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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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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Hiding in Silence

Isolation. It’s what I do best when I’m struggling… I push people away when I need them the most. When I’m struggling to maintain a level mood or when I’m sliding a little further up or a little further down. Sometimes it’s a good thing… sometimes it is because I need to focus, to realign myself to ensure that I can get back on track and that I haven’t fallen too far off the path. Sometimes though it’s

embarrassment, frustration, and sheer exhaustion that cause me to isolate.

I’ve been on this journey for what feels like a very long time. For the most part I’m open about it. I enjoy talking about mental health in general, as well as the specific challenges and successes that I have personally faced.

But occasionally a period of silence hits me. I don’t want to talk for any one in a million reasons. Sometimes I am learning something new about myself and want to make sure that I understand it fully before I decide to share it. Sometimes I’ve been triggered, or fallen a little further than I wanted and I’m embarrassed – I feel like a fraud or a failure or that I’m simply unreliable because of the way my mindset and my moods shift. And sometimes I’m just plain tired. Those times I just want to be normal. I don’t want to have to think about every action that I take and every word that I speak. Sometimes I want to be able to make a decision and be confident that it is logic and reason – and not one of my many moods that have dictated what I am doing.

Sometimes it is everything all at once that hits me.

I haven’t been overly vocal lately. I’ve been struggling off and on – and I have learned over the years that I am not good at dealing with difficult things in life. I’m working on it, but it often takes all of my energy and leaves me completely drained with no room for extras. It is something that over time is requiring me to fundamentally change who I am and how I process life events – untwisting my thinking and calming my instincts – my immediate reactions. It is taking what I know and what I feel and learning to balance myself in a way that requires constant self-control and checking in. It is remaining level when my brain tries to spin me around, or send me falling into darkness.  It is looking at myself openly and honestly and realising that sometimes I don’t see clearly – that sometimes I need to pull myself back and examine my words or actions even closer to see what others around me see that I can’t.

The medications that I take help. Routine helps. Exercise and diet help. Self care helps. Reading and learning about mental health helps. Speaking and listening helps. Prayer helps.

But the truth is that I have Bipolar Disorder and I have Borderline Personality Disorder and life happens and sometimes I still have (and likely always will have) difficulty dealing with things like an average person.

Sometimes I am ashamed by the way that I react. Sometimes I am angry and indignant and I believe that I am right – even when I am wrong. Sometimes I want to curl up in a ball and hide away from the rest of the world because I don’t know how to keep functioning in the way that the world expects me to. Sometimes all I can do is work on auto-pilot until the storm around and inside me dies down and I can process things again. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t me.

And then… then I pull back. Then I make it through the tough times – better, stronger, and easier than the last time. Then I look back and see the progress and the changes that I have already made and how far I have already come. Then I look around me and I see that I haven’t only survived the earth shattering around me – but I stopped it. By knowing, and learning and growing and changing – I made history in my life. I passed a crucial landmark and I know that from this point forward that no matter what happens – I will never return to the way that I once was. It’s impossible, because I have seen too much, I have learned too many new things, and I have become a completely different person.

I will still struggle.

I will still fight.

I will still isolate.

But I will come out of it stronger. I will come out of it alive. I will feel sunshine and happiness, relief, and love, and joy again.

And then I will share it.

I will talk about it.

I will not hide the way that I struggle… my fears… my insecurities… the choices that I have made.

Because I do have Bipolar Disorder. And I do have Borderline Personality Disorder. And I am more than my illnesses.

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