The Days After, The Day After

Lost. A raft in the sea… drifting aimlessly while ships surround me; each one busy along it’s course… trying to reach their destinations.

It’s impossible to describe what these days feel like.

Last Saturday, I experienced a severe mental health breakdown. I did not die and I did not end up in the hospital. But I did fall backwards to a point I’ve never been before, experiencing insanity to a new degree – confusion, chaos, and fear enveloping me.

Over the course of three days, I lived in a different world… I was by all accounts, a different person. By the end of the third day, I was not only afraid of both what I had done, but also of what was to come. I was unsure of who I was, where I was, or even at times when I was.

During the crisis I had people watching out for me. Friends reaching out to me – and to their own support system for advice on what to do. Co-workers of my husbands, passing him updates when they saw me. And my husband himself… taking necessary steps, and with encouragement and support for himself, when things got bad, calling the police to find me.

Thankfully, things turned out okay.

By Monday night I was hitching a ride with a Police Officer back to my house… back to a semi-conscious state of mind and able to think just a little bit clearer. Thankfully this Officer was amazing; and I can honestly say that without his assistance, accompanied by his respectful and empathetic approach to my tricky situation, there is an incredibly strong chance that things would have ended much differently.

On Tuesday I started to come back to reality… to see the damage and the aftermath of the storm I had caused. I spent the day picking up the pieces and trying to understand what had happened, exactly how I had fallen again.

Over the course of three days I unraveled completely.

By Thursday I was back at work… back in public. Smiling. Happy. Even a little bit more energized than before my break. I looked overall good; although perhaps a little tired. To look at me, you never would have guessed that the previous evening my mind was still foggy enough that I refused to drive my car, afraid that I wasn't able to adequately assess my surroundings.

Today. Friday. I am not good.

Today, I realised that it’s okay to not be okay still.

What I experienced during my three days of madness, was both an incredible breakdown and a massive breakthrough. It was scary and it was frustrating, and it was also traumatic.

On Saturday the puzzle I had been working to build was thrown to the ground in an earth-shattering quake… the pieces scattered, some chunks together, but all of them so far apart that nothing made sense.

By Tuesday, when my senses returned and I saw the mess that had been created, I wanted to fix it. I started to gather the puzzle pieces and quickly put them back together. Some of them were broken, bent, taped, and glued… the damage caused by my breakdown significant. In frustration I began to jam the pieces in that wouldn’t fit. I needed to put the puzzle back to exactly where it had been before this had all happened… I wanted to be able to add more unfinished pieces to the picture; to look forward and pretend that this had never happened.

After all, I was okay.

I woke up in the mornings. I looked perfectly normal. I showered, I was functional, and my autopilot functions were still intact. But despite the fact that things were ‘over’ and it was time to move on to the next leg of my journey… I began to feel worse.

Today I realized that I am not the same.

Mental health breakdowns can change you. For me, I began to understand this again, from an experienced point of view as I felt the beginnings of a panic attack rise at just the idea of going to the grocery store. I noticed the change through my general fatigue, nauseated stomach, and lack of general patience. I feel it in the fear, the haze that refuses to fully lift, and the confusion if things get too loud, too noisy, or just generally too much around me.

I admit, I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like feeling ‘sick’ after the breakdown is over; and I don’t like that I am the only one who has any idea that I am still struggling so much. In some ways, I wish I had a sign on my head announcing it… letting the world know that I’m sick… that I’m not just hiding away in my house for no reason. And in some ways, I love that it’s invisible because autopilot still works to an extent, and maybe if I just push myself a little harder... everyone will believe that I'm really just normal.

These are the days after, the day after.

Learning to heal. To re-enter the world. To know that it’s okay that I don’t look sick, but I am sick at this point. Learning to respond correctly again… to talk… to feel connected to the world, and not lost and isolated, and alone; despite the people surrounding me.

These are the days where it is important to talk. To let people know that I am unwell, not for pity or for manipulation, or to seek affection... but because it can't always be seen. These are the days to seek advice and counsel, and to answer messages from concerned friends and family. To make the effort in self-care. To not push too hard.

These are the days where I want the world to know, that I’m actually worse than when I was ‘in’ the breakdown. The days after, the weeks after… sometimes even the months that follow, when work is being done, new coping mechanisms learned, when life looks normal – but your head is still a mess.

These are the days when a simple text from a friend, or even acquaintance can change the course of the day.

This week I had a person that I would consider a friend message me after I said I had been feeling rough. I hadn’t gone into detail on Tuesday morning when we were talking… and although we are not close, and we haven’t known each other long; this friend checked in later on. A message to see how I was… to encourage me for the next day. It meant more to me than I could ever explain that she knew. That she somehow got it that the day after was just as hard… that it wasn’t simply back to normal.

