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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Precision of Language

Precision of Language.

I was watching the movie “The Giver” this morning and this phrase that is repeated throughout the movie started to click with me. I have never believed that my vocabulary was inadequate, knowing that I can read, write, describe, and discuss things with clarity and precision. But as the film, which is (very loosely) based on the book “The Giver” by Lois Lowry, continued on, I began to understand that I do not in fact, always have the correct words to describe my mental health.

It’s an interesting realization, and also a very good explanation as to why I tend to pull back into myself when I really begin to struggle. There is a quote from the original book that stands out to me as  I think through my own life and my own ups and downs, the periods of indescribable pain and mania: “Even trained for years as they all had been in precision of language, which words could you use which would give another the experience of sunshine?” (p.90).

The quote above is a truth that strikes me deep within. It is a quote that speaks to me on many levels and with many different reminders. In the negative, it reminds me that at times, I am alone in my true feelings. It explains how during periods of depression, anxiety, and even mania and psychosis, that nobody else will ever truly know the feelings that I experience; that my words will never be able to give that feeling to another person so that they can help more, understand better, or simply feel as I do. It is a truth that many people that I have interacted with have shared with me – the loneliness of their lives and their world, which is often coloured differently and skewed from what is considered to be ‘normal’ perception.  I have experienced this myself – it isn’t necessarily a bad thing and the quote can also be used as a reminder to me that no, unless they have experienced the exact fluctuations in mood that I have, they will not be able to understand completely. But that is also the key. When I remember this, it is much easier for me to share my experiences, with lower expectations.

I fully admit to times where my expectations have exceeded what can realistically be accomplished. In my relationships there have been (and sometimes still are) many times when I have wished that those closest to me could jump inside my head and just ‘get it’; that they could see, and feel, and experience those things that I do. Remembering that no, they can’t do that is a good way to open myself up to accepting the help that is available and the relationships that can be built. If I can lower those expectations, then I can fully embrace their friendship, knowing also that they accept me as I am, without needing to experience my pain themselves. It is a very powerful revelation.

In the same way, this reminder also applies in the reverse. It allows me to accept others and their experiences as valid, and as deep and as complicated as my own. As much as I want to believe at times in a ‘normal’ range of emotion and feeling – it will still always be an individual concept. Accepting that, I can accept another person’s experience and readily admit that although I do not always understand them, I can support them, love them, and be there for them in their times of struggle. It is a very grounding concept that although words exist in abundance, there is not always a “precision of language” that can describe such a personal experience, which will truly allow another person to experience the exact same thing.

Precision of language. The more that we share, the closer we will get to fully understanding each other. The more that we accept that no matter how precisely we describe something, it is still impossible to duplicate within another person exactly, the more that we will end stigma associated with periods of mental illness, struggle, and outside thinking. The more that we accept that it is a personal and individual concept, the more open we can be to those around us struggling. The more that we accept an individual and their pain, struggle, internal battles and victories; the more that we can normalise people, mental health conditions, treatment options, and a diagnosis that no matter how precise the words, can never fully explain the condition.

So let’s keep talking. Let’s lower the expectations. Let’s describe as fully as we can the experience, and let’s listen to support and raise our understanding, accepting that we may never fully ‘get it’, but loving the person anyways.

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Simply Good

Good. It’s not usually the first thing that pops into my head when someone asks me how I’m doing. I might say it… but I don’t always mean it. Sometimes telling people that you’re not okay is even more stressful than lying – than telling them that I’m okay when I’m not.

But today… today I realised that when I was asked how I was feeling – ‘Good’ was my answer and it wasn’t even a lie. I was happy, I was energetic within reason, I was feeling light - I was good.

I think it’s important to take note of these days.  It’s good to mark them on the calendar, journal about them, or to simply share them with someone else. Because sometimes ‘good’ is so far out of grasp, that I need the reminder. Sometimes good seems like a fantasy - a mythical thing that is always out of my reach.

Of course, life isn’t easy. I still struggle. Some days are still way harder than others. I had a recent bout of depression. I’m struggling with working through some things and continuously face triggers, challenges, sadness, and anger. I've had some recent physical pain. I take pills for my mood and for my sleep – they work great, but the side effects suck. My long-term mood isn’t magically better because I feel good for a day.

But feeling good for a day, or two, or three can help. These days ground me. They bring me to a place where I can learn and assess, acknowledge and forget, forgive and find peace. I can do nothing or I can make plans. I can work with ease and I can interact normally. While there is still ‘stuff’ in my head – it’s like a movie on pause for a few minutes while I take a breather.

Today, the words ‘good’, ‘fine’, and ‘okay’, are simply words in my vocabulary. They aren’t covering up some hidden depression, or internal battle, or some urge to either cry or scream.

I have to admit – that sometimes, ‘good’, is even scary. Sometimes good has been a distant memory for so long that it’s new and it’s terrifying and I even want to fight good – find something to bring me back to familiarity – even if that familiarity is anything but good.

