World Suicide Prevention Day 2018

Sitting within the depths of my personal files, on a memory card I no longer use, buried in my basket full of storage devices, cords, and chargers; sit several letters, written in some of the hardest moments of my life.

These aren’t just any letters… they are letters for the future – one for each of my children, and a couple for other people who have impacted my life. People who I felt the need to explain myself to… to say goodbye, to leave a thought for.

In that basket, buried and hiding – are my suicide letters. Letters written with the intent to be left aside, not necessarily opened immediately after I died… but in the future, when necessary, to explain my actions – the pain, the turmoil, and the chaos. Letters written from a distorted, exhausted, and painful perspective.

Throughout my life I’ve contemplated suicide more times than I can count… some days, it was each breath that I took that reminded me, forced me to survive, and left me hating life. Some days were worse than others, and suicide became my only thought… my only desire. The thoughts developed life of their own, taking control, and leaving little room for rational thought. Even on days where it wasn’t necessarily a thought… the idea of suicide never fully left the back of my mind – an option, an idea always viable.

Recently, I had taken a break from blogging and writing out my thoughts on mental health, and in general I’ve pulled back from people. For a while, I felt lost again – not necessarily depressed, but lost. In writing, there was a period where I couldn’t call up a topic that felt whole, honest, and truthful.

In my personal life, I’ve been facing challenges that have left me reeling – spinning in many different directions, each and every day. Spending time focused on myself and putting together some of the shattered puzzle pieces, has been exactly what I needed to do - realistically, it was my only option. But it has also left me feeling just a little bit empty… and a little bit like a fraud.

As I’ve muddled this journey through mental health, trauma, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and suicidal thinking; I’ve tried to grow, learn, and change as I’ve researched, worked, and discovered the many aspects of the disorders that I struggle with. Combined with situational circumstances, I’ve tried to live this mental health journey with transparency and a desire to try to do my part to end the stigma associated with mental illness. It hasn’t been easy. In the past I’ve revealed thoughts and feelings that I never previously knew could be shared. I wrote blog posts from the Psych ward. I met with friends, family, and counselors and I let people in… I let them see at least some of my triumphs and some of my setbacks. Sometimes it worked out… and sometimes, I ended up hurt and left vulnerable – my struggles, my actions, and my words used against me.

But the one thing that I’ve held close, is the situational aspect to my disorders… the stigma attached to my experiences (and specifically, talking publicly about my experiences), has left me hesitant to share… to reveal some of my specific triggers, and the situations that send me spiraling.

Several months ago, I wrote out a series of letters.

It wasn’t eight years ago – the first time that I was determined to end my life – the first time that I spent time in the psych ward.

It wasn’t (almost) four years ago, when I tried to jump off of a waterfall.

It wasn’t two years ago… the last time that I was hospitalized for suicidal intentions and planning. 

               

It was just several months ago.

Right now, is not the time for me to talk about why I felt suicidal, or what those triggers were.

Right now is the time when I tell you why I didn’t kill myself… why those letters were never left out to be found and distributed.

Right now is when I tell you that I spoke about the situation that I was in, with people who genuinely cared for me. I spoke with honesty and transparency. I revealed the depth to what I was struggling with, and the pain and suffering that I was experiencing – without judgement, without feeling stigmatized, and without feeling like a failure. In safety with those I spoke with; I was allowed to feel, and express without being rejected or told that what I was feeling was ridiculous.

Recently, I’ve found myself repeating phrases such as ‘people think’ or ‘I can’t talk about this, because it’s not something that I’m allowed to talk about’ or ‘I try to explain but people don’t get it’. And each time I say these things, I find myself disappearing a little further into myself, wondering why I’m so afraid to speak the truth – to reveal my secrets, and to allow myself to admit my faults, failures, and fears – so that I can actually begin to heal.

And yet… I’m sitting here alone tonight, typing these words… and still so afraid to speak out publicly.

“You’ll sound like you’re trying to play the victim.”

“Let the past stay in the past.”

“Sharing your story, is sharing my story too… I don’t want that going public.”

“Why do you feel the need to air your dirty laundry for the world to see?”