I want to end this on a positive note. I want to say that I know life will get better and easier from here on out… and I know, logically that it will. But I also know it will be hard. Being in this position is not easy – for me, or for those around me.

I have work to do. But I also have rest I need to take. I need to let the dust settle. I need to find the missing puzzle pieces… the ones that might have slipped under the rug, or been swept across the room. I need to heal my mind, the same way that someone sick with a physical illness needs to heal their body.

These are the invisible days of the illness. These are the days that honesty matters.

End the stigma surrounding mental illness. Talk about it. Reach out. Don't forget friends, family, or acquaintances in the days following a breakdown.

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(Hypo) Mania and Mental Health

• It’s five a.m. and I’m sitting on the couch, lamenting the fact that I can’t sleep – although I typically love to sleep in as late as possible… today I’m not tired.
• Later on in the day I listen to myself as I talk to a friend, telling a story and laughing and joking around. I notice the stutter in my speech – the way that my brain is moving faster than my lips can keep up. My words are skipping out of my mouth, fast as they tumble forward almost at a speed too quick for my friend to catch.
• When I’m home alone that afternoon, the house feels big, empty, and hollow. I want to sit and write or read, or even binge watch my latest obsession on Netflix… but I can’t. My brain won’t focus and I can’t sit still. It should be good, it should be getting me out and moving – but instead I sit and debate what I want to do, not sure, not able to stay focused on my own surroundings or even on a simple task such as washing dishes. I bounce around the house instead. I wash two dishes, tidy part of the bathroom counter, sweep the living room (but only by the fireplace… I’ll do the rest in a minute), wash three more glasses, and empty the trash but don’t quite get it out to the garage. I wanted to clean my house – but when I finally get distracted by playing with Christmas decorations – my house is still a mess, rooms partially cleaned, and dishes still in the sink.
• It’s dinner time. The ground beef is sitting partially thawed on the counter – I had dozens of grand ideas for dinner tonight; I was going to make stuffed peppers, or enchiladas, or even homemade burgers. Instead I settle for the easiest thing that I can think of – Sloppy Joe sauce from a can… and I text my husband to bring home buns because I simply didn’t get to the store like I was going to do.
• After we eat and I clean up the kitchen my daughter asks me to watch a show with her. Sitting in the living room I put my feet up, and then I put them down, and then I cross my legs. I watch the show, but I open the laptop up periodically to check out an actor’s history on IMDB or to Google a fact I heard in the show. Between that my phone is in my hands… responding to texts, adding tasks to my to-do list, and Googling how-to’s for my latest project, convinced that it’s going to be great.
• By the time that bed time rolls around, I feel like I should feel tired… but I don’t. My body is surprisingly achy and I feel shifty and flighty and like I can’t sit still. I lay down on my yoga mat and try some deep breathing and simple stretching. Eventually I head to bed, sleeping partially through the night – jerking wide awake every so often, each time taking longer to fall back asleep… but I’m never fully asleep… always in that place between wide awake and dreaming – the place where you hear the world around you, but you’re somewhat out of it.

This could be the beginning of a (hypo)manic episode... combined with constant anxiety, irritability, visions of grandeur/success/invincibility, and a belief that I’m not just okay… I’m great.

But in truth I’m not… and even more than living with these swings (but in my mood but in my personality)… I hate admitting that I do. I hate the idea that I’m not okay all of the time... or that mental health isn’t as easy as popping the pills that the doctor ordered and staying on top of counselling. I hate that I can’t simply eat healthy and exercise to put my body and brain back in order and correct my thinking. Most of all, I hate that I can’t simply have an anxious, tense, or quick thinking day without wondering if this is it… is this the beginning of the end of stability? Or am I just happy and having a fidgety day?

Was today really a sign that I’m going down (or up) the rabbit hole again, or was this just a natural cycle for a person, still within the reasonable level… graphed on chart to be worrisome but not yet severe?

Am I going to end up in the hospital again? Switching meds? What if there are worse side effects? Will I crash? Will I become suicidal? What if I become paranoid or delusional? What if I start hallucinating again? Does anyone else notice? Maybe I’m the only one that can see it coming… can I fake it? Should I just carry on and pretend that I'm fine? What if I just watch it carefully? I can slow my speech down, I can act ‘normal’. Maybe I’ll shift back down to normal tomorrow anyways… yeah… tomorrow. And if not… tomorrow I’ll call the doctor… just to, you know… make sure… but I’m fine… I know I’m fine… I feel… I feel good… like really good… this can’t be bad... in fact it’s great. I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine. Do I really even have a 'disorder'?

