. To the outside it seems hurtful, unimaginable, and selfish - while in your heart and your head, you feel like you are protecting, loving, and helping.

And after it was said and done, after regaining level status and release from a hospital. After realizing the mistakes that I had made and apologizing for leaving. After explaining mental illness - a sickness of the brain to my kids in terms that were age-appropriate and gave them information without too much detail... after all of that, I started to learn about the aftermath. 

I began to learn about the fear that they experienced - the unknown, the whispers that they put together. Eyes and ears are everywhere when you have kids, and while my husband and I have tried to keep them informed to the appropriate level they are at, there are some things that they still find out... that they piece together... that they share between them. When your front lawn is covered in police cars while they search for their mother, it is impossible to hide. When they eventually come to visit you in a place filled with people from all walks of life, experiencing all kinds of mental illness, it is impossible to hide. When memories and fights assault the adults, when tears begin and don't stop, when words are muttered and heard by little ears... they figure it out. They know. They understand. But they can't understand it all. 

And so I tuck my kids into bed each night, and each night I give an extra snuggle when needed. I leave the light on, or do a quick groggy wake up when I come in to assure them I'm home. I let them check me over when I've just got a cold, and I tell them I love them as often as they need me to. 

I show them that I am earning their trust. I talk to them. I build up our relationships. I show them recovery. 

I show them dedication and hard work. I model research, counseling, reading, and talking. I model following a health plan and the doctor's advice. I practice self care, (mostly) healthy eating, the importance of regular exercise, and expressing emotion.

I've seen a glimpse of the aftermath. I know the chaos it causes when a parent decides their children are better off without them.I know the turmoil, the heartache, the mistrust, and the loss of respect. I know the pain, the fear, and the anxiety that comes as a direct result.

I know that when my head starts to shift, that if I don't catch myself, that I might fall again, take a hundred steps back in my recovery - and as a result, theirs. I know it's possible, and I know it's impossible to understand... even those closest to me having a hard time piecing together how I can shift so rapidly, so completely in my thinking. But I know, that I can make a difference now. I can work on myself. I can do whatever is necessary.

And I can fight hard, so that hopefully, with a lot of hard work and support and knowledge, they never have to experience that kind of pain again. 

Read more »

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.

Read more »

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.

Read more »

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.  

 

Read more »