“Can’t you just get over it and be happy?”

“You need to take responsibility for yourself and stop blaming/wallowing/bringing up things that happened in the past.”

“You need to work through it and move on (but not talk about it openly!).”

“What does this have to do with your mental health?”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You need to practice gratitude/thankfulness/happiness/finding joy.”

“You need to ­­­_______."

Several months ago, I wrote out suicide letters, because those words above, were the words that were spoken to me by the people that I tried to talk to (and sometimes even spoken BY me as a reminder to stay silent). Not just once. But repeatedly throughout the years.

Several months ago, I started talking anyways. I started re-assigning my thought patterns. I began the process of changing the way that I think about my life, my experiences, and especially the challenges that I have faced over the last several years.

Today I want to reach out. I want you to know that I am here. I am ready to listen without judgement. I am ready to have the conversations that nobody wants to have. I am ready to hear your situation, and the choices that you have had to make to survive. I am ready to be here for you.

And tonight. I challenge you. Be real. Reach out. Share. End stigma… not just with mental illness… but with all the taboo topics.

Don’t jump to conversation to judge the other side, or to tell them what they’re doing wrong, or what they should do next.

Talk. Listen. Be there. You don’t have to understand their side… but try anyways. Tilt your head. Cover your eyes and pretend to be them. Walk in their shoes. Feel their pain. Hold their hand. Let them share their secrets, and most of all: let them feel their pain.

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day 2018.

This year, I’ve felt a pull to continue to not only share my story… but also to encourage those around me to share parts of their story as well. Only with open and honest conversation between friends, can we even begin to understand the fight that every person who battles with mental illness faces. Only then can we know how to help those who are struggling just to stay alive.

So today, in recognition of World Suicide Prevention Day, I challenge you to reach out to a friend who is fighting a battle inside themselves. Maybe they are isolating themselves – pushing you away in either a quiet, or what appears to be a nasty way. Maybe they’ve been missing work or school, or maybe they are filled to the brim with anxiety – panic attacks striking more often than usual. Maybe you’ve stopped to visit and noticed that the dishes are piled higher than normal, or that their hair hasn’t been washed in days. Whatever it is, reach out to your friends. Don’t wait for them to reach out to you.

Suicide is preventable.

My life was saved by people who simply reached out... checked in... and shared their stories, willing to listen mine.

**Adapted from a previously un-shared post.

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Weaving Words

Recently it came up in my life, that my words were something to be ashamed of once again.

It wasn't tangible... more so a feeling as I continued to navigate a downright messy place in my story.

Several weeks ago, I was hit with that familiar feeling as I sat and listened to a loved one who had recently discovered my blog. As I listened to the feelings that this person experienced as they had read through my words and processed some of my thoughts; the instinct was to huddle up into a corner and pull a blanket over my head. I wanted to hide.

As I heard about this person's second hand experience with my journey... the thoughts morphed from anger (how dare they judge my story!), to sadness and a feeling of loneliness, and back to this deep-seated root of shame, regret, and guilt.

For a while, I changed my settings so that my blog was private, and contemplated deleting every entry I had ever written. I wanted the words gone. I wanted to not be this way. My journey... it was stupid. I shouldn't be airing out my dirty laundry for the world to see... and besides... I should be better by now anyways.

Over the last couple of weeks, I've once again tried to make sense of the world around me. I've spent time diving back into a myriad of questions and problems and traumas... trying to restore some semblance of sanity to my life. In the process I came to realize that writing here... sharing my story is far more important than I had previously given it credit for. A safe place to share my thoughts, encourage others, and end the stigma, only the beginning. The shame that I was feeling, exactly the reason that I should continue to not only write about but to share my journey. Shame, stigma, and feelings of instability, are all fed by continued silence and secrecy.

Last week I restored my blog to a public setting and I worked through some of my own feelings of shame. Right now, it is a chaotic and tumultuous time in my life. I've been dealing with facing my own failures, unraveling a further depth to my trauma than I ever before realized was present, and working hard to set, maintain, and enforce my own personal boundaries.