And that’s how easy it is. How fast it is for someone to say ‘I’m fine’… how quickly my brain can go from logical and concerned and on top of my health… to trying to convince myself and everyone around me that I’m okay, and that nothing is wrong.

I wish I could say that this wasn’t a real example that I used. Unfortunately it is, and unfortunately I know my own cycles all too well. Thankfully, this isn’t from today… but the truth is, I have noticed that I am talking a little faster, and I’m feeling a little more awake than usual – despite the shorter day and lack of daylight. I’m not in the extreme and I am continuing the routine I’ve put in place. I know better now… I know not to stray and I know that I need to be kind and gentle and yet firm to keep myself in check. I know that if one more symptom shows I need to get to a doctor as soon as possible, I also know that I need to call anyways to check in and adjust some meds – just in case… the sooner the better.

This is why my mental health is my priority… my ups and my downs could literally kill me. This disease that supposedly has no cure, simply management; it strikes at any time. Winter, summer, spring, or fall, with little to no warning, and always trying to consume me in one extreme or another.

But I refuse to let it destroy me. I have suffered enough – and although I may live with constant worry, stress, and check-ins, I am winning the fight. I am becoming more aware with each and every day, I am sharing my struggles so that others can step in and help when I need it, and so that in turn, I might also help others who struggle.

For tonight though… my routine is calling and so off to bed I go, knowing that as long as I’m not alone in this fight, I will not just survive, but I will thrive. 

** I just want to clarify that I am not at this time manic (although I am as always, watching for any symptoms that indicate that my mood could destabilize).

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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.

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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. 

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The Key to Mental Health

Some days I curl up in a ball on my bedroom floor –the bed behind me and the wall in front of me, a big blanket covering me up and weighing me down. During those times I am no longer the person that can work and function and make important decisions – I can only sit there, sometimes crying, sometimes staring at nothing as the anxiety impedes my life.

Some days I can’t sleep. So I’m up all night and my mind races and I write beautiful stories and poems and jump from topic to topic. Sometimes the anger takes hold and I storm out of the house in the darkness and I walk from one end of town to the other, uphill both ways. Sometimes I feel on top of the world and I’m super sensitive to touch, and sound, and smells.

Some days I get out of bed, only to fold into the most comfortable chair in the house, wrap a blanket securely around me and sleep the day away. Those days I can barely drag myself to the washroom or make dinner for the kids – and forget leaving the house. Sometimes I can’t feel anything – my arms and legs are dead weight, my mind is shut down to only basic function, and feeling – it’s all or nothing – pain so deep that it feels as though I’m splitting in two, or nothingness; I don’t know which is worse.

Some days I wake up wrong… skewed. The world is tilted and everything is set to annoy me, the little things, the big things – everything sets me off. I’m explosive –not just angry, but filled with rage. I see things and hear things with a filter that makes everyone hate me. It hurts and I feel jaded, even though I’m the one making things worse. I’m the one losing my temper and yelling and out of control. I’m the one that is making a big deal out of a miniscule look, or word, or touch.

And some days… I’m normal, level, rational, and logical. Things make sense and although triggers and stressful events happen, I can still handle them with grace and dignity. On those days I wonder who the other people are that kidnap my body and take over. I feel humiliation over the ways that I have acted and the things that I have done. I apologise but it never feels like it’s enough. I strive to change who I am and I vow to never let anxiety, or mania, or depression, or anger take a hold of me again. I become determined to be somebody different the next time, and I work a little bit harder on the daily exercises to train my brain, the physical exercise, the healthy eating plan, and the maintenance of my routine. I take the medications I’ve been prescribed and tell myself that I am more than a disorder and that I have got this.

I continue to work, and parent, and live my life and I move on because that statement is truth… I AM more than a disorder and I AM capable of not just surviving, but of THRIVING.

Two years ago I was a different person. I accepted my disorders but didn’t know that there was so much more to it than a diagnosis. I was told they were lifelong conditions, to take my meds, and to go to therapy. At times, I’ve used the terms anxiety, depression, bipolar, and borderline as a crutch… an excuse… a reason for why I am the way that I am. But over the past year I have made a change in the way that I have used those terms and I didn’t realise just how it would begin to change my life.

By refusing to accept that I can’t be level because of my diagnosis, I have fundamentally changed how I now deal with life. I refuse to believe that I am defective, damaged, or simply unable to deal with triggers and the stress of life. I have bad days, but through hard work and training my brain, I am able to push through and remain present in my own mind. I am able to say ‘I need help’, and determine when things aren’t quite right. I am able to face my anxiety and fear and tackle things (slowly and in my own time) that had previously been off limits to me. I am able to say to myself – I know you’re tired, let’s get through this and not give in while the new meds kick in.