Thankfully, today I am just good. I am not running from it. I’m enjoying the calm and the peace; the breath that I desperately needed away from the constant negativity of myself. Today I am smiling and I am laughing. I am thinking, but not overthinking. I am learning and I am growing and I am holding onto this feeling for as long as I can.

It simply just feels good.

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The Invisible Prison

Locked inside.

Like a prison – without bars.

It’s almost impossible to explain.

I looked in the mirror this morning – I looked for a long time.

I couldn’t see anything.

I mean, I could see myself. I could see that I looked… well… normal. Aside from some darker circles under my eyes from not sleeping, I appeared the same way that I always do. As the day went on I listened to myself and noted that my voice was the same… still light… still happy… still social.

And it made me incredibly angry.

I was pissed off at myself for not looking the way that I feel. I was so angry that I have gotten so good at functioning on autopilot, and talking about things as though there aren’t a billion and one things flashing through my head constantly, and for just looking – and acting – like it’s another day.

I know why I do it. I’m high-functioning. Sure, every now and then I go through something and end up at the hospital to adjust some meds, or get my sleep patterns back to normal. But for the most part I am calm, rational, able to talk and think and work and relate. My kids are normal. My marriage looks normal. My house is usually clean, there are home cooked meals on the table, and I bake and take photographs, and I write. I function… and I function well. Logical me splits from emotional me and for some reason I can still live day to day life while feeling like I am going to explode on the inside.

And that’s why I’m angry. That’s why I can’t understand myself and I am often torn into two pieces as I try to understand my own confusion, and justify outbursts, emotions, or breakdowns to the outside world. For the most part, my illness is completely locked inside of me.

And often times… I’m just not okay.

If I’m going to be honest tonight… I will say that I haven’t been okay for weeks. My husband knows… a couple of people close to me have a small idea… but even when they know – it’s hard to grasp it, to see what I feel on the inside.

It is impossible to look at someone who can appear normal, and understand why she says that she is in emotional agony. It is nearly impossible to understand how a person can be at work, literally walk out the doors and disappear inside her brain – become non-functioning; become delusional; begin to hallucinate; and plan to commit suicide.

It is impossible to understand how someone who appears calm and happy – who laughs and has what appears to be an amazing night, will not be able to sleep; to understand the fear of sleep… of nightmares… of memories. It is not easy to imagine how someone can stay awake for days – and still function… at least until the inevitable crash.

It is impossible to understand the prison of the mind that won’t let you out. That splits into voices and monsters and hallucinations and paranoia. It is not something that most people have experience with, and few people will ever ask about it… their own fears overriding their concern, as stigma and ignorance rears its head.

It doesn’t make sense to anyone who has never experienced it. The isolation. The loneliness. The fear of living. The desire to die. It doesn’t make sense to see a person smiling and gripping a mug of tea with both hands, carrying on a conversation like any other day – only to find out that minutes before they were gripping a bottle of pills; ready to end it all. It doesn’t make sense to hear them talk about it. To hear them speak as though it’s another person, in another mind, in another body.

Knowledge of mental health says it is dark, and people don’t talk. It says that they spend days in bed and crying and that it is obvious if you look hard enough, to see someone struggling.

But mental health awareness doesn’t always seem to cover what happens when the illness is diagnosed – it doesn’t talk about living with the disorders once medications are ordered, therapy is started, and any potential crisis is averted for the time being. It doesn’t cover the fact that it never goes away. It doesn’t cover the day to day struggle that someone living with any number of mental health conditions lives with. It doesn’t even seem to cover the more ‘scary’ aspects of mood and or personality disorders. Depression, anxiety, even basics of bipolar seem to be covered. But mention suicidal ideation, narcissism, borderline, schizophrenia, voices of any kind, hallucinations, paranoia, hospital visits in locked wards, medications that don’t work, messy side effects, constant insomnia, rapid cycling, or simply exhaustion from dealing with it all – and people just don’t know. And I don’t blame them. Because for a lot of it – it is terrifying – for the person dealing with it, and for their loved ones. It’s also exhausting. It’s also often invisible. And the one that people don’t think of, is that it is actually humiliating and shameful.

I don’t know anyone who wants to be labelled with a serious mental health diagnosis – because as much awareness is being raised… it is still taboo. There is still the thought of drooling patients, straight-jackets, asylums, and archaic treatment methods. There is still the stigma that if you look normal on the outside, it can’t really be that bad on the inside.

But the truth is. It hurts. It is more painful than any physical ailment that I have ever dealt with. It is confusing and embarrassing and unpredictable. I am terrified most of the time – of myself, of my illness, for my kids, and for my husband. It doesn’t take a break. Even stability can’t give me reprieve.