In the process, I've begun to once again open up and my goal is to continue to share with honesty and humility... for myself, and for others; because our stories are not something to be ashamed of.

This week I faced another moment in the quiet. Alone, I faced the revelation that my posts... my public words and the journey that I have shared in an act of healing; might one day be used against me. A place of safety, healing, and comfort, once again filled me with the deepest sense of shame and regret. This very blog felt like an anchor weighing me down.... evidence in any future case against myself. Look at her! She admits her guilt! There is no question, that she is unwell!

And once again, I choose to halt those thoughts.

Once again, I choose to reach out and take a leap and believe that it's okay to share my story and my struggles. Once again I feel the shame as it lays it's heavy burden upon my shoulders and I reject it. Not today.

This morning I shared a post on Facebook, and I'm going to share it here today. (I do not know who to attribute this meme to, and although I wish I could credit it appropriately, I can't.)

I've been sharing my story for a while now... bits and pieces as thoughts need to escape my head. To talk to me in person, I'm pretty open overall and will gladly answer (most) questions about my journey through not just mental health, but these rough patches in life.
Our stories weave the world in which we leave... strand by strand; coming together to form a beautiful picture. Sometimes we are being woven in the same pattern as the person standing next to us... and though we may both feel alone and unable to see the similarities, a simple conversation could be all that it takes to make things snap into place, so that both sides may realize that they are not alone after all.
Stigma, shame, and instability are all fed in secrecy.

Weaving words into stories. It sounds fantastical... like a fairy-tale author creating new worlds and new lives... a work of fiction. But the reality is that this is our life. Each person has a story... and though the details may differ from one of us to the next, it consistently amazes me that there are so many people that I know who experience similar struggles to me; and yet we oftentimes feel so alone. Unimportant. Filled with shame, guilt, or regret; our own words, admissions, failings, and struggles so often used against us... that we expect nothing else.

And so instead of opening up and sharing our journeys, we hide our experiences and our own unique story under the pillow, close to our hearts; guarded... afraid of the repercussions.

And shame and stigma grow stronger with each whispered word, or hidden struggle.

Today, I'm weaving my words into a single page of my story. Each page is being woven into a chapter, and each chapter a unique experience along my journey. And today I am standing up and speaking out against the shame associated with sharing my trials and my successes.

It is not a weakness, but a strength to be able to open up. To be honest... to show your vulnerabilities, your trials, and your failures. It takes courage and strength to say that I have struggled with suicidal thoughts, mental illness, and general rough patches in life... it takes strength to say I'm not okay, but I'm going to keep trying anyways.

And with each admission of a fight within myself; I feel the power of secrecy and silence dull down. I feel the strength inside of me grow stronger when I whisper those dreaded words of 'I'm not okay', and someone reaches back and says 'It's okay. I've been there. Let me tell you my story.' With every word woven into another part of my journey, I find freedom. No longer trapped by stigma, fear, or judgement, the story becomes just another part of my life; a part of who I am... a human.

For me, this is my safe place. For you, it might begin with a single friend or an anonymous post in a support group.

Shame keeps us a prisoner, a black smudge across the page that we wish we could recant. But sharing our journeys brightens up the page... and brings our stories together. Words woven into beautiful tapestries that show trials and resilience and a fight to not only heal the wounds, but to thrive despite the struggles.

Sharing is not shameful. It is our strength.

* I am currently beginning work on a project that I've been planning for quite some time (details to be announced), if you live in Ontario and would like to find out more and possibly become a part of this journey into sharing our stories; feel free to contact me through either Facebook or Email and I will gladly discuss the opportunity to participate in this amazing project.

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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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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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Amid the Quiet and the Darkness

I should be asleep right now. Eyes closed, mouth open, snoring softly and dreaming deeply. I should wake up in the morning rested and energized, ready to face another day, fight another battle, and smile another smile. I should be able to close my eyes without my mind racing a million miles a minute – ideas and sparks of restless energy plaguing me as a tiredness sweeps into my brain, just out of my grasp.

As is typical, I laid down to rest tonight – electronics shut off, calming thoughts, quiet, and darkness surrounding me. But I did not fall asleep… could not fall asleep. My mind has been going non-stop for several days now, my heart racing constantly, my brain flipping around like a fish out of water. I’m exhausted but I’m wide awake.