I no longer believe that I am broken. I no longer need to use the term ‘I can’t because I’ve got anxiety’ or ‘It’s not my fault I’m (depressed, manic, borderline)’. I no longer need to feel wrong, guilty, embarrassed, damaged because it is what it is and I am slowly getting better. I might never be cured of these lifelong conditions, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t live a good, healthy life. I might need help now and then… support from family and friends… doctor visits to maintain… or even a brief hospital stay to put me back on track, but I’m here and I am not simply a diagnosis. I am the key to my own mental health. I will keep working, and fighting, and most of all winning.

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Changing the Game

It was a typical day… perfectly in routine. I was up at 7 and was drinking my morning cup of tea, waiting for my day to begin, the first day of my summer vacation. I was stable. I was level. I was tired. But I was happy. I was okay… Until I wasn’t.

It was a single moment that changed everything, that sent me on a path of watching and waiting and seeing. Like a quickly darkening sky with sudden rotation, a tornado waiting to touch down in my life and send everything – especially me – spiralling down a dark hole again. It was easy to see… I had been down this path before – several times – and it was easy to predict the path that I would take, the way that a trigger of this magnitude would rip the control I have so carefully constructed away from me again. It would be disastrous – I would fall down the rabbit hole of depression and the thoughts of darkness, and desperation, and escape would inevitably hit… I would end up in the hospital again… forced into isolation and psychiatrist evaluations. This was my life. This was what always happened.

Until it didn’t.

Just over three weeks ago I was hit with a major trigger in my life (a crisis of sorts), and just over three weeks ago I began another journey in my life with Bipolar Disorder/BPD. Just over three weeks ago, I panicked in the moments immediately following the hit of the trigger and I felt like I would crash, the feelings rushing back to the surface and my mind working in overdrive and immediately beginning to envision the worst case scenarios – suicide attempts, police cars, hospitalisation, mania, or a psychotic episode. I knew my past and while I knew the stability I had forged over the last two years of dedication and hard work, I also knew how easily it could all crumble again.

I haven’t written much over the last several months – I have been busy and life has moved forward as it often does. Since last Christmas I have experienced stress and triggers, ups and downs, as well as one hospitalisation and one day trip to the emergency room. I have worked to return to a balanced diet and better exercise regimen, to live a balanced life, and maintain the ever-important routine… and overall, I have been extremely successful, finding a new sense of peace and the ability to identify and work on some of my problems and maintain stability with my mental health.

Three weeks ago – for just a few moments – I knew it was all for nothing. For a few moments, I lost myself and returned to the fragile state that would leave me vulnerable and susceptible to another episode. And then, I remembered the months and years of work I've done.

I remembered the steps, and the pages, and the writing, and the distraction, and the help available to me. I remembered to grab my phone and reach out to let someone I trusted know what was happening. I remembered all of the success I have worked towards achieving and I began to put a plan (simple, one step at a time) into place, to maintain my own mental health in a situation that could very well have been catastrophic. I remembered over the next several days to head off a slip up by taking care of my basic needs and maintaining the routine I desperately need to function – eating properly, continuing daily chores/work/plans. I remembered to take the damn sleeping pills when I couldn’t sleep… and to have someone hold me accountable when it took nearly a week to begin sleeping properly again; and I remembered to have a plan in place to seek help if I didn’t. I remembered to take care of myself and to keep my plans, my work, and my support firmly in place - even if I didn't exactly want to.

And I didn't fall down.

And now, three weeks later, I still catch myself watching and waiting for that stumble at times… that sign that I am weak and that I am nothing but my mental illness. At times I wish it would just happen – an episode of some sort - because it is strange to react in a normal way, within an overall normal range of emotions. And at some times, I just sit down and smile, amazed at how well I am doing. I smile because every struggle, every step I have taken to get here, and every experience - both positive and negative - has been worth it to get to the place I'm in right now.

I know that my battle with mental illness isn’t over. I know that I might have episodes of mania or depression or intense emotional outbursts in the future. I know that they aren’t always caused by an obvious trigger in my life. But I also know that I have worked hard at identifying signs, maintaining my support system, knowing my own personal limits, and seeking help when needed to ensure that I stay healthy and strong.

I know that today, I am doing okay. One day at a time, one episode at a time. I am changing the game, I am challenging myself, and I am winning in my fight for stability in a Bipolar/Borderline mind.

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Beauty-Hunter

"There's no point in living."

"I have no reason to keep going."

"I can't fight the darkness."