And the truth is, that every day is a struggle to continue. Some days are far worse than others. Some days I picture myself ending it – some days I even plan it. Some days I can’t think straight, and I’m literally not the same person as 'usual'. Some days it feels like I have multiple personalities and as much as it confuses those around me, it confuses me even more. Some days are so dark, it feels like I will never see the light again. Some days I literally feel insane - I'm not present in my own head - I see the world in a skewed manor, I make irrational decisions, and I am delusional and on the verge of (or actually am) psychotic. Some days I turn on the autopilot that I hate so much because without it, I would give in and I wouldn’t be here any longer.

Some days, like today, I look in the mirror and I hate what I see. I hate the invisibility. I hate the smiles and the determination to appear normal despite the pain and the chaos. I hate that the cliche sayings are plastered everywhere - especially on social media - that tell you if you want to be happy, then you make the choice, or that you are the only one that can decide what you, or your day, or your life are going to be like. I hate that for me those things are impossible to control. I hate that there isn’t a magic fix-it tool. I hate that even those closest to me, just want to avoid what they can’t see. I hate that I push people away, as much as they avoid me. I hate that I can’t always fix it. I hate that I can’t shove it into a box, slam the lid, and make it disappear. I hate that the harder I try, it feels like the harder I fall, and the stronger the urge is to give up completely. I hate that this is - and will be - a lifelong battle. I even hate that I’m here, writing about it.

Right now, even while I type.

I’m locked inside of my head.

I’m trying to let myself out… but it really is like a prison.

I know I’m not well. I also know what to do. And at the same time – I don’t.

So... I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be smiling and talkative, I'll be at work, and I'll look just like I do, every other day.

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Meds, Moods, and (Hypo)Mania

For the past several weeks, it’s been there. Lurking below the surface, hiding behind the pills and the effort and the struggle to find a new routine – one that would work for me.

Every day I have faced the same fight – the same urge to let it go and take over filling me as I try to remind myself of the reasons why I can’t do that. The reasons why I have to stay in control and be obedient and keep putting in the effort.

Insomnia.

I’m not tired.

Emotionally I’m completely drained and yet for the most part I’m physically wide awake almost all of the time. The past couple of days it hasn’t been as prominent as I battle a sore throat and head cold – but it’s still there, taunting me at night, pulling me into a fantasy world that I want so badly to be real.

Logically I remind myself to take my pills daily – and I manage to make myself obey. Every morning I take what I need to without a second thought, never even thinking about disobeying that one. But in the evenings as the house is winding down, the kids are in bed, and my husband tells me that he is turning in as well – the battle begins.

I’m supposed to take my mood stabiliser at night – it also puts me to sleep. And every night I do take it… but not before a battle of wills takes place. Because every night I can feel it, the hypomania that is hovering just below the surface. The creative energy that is flowing – the ideas, the ambition, the beginnings that happen when I am in that state beyond appealing to me. It’s a feeling that I honestly love. And it’s there right now… waiting for me to miss a pill, to forget… or to simply choose not to take it. But every night I do.

Every night I lie awake and wait for the pills to make me drowsy enough to want to close my eyes. Sometimes it’s an hour, sometimes it’s three. And then I do sleep – the kind of sleep that I can only ever get if it’s induced with the help of a med.

And now, several weeks in to this mess in my mind, I’m starting to feel the effects – I’ve been staying up later and later, waiting to take my pill until I know I have to get at least a little bit of sleep. I’m agitated because I’m tired of the fight – I’m tired of fighting what in a way feels natural to me, what my body wants to do. I’m angry and I’m bitter that I can’t just take my pills regularly and forget that I have this illness that can take over at any time if I’m not careful.

I want to say screw it.

I want to just give in and let whatever will be, be.

But more than that – I actually want stability.

I want the kind of stability for myself where I don’t have to argue with myself to take the medications that I know keep me level.

I want the kind of stability where I don’t have to think about my illness every day, and include it in every decision that I make.

I want the kind of stability where I feel ‘normal’ or at least as close to it as possible.

I want the kind of stability where I don’t have to try and figure out which part of me is right – the logical part or the wild part or the emotional part.

I want to be able to sleep without medications.

I don’t want to worry about manic episode which when over could plummet me into a depressive episode.

I don’t want others to constantly worry and question my behaviour – to doubt what I’m saying and refuse to listen because I’m just the ‘Bipolar Woman’.

But this is who I am.

These are the things I think about constantly.

This is the way that I have to live my life.

This is the only way for me to be stable.

I need to think things through. I need to be strong and determined and willing to pit my logical side against the creative or the emotional one. I need people to remind me why. I need to remind myself.

It isn’t easy.

But some days… days like today where it’s 5:00am and I have yet to close my eyes… I wish it was. I wish there was a simple fix. I wish I wasn’t like this. I wish I could focus on the kids - on the Birthday we're celebrating today. I wish I was just normal.

And yet, here I am. Still awake. Still wondering what it would be like if I just didn't have to deal with this every minute of every day. 

And then I know. I know I'm not alone. I know it is difficult at times. But I also know I've made it this far. I can make it one more day - everyday.

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