It’s one symptom of bi-polar disorder and for me it is one of the earliest warning signs of a massive shift in mood occurring. It started with a mild depression and some anxiety following Christmas – my sleep becoming disturbed and then I began the upswing. I noticed it one night suddenly… the way that my brain changed complete direction. I couldn’t stop talking – I couldn’t stop thinking – and I felt good – really good. I suddenly felt like showing off – spending a little extra effort on my appearance, working a little harder, taking on a little more. I dove into some work on mental health – on my history, on recovery, on management and skills. I tackled each thing I did with a newfound energy and a vengeance. Most of all, I completely stopped sleeping at night – struggling to get an hour here and an hour there.

A couple of days passed. I saw my family physician who prescribed me something to help me to relax – something that had absolutely no effect on me whatsoever. Finally, I became agitated, the lack of sleep getting to me even though I had all of this energy and I knew it was time. If I didn’t get it managed quickly, it would blossom out of control... it was better to catch it early so that it didn't get too far out of my hands.

Taking a risk and facing a nervous anxiety I took myself to the emergency room – not an easy task when you are frustrated and tired, and you have an irrational fear of (being kept in) the hospital. Thankfully it was a good visit – speaking to the crisis worker and the ER doctor on call I was given a prescription for something to help me sleep – something I had been on in the past and that had usually worked well. Going home with a scheduled appointment with the psychiatrist I was almost excited to get to sleep and get back into a ‘normal’ routine. I should have known better.

That first night, I did sleep. It was broken and I awoke several times, but it was something more than I had experienced in several days. The next night I wasn’t so lucky.

It’s a tricky thing – a mood disorder. You want to live simply – take your meds and get better. You don’t want to have to think about whether you are too close to depression or too close to mania all of the time – but you do. You want to be able to fall asleep like everyone else… but you also have your best thoughts and ideas amid the quiet and the darkness – when the rest of the world is asleep.

I’m thankful for the doctors and nurses, the psychiatrists and the counselors, the crisis teams and all of those people who advocate for better mental health care and knowledge. I am thankful that they take me seriously now when I say I need to level out – when I can recognize the symptoms before they get too severe, and I am thankful that the good ones will work with you for a treatment plan that works for you.

Tonight I’m still struggling with Insomnia and I still worry about entering a full blown manic phase. I’ve seen the psychiatrist and we are upping a medication to hopefully get me to sleep before the insanity begins to set in. I wish I didn’t need meds for that – I wish I could sleep – I wish that sleep wasn’t a requirement so that I could act on all of my great ideas – I wish that my mind wasn’t built this way. But wishes aren’t reality.

And the reality is that sometimes life just sits you down on an out of control roller-coaster and you learn how to hang on tightly at all of the important hills and valleys – knowing that eventually it will slow down and you’ll be able to take control back again.

Until then – I’ll control what I can, pray for what is out of my hands, help end the stigma by talking about it, and rely on the support from friends, family, and professionals to help me get back on track.

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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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Victory Through the Struggles

It’s not euphoria or hypersensitivity or the darkness of a deep depression. The spikes are no longer as severe as a freshly sharpened pencil, now more rounded, curved and easier to pass over. The waves have not disappeared – there is still sadness and happiness, anger and excitement. But they are easier to steer… they are no longer run-away trains, reaching the tipping point and about to spill off of the tracks.

Level. Stable. Manageable. In control. It’s almost terrifying – a great unknown and after another depressive episode, it is an entirely new world to feel this way. It hasn’t been easy to reach this place and there have been some detours along the way. But right now, in this moment – my mental disorders are not winning.

Recently, I spent a week in the hospital. I was at a low point and drove myself there; I fought through what felt like interrogations and some criticisms, and I was admitted so that I was in a safe place where I could be monitored and so that my medications could be adjusted again.

I did not want to be there.

But I was… and it was a massive victory.