I can only imagine the confusion and fear in my husband, friends, and family's minds as they heard me speak those words - words that were far more than simple sentences, that reached deep into my aching heart and had become the core of how I felt. They were my truth and my pain, they were an overwhelming need to let go and finally be free of the depression and the anxiety that held me captive.

At the time, I couldn't think of anything else... I couldn't feel anything else. It hurt deep inside me and it was beyond exhausting to live each day, to try and force myself to take another step forward when all I wanted was for it all to go away... I wanted to disappear.

In my world, there was nothing left - the happiness, the beauty, the joy, the wonder... it wasn't just hiding, it was completely non-existent.

During my darkest periods of depression there was nothing positive within my grasp - anything that I touched seemed to wither and fade until the only thing that I could see or feel were excruciating reasons on why I needed to end it all. My brain took the things I had previously loved and convinced me that they either weren't good any longer, or they were better off without me poisoning them. My thinking was skewed and didn't make sense to those around me... I was too tired to try to fight the thoughts any longer.

Yesterday morning I woke up at my usual early hour and my husband and I went chasing the sunrise. It was an adventure to find the perfect spot to see the sun as it reached up over the horizon and began to shine down on the world around me. It was beautiful and bright and colorful. It was a new day and it reminded me of every time I've had to crawl out of the darkness, of every day I almost didn't make it through the night... only to emerge into the brilliance of life around me.

It's why I don't sit still as much any longer - it's why I have turned into more of an explorer, my eyes opened wider than ever as I see the beauty that exists all around me. My hobbies, my joy and my love have all returned again and i have chosen to focus much of my awareness on all of the things that I have always loved - but at times have been blinded to. I want to focus on the beautiful world around me - the small things, the positives, and the happy moments.

I know that for me it won't always be easy to see - I know the way that my mind can warp what I currently see as beautiful and twist them into muted colours and monotony, convincing me it isn't that beautiful any longer. I also know that it's all the more reason to keep on searching, to keep finding that beauty that is both within and surrounding me. It's why and how I can focus on the fight to stay healthy and well, to keep myself from sinknig back into the never-ending night... it's a reminder that tomorrow can be brighter, beautiful and joyful. It is hope.

I've lived much of my life in deep depression, a cycle that kept repeating and might try to repeat again. Beauty-hunting is just another tool to fend off the darkness for one more day, to cling to when the lights go out, and a reminder of the days to come.

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I Don't Always Know Their Names

Driving around, talking and taking photographs - that's one way that a friend of mine and I connect... a way that she has supported me throughout the last year or so. Another friend walked with me around our local hockey arena for exercise and routine while another friend became a gym buddy. My cousin is available almost any time to chat and we have spent a lot of time building up our friendship again over the last couple of years. My husband and my children are of course crucial in my support network, and I have slowly developed a web of people in my life that I can count on when things aren't going so well, that are there through both good times and bad.

But throughout my life, I've come to recognise that support goes far beyond friends and family - to people you might see everyday and people you might meet once and never speak to again. It comes in many different ways - a friend, an ear, a straight-talker, a bill-payer, a grocery-doer, a babysitter, a supportive employer, or a shoulder to cry on. There are so many ways that I have been helped throughout the years, despite sometimes not wanting to accept that help in the moment.

But what about the others? The ones that I don't know... the ones whose names I have never spoken, and the people who have put their lives on the line to help me? It goes beyond a job or a call of duty, it is a compassion that is rare, and I have been so lucky to be on the receiving end during some of the most difficult times of my life.

Police officers. It's too common to see the news on television or throughout social media - calling out police brutally and corruption run rampant. My personal experience though is what I hope and believe to be the norm. The way that I have been spoken to with respect and courtesy (during several occasions linked to mental health crisis' for which I am not proud of), including the day my life was pulled off the edge of a cliff a year and a half ago, my body thrown to the ground in a rush of adrenaline from all around. It was hard, my shoulder ached. But it was not broken, I was not treated with disrespect and my life was saved. The officer who pulled me to safety was doing her job... but as we rode by ambulance to the hospital and she asked me questions, there was no judgement from her. On another occasion I remember riding to the hospital in a police cruiser, the officer asking me questions, conversing as if I was a normal human being. Not a criminal, not a crazy person... just normal, just a person having a rough time and needing a hand to get to the help she needed. During yet a different occurrence I had over-dosed on sleeping pills and while I don't remember all of the details I will always remember the officer who pulled over to help me, his patience unending as he got me help and tried to figure out what had happened to me, despite my inability to answer his questions or form a coherent sentence.