Taking myself into the hospital was not easy… I felt like a failure and like a fraud. I was low but I was highly functional. I was depressed but few people knew about it. I was struggling but I felt like I should be okay. I was angry because it was such a short journey from managing my triggers and being able to work through my emotional surges, to feeling as though I had fallen down a rabbit hole and knowing the world had morphed into a much darker place.

Again, I did not want to be there. I did not want to admit my weakness. Throughout the days leading up to and during my stay, it was often a fight within myself… a heated and intense battle for control… for my life.

But it was also a testament to the changes I have made, the way I have grown within my diagnosis, and my ability to identify with and help myself. It was days of reaching out and seeking help from trusted sources. It was days of self-care while doing things that bring me joy, it was using the resources that I have collected and learned to use, almost as though they have become second nature from the practice and continuous learning that I have done. It was keeping to my routines and it was remaining functional while recognising that I was falling, and doing something that I had never done before. It was stopping when I knew that I was in danger and taking myself in before I was past the point of no return, before I was able to fall further, before I tried to end the suffering or before the police were called. It was calm and without the drama of past experiences. It was me never letting go of the reigns and steering myself to the help that I knew that I needed. It was being aware of and able to hang on to one single spark of light and let it spread as I stayed safe, quickly illuminating the darkness and letting me recover faster and easier than I ever have before.

It was a success.

I was hospitalised, but I don’t regret it. I will continue to grow. I will continue to strive to remain level. I will continue to hang on to those sparks of light when the darkness begins to close in on me. I will continue to learn and remain aware of myself, my triggers, my weaknesses, and my spikes. I will get the help I need, when I need it. I will embrace stability – even when it frightens me.

I will continue to share my story. I will continue to be open and honest, to let everyone know about the struggles and the victories. I will continue to talk and to listen. I will continue to grow stronger and I will keep going. I will continue to be a success. I will continue to change the game, and I will win.

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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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Doing Well - Living Life with Mental Health

Recently I’ve been left with a lot of time on my hands to question things - to do some reflection and determine where I’ve come from and where I’m heading. It’s something that I’ve done more often in the previous several months and for me, it’s a good thing. I need that. I need those reminders of where I’ve been – how bad it has been at times and how good the possibilities actually are.

A reminder from hospital, made during therapy.

Some days I also feel like a fraud. I’m here writing (and talking in real life) about how well I’m doing, how under control my moods are – how level I’ve been – and how well I’m managing the Borderline Personality Disorder symptoms… and really, I’m speaking and writing the truth. I am doing well. But it isn’t without struggle – something that I’m not always able to properly articulate in my blog posts because the fighting and the worry and the constant watching is all under the surface. It’s in the reminders that I have around the house, the conversations with myself debating whether or not I have a legitimate reason to be upset or happy or energetic. It’s in the everyday fight to maintain the good things that I took time and effort to set up – everything from routine to what/how/when I eat. It’s in the battle of my mind that still wants to creep up from time to time and tell me that I’m worthless, that wants to stop me from reaching out when I need support, and that worries endlessly that I will slip up – that I’m not doing enough, that it will never be enough to stay healthy and on track.

The beginning. I needed reminders to get out of bed.

At times it can be utterly and completely exhausting to keep up with myself, to stop and slow down racing thoughts and to force myself to remain in constant sleep patterns when I feel my mood start to go up. It’s more than a little tiring to force myself to get up in the mornings and get dressed when I feel like a cloud of depression is pushing me down, and some days it feels impossible to keep moving forward when all I want to do is lay down and sleep. And then when my energy is already depleted, to have to force myself to be open, to want to build relationships and stop pushing people away; to bite my tongue and not react viciously when the anger begins to build can almost be too much. And occasionally I slip. I fail. I’m not perfect and I don’t expect I will ever be.

But I can learn to cope, to take those moments of trial and use them to find things that work, to practice on building the skills I have learned and to be authentic with the people in my life.

A reminder of my last stay in the hospital, a painting I did in therapy.

I’m not a fraud. I am doing well. It has taken me many years of half-effort and lack of understanding to get me here. It has taken suicide attempts and hospital stays, psychiatrist appointments and support groups to help me understand. Mental illness is not something you can deal with alone and although it took a lot of ‘wrongs’ to get me to where I am, I’m glad I’m finally here, in the place that I can acknowledge it all.