Thankfully it hasn't only been police officers who have treated me with this respect... this courtesy... this showing of support, and knowledge and understanding of the mental health world. The paramedics, the crisis teams at the hospital, peer support workers, social workers, pastors from church, and counsellors I have dealt with have almost entirely been supportive. They assess the situation with open minds and no bias, determining the proper course of action for me to take without judgement, without criticising the decisions that might have put me in their office seeking help in the first place. These are the front line workers and they have been vital to my recovery and treatment. There are few people who you can speak with who know and can understand the walk of life you are experiencing and the influx of emotions - the pain and anger and sadness and mania, and who can talk you level again, offer more suggestions that you simply can not see on your own.

Thankfully the treatment plans become much more clear once you gain a diagnosis - doctors do their jobs; they medicate you and get you stable... they put plans in place for your recovery to move forward. Unfortunately for me, this has often occurred in a hospital setting, and while I can honestly say that some doctors are simply more supportive than others, they are there for a reason. They are there to get you home again. And while you wait, while you level out in a safe place there is one more group of vital support people.

The nurses in the psych ward are invaluable in my opinion... especially when you are in lock-down, relying on them for everything that you do, every part of your recovery documented and assessed - twenty four hours a day. During my stays in the hospital, both in the lock-down units and the open wards, I have had some amazing nurses. Considering that they deal with people from all walks of life, experiencing any type of crisis imaginable, they have been truly supportive and definitely under-appreciated. I have had nurses sit and talk with me on my bed, genuine concern about this or that in my recovery, reminding me of things I want to speak with the doctor about. I have seen nurses running to a code white to come back and have patience with us as we ask to charge an electronic device, or to get a glass of water. I have seen trays of food (or other things) thrown at them, only for them to have further patience as they calm a patient down, while keeping an eye on the rest of their case load, and monitoring the person weeping in their room and answering to a doctor's question on another patient down the hall.

I'm thankful that I have experienced such great support (a few blips, but mostly positive) during my recovery journey. I know that sometimes it isn't always the case but I hope that it is becoming more and more normal as stigma is erased and the old style of thinking about mental illness vanishes as modern diagnoses and treatments become more mainstream. But for now, to all those who have supported me in many different way and who still continue to do so, thank you. You are vital and important and appreciated, even if I can't say it at the time. Thanks for ending the stigma, for treating me (us) with respect and courtesy and empathy. And most of all, thanks for doing what you do. There is hope, especially with such amazing people supporting me, both professionally and personally.

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Parenting with Mental Illness

Back in the summer I wrote about how mental illness has affected my relationships - most notably my marriage and other adult-based relationships in my life. From the time that I was a young teen I can look back now and see all of the ways that anxiety, depression, mania, and anger have affected my life; see the very real struggle that relationships have always been for me. It's easy to look back and feel the regret, to see the mistakes I made and the way my thinking was often distorted throughout my life; but I also see the changes I've made and the new (healthier) relationships I am finally beginning to build.

And then I look at some of the most important people in my life; my children.

Two weeks ago I was in the car with my kids. We were on our way home from somewhere and as we drove through town looking at the Christmas lights up everywhere, my 9 year old daughter brought up a night from the previous year - something that my husband had done with them while I was in the hospital. As I listened to her story, my older (12 year old) son interrupted her, reminding her that I wasn't with them and that I was in the hospital. Now he didn't say it sadly or angrily, he didn't seem as though it was something that bothered him - he simply stated a fact. I wasn't there because I was in the hospital. However my daughter stopped her story at this point, becoming very quiet for a minute before she blurted out to me: "I was really scared when you were in the hospital, I didn't know what was wrong and I thought you were going to die." Her statement to me really hit home at that point. She didn't know what had happened to land me in the hospital - we had talked to the kids about me being there and they had an age-appropriate reason given to them that explained a little about sadness (depression) and how the hospital can sometimes help people to feel better for all kinds of illnesses. But when she told me that she thought I was going to die, it threw me off because realistically she was much closer to the truth than I was comfortable with; realistically at the time I was in the hospital it was because I wanted to die.

How do you explain mental illness to a child? Sure, there are ways to do it. Things that you can say to give them an idea of why someone is in the hospital, why they have walked away from the family for a few days or weeks or months. There are things that can be explained in a simplistic way that hopefully they might grasp onto and not question further. But when happens when those children are teens or tweens who see tweets and posts about depression and suicide on social media and put two and two together? What happens when children of any age live with a parent with mental illness that is untreated/mistreated for so many years of their lives?

I don't have all of the answers right now but it is something I have thought about quite a bit. Because my children have been there. I have been the parent who was up and down, depressed and manic, angry and impatient, uninvolved and sometimes even disappearing. I have been inconsistent and unaware, I have gone from fun and loving and caring to frustrated and distant and unpredictable.

I don't have all of the answers. But the one thing I can say is that we (my husband and I) are honest with the kids... we are open about our mistakes and we apologise for our imperfections. We keep explanations appropriate to their ages and their levels and we let them see that we are only human, that we take steps to correct inappropriate actions. We also let them come to us - when they are hurting or confused or angry. We keep the lines of communication open and we try and see things through their eyes... even when we don't want to. I also am focusing time on my relationships with them. I don't want to be that parent - the crazy one that the kids end up in therapy for years over because of the pain they cause. The one that they won't call or speak to or visit because of their childhood - because their mother was not at her best and refused to get help. And it doesn't have to be that way.

I know my children love me - and we have many amazing memories as a family, of adventure and celebrating and life. But there are also dark shadows that I know still pop up, still taint some of their memories. The relationship between myself (a parent) living with/recovering from mental illness and my children is complex and while I know I can't change the past, I can change the future. I can continue to do what I'm doing - stay stable, seek help, build new memories, and strengthen our relationship. I can show them how hard work and dedication can be necessary but worth it... I can teach them about mental illness and what to look for, how to handle it if they encounter it in their own lives eventually. I can be strong and I can fight for them, for the rest of their childhood and for our relationship.

Parenting with mental illness does not have to destroy the family or ruin their childhoods. I won't let it. There is hope, and my four kids are worth the fight.

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Fighting Stigma - Among Professionals

Hospital. Lock Down. Acute Care Facility. Psychiatrist. Social Worker. DBT (Dialectical Behavioral Therapy). CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy). Counselor. Peer Support. Groups. WRAP. Community Support. Family Physician. Medications. Mood Stabilizers. Anti-Depressants. Anti-Psychotics. Mental Health. Stigma.

It’s difficult to describe how much time someone with a Mental Health condition spends in a constant battle, trying to remain stable while at the same time navigating the system and the medical community. For me, once I entered the system I found myself exhausted and confused simply from the terminology, the options for treatment and the cold and detached way that the health professionals treated me. I didn’t always understand what they were talking about and why they wouldn’t speak directly to me, at times not even informing me that they had diagnosed me with something new.

Every step of my journey has been filled with online searches, books and personal conversation with others who have experienced the mental health world and I have overcome many anxieties to become a strong self-advocate. But it isn’t always enough.

Recently I’ve been struggling. For once it isn’t with my moods, or either of my diagnoses and life has slowly become somewhat level for the time being. It isn’t perfect, and it still takes effort to keep it this way, to stay floating somewhere between happy and sad, manic and depressed. It takes conscious decisions and daily reminders that feelings are simply feelings and I can let them pass without becoming clingy or rage-consumed. But I am doing it. With support, and love and daily tracking, and effort and a plan in place with my doctor, I am remaining on track.

Perhaps this is the problem though. I’m on track and I am clear and functional and determined. And as I said, recently I’ve been struggling because of this. Because our health care system isn’t designed to really help those who struggle with mental health. Because the social workers and psychiatrists put such a huge focus onto medication and getting patients in and out of the acute care hospitals as quickly as possible. Because to get support you have to fight for it. Because the six to eight sessions they provide you with a therapist isn’t going to get deep and address the issues or the trauma that have contributed to your illness. Because being happy automatically tells the group leaders that you are manic and being sad because of life circumstances automatically means you are depressed and unstable. Because diet and exercise are not put into perspective, are not treated as things that can legitimately affect/worsen/improve an underlying condition. Because they don’t see you. They see a disease. An illness. An incurable mess whose only hope is pills and therapy to cope.

I’ve hesitated in writing about this.

Recently I was removed from a group that was being run by our hospital, a therapy group designed for those with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), but also useful for Bipolar Disorder. When I questioned not why I was removed from the group but how it was done, I was met with a series of answers that only further confused me. At first I was told I was doing well in the group but it wasn’t the right group for me, and then the leaders who refused to intervene stated that my moods were unstable and my medication journey was not being properly addressed. To say I was shocked and confused is an understatement. But I did not react – using skills learned in this and other groups, I took what they told me and thought it over, discussed it with my husband. When I was confident that this was not right, I took it back to the social worker who initially informed me of the decision as well as the Team Lead. Because I’ve never challenged the system before, I brought a support person with me to meet with them. It didn’t go well. I was fine. I was confident and determined and focused. I had legitimate concerns that I wanted addressed and I was the ideal self-advocate, asking questions and trying to see from their perspective.

What I received as a result was disappointing at best. I left the office at the hospital feeling not only invalidated but completely doubting of myself. During the meeting I experienced a social worker who outright lied to cover her own behind and both of the professionals present put everything back to me – first they accused me of being manic, and then depressed, and then simply unstable. When I asked for an example they used only my history (before serious treatment began) and were unable to focus on anything but my medications. For just a few minutes I almost began to agree. I was unstable. I needed them to make me stable. I couldn’t possibly know my own body or my own moods or illnesses – my journals, my witnesses, my months of stability and examples of change – none of it mattered.

Honestly, I understand their point of view. I understand that there are patients (I have been one) who cannot tell what level really feels like, who will lie to convince medical professionals – or themselves – that they are okay. It happens. But there are many paths to recovery. Mental Health for me has been about more trial and error than exact science. Different combinations of pills and therapies, group supports and personal counselors, self-discovery and a change in lifestyle have all contributed to getting me to the place I am now. There will be many more things that I will try and some of those things will help me, while others will have no effect or may even hinder me.

In my situation the medical professionals who were supposed to be working with me were in the wrong. In the place where I had fought to receive treatment, waited on lists to get in, signed a contract for a full year of treatment and then put every effort into my recovery; I was invalidated and made to feel small, like a crazy person without a cause. And this is why I’m writing about it here. Because I may have struggles that are very real, and I might have two incredibly hard diagnosis’ to live with and gain control over, but I am still a human. I deserved to be treated like a person and not a disorder and I will fight to make that happen, because while I am in a place where I can finally self-advocate, there are so many more people who can’t. People who are in a deep, possibly dark place with reliance on the system to treat them individually. People who are surrounded by judgement and terrified of the very real stigma that still exists surrounding mental health. People who simply can’t yet.

I can keep talking. I can keep fighting and I will not let my diagnosis define me – to family, friends or professionals.

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World Suicide Prevention Day 2015

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day. I've been thinking about what I would write all week and about the words that I could use to inspire someone to reach out and to save a life. But I don't have anything like that, I don't know if I am in a position where I can give that sort of advice.

What I can do though, is be open and transparent. I can tell you that I have been on the verge of suicide and I have been to the place that is so dark, it feels like there is no way out, except to end it all. I can also admit that even though I'm in 'recovery' and I mostly enjoy my life now, there are still days where I think about it.

Yesterday was one of those days.

It's taboo though, isn't it? To talk about the fact that the idea of suicide popped into my head just yesterday, to admit that there are still occasional
days where I have to fight myself and remind myself of who I am and that my life is worth living. I don't usually talk about it. Out of fear, and stigma, and shame and embarassment I don't speak out about the depth of what I am going through. I don't admit that I'm tired of it all or that I can't see the light for a moment or two. Partly because I know it'll pass and partly because I now have the skills to slowly pull myself up and out of the darkness.

Yesterday I didn't commit suicide... but the thought passed through my mind. I had suicidal thoughts, but I'm not suicidal right now and I wasn't yesterday. (Having passing thoughts of suicide and being suicidal are completely different things.) But I know that I have been there, and if I don't keep on top of my moods and my illness's that I could get to that place again.

It's lonely. It's terrifying. It is a place without hope, without love, without life. It is the absolute worst place I've ever been in my life and it is very real.

When I was suicidal I was empty. I was done. I was exhausted. I was finished with everything and I truly believed that everyone was finished with me, better off without me. My thinking was skewed but I couldn't see it. I tried to think of my husband and my children, but I could only see the pain I was putting them through, the ways that I was making their lives miserable. I believed that they would be happier, more complete, without me in their lives. I couldn't see the happy. I couldn't see the positives. As far as I knew, they didn't exist.

When I was suicidal, the people around me were either unaware or worried sick. My boss, my co-workers and my friends didn't have any knowledge of what was going on. They saw me leave with a smile and a wave and the next thing they knew, I was in the hospital for a suicide attempt. My family however, they were faced with making the tough decisions. Trying to talk me into rationality and trying to decide how to get me home and helped. Faced with these decisions, my husband called the police - several times, he didn't sleep and was faced with comforting the kids who didn't know what was going on but could sense the distress. As more family and aquaintances found out, there were phone calls and texts, worried emails and social media messages. The stress and worry didn't end once I was hospitalised. It took time, and it took honest effort from me for things to get back to more of a normality.

Even still... I know that people worry, including myself. It's something that will always be with me... not as scar, or as a definition of who I am. But of what I have survived, what I have fought against, and a reminder of how precious life is and how easy it is to lose sight of.
And that is all that I want today. For World Suicide Prevention Day, I want this to be okay to talk about. I want my friends and family and everyone else I come into contact with, to see not a person with a mental illness and suicide attempts scarring her history, but a survivor. I want those who are suffering and who are in the same place that I have been, to know that they are not alone and that they can get through this. I want people to talk mental health and suicide.

Love someone with a mental illness. Talk. Listen. Be there. Be open.

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