Mental illness doesn’t have to be my weakness. It is one of the many things in my life that has made me stronger and more resilient. I have become more determined to change my life and I am willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen – doctors, medications, support groups, supportive family/friends, research, talking, writing, self-discovery and self-care. My journey isn’t pretty. It isn’t filled with a doctor that took the time to counsel all of the reasons why I am this way, a single medication that has fixed my life and made everything look like roses. It has been filled with tears and fights and denial and ugly truths and hard lessons. It has been filled with days when I wasn’t sure I could go on, when recovery and happiness seemed completely impossible but I pushed ahead anyways. It didn’t always seem like it, but I know that it has been worth it. It sometimes seems so dark that you know that you will never escape, but I promise there is hope. If you are struggling, find help – reach out, call a friend or a hotline, dig your heels in and try just a little harder and you will find the light. It is there, just around the corner. Life is always worth it, even when you can’t see your happy ending. 

One of my reminders, (semi-colon tattoo) because my story isn't over yet. 

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Silently Fighting

I haven’t had the chance to sit down and write that much lately with how busy things have been.

It’s been a bit of a crazy month, but I’m managing and I’m doing well.

It’s easy for me to sit here and write about how I’m doing, how I’m fighting to stay level and am neither depressed nor manic, I’m not angry nor irrational.

There’s so much that I want to write about, so much that I would love the world to understand about living with Mental Illness, but I have to confess; it can be exhausting and sometimes I don’t always want to be honest about it. Sometimes I want to look like a winner and announce that it's done, I've conquered it - be that success story you hear about.

November is a bit of a crazy month to begin with, and one that in my past has always been a triggering time of year for me. Over the course of the past year, one of my main focuses has been my own personal self-awareness. Time after time I have spoken to professionals and have been told that there is no cure for either Bipolar Disorder or Borderline Personality Disorder. Therapy and medications and lifestyle can help to control them, but I will live with them for the rest of my life although they may dull down and not be as serious as I get older. 

I have to admit that I kind of believe them to an extent. You see, first of all I’m a highly emotional person – things just seem to affect me more than the average person and I don’t know if I can or want to change that - to me, that is sometime that makes me me. Secondly, my moods will always have the possibility to spiral out of my control and send me on a rollercoaster ride of emotion. But here’s the thing; while my emotional regulation is a little out of whack, and I’m quite a bit more sensitive than the average Joe – I am learning to identify with, work with, and challenge these qualities – sometimes finding that they can even be an excellent warning system that I can use to my advantage.  

I want to stop right here for a second though and make an admission. I’m not perfect and I’m pretty sure that I never will be - there will be times that I will make mistakes, or have panic attacks or feel like a complete failure. 

But I’m working on me. I’m working on several things that have come up within the last year or two (or three or four) and I’m figuring this stuff out. It’s hard work – something that so many people don’t realise – because I have to know every piece of me, every reaction and every trigger. I keep journals… several of them that I use to track everything from the food I eat, to the sleep I get, to moods I experience, to the things I say and do. I need to know my patterns, know my limits and understand my emotional reactions. And then I also have to fight. I have to fight to prove that my frustration or anger or upset is legitimate and not the disorder, I have to fight to keep myself stable and stop my moods from shooting up or falling down, and I need to fight to keep learning about myself and what level really is.

This month has been harder than some I’ve experienced lately. While I’m still doing okay and remaining stable I’ve had quite a few things come up that triggered me – some of them catching me completely by surprise and other things that I already knew about and was watching for. And so I’ve watched as triggers hit me – recorded them in my journal and worked my way through them, adding new tools to the toolbox, ways to cope with the never ending fluctuation of emotion and threat of an episode.

This life, it is exhausting right now as I work to do what other people can do naturally, and I don’t always feel like sharing. But this is when I should share. Because right now, at this moment I’m a success. I’m fighting hard to make life liveable, to get to know myself and what I need to do to survive and to change the way I think. I’m learning to use natural methods and things that are within my control to manage and redirect myself when I feel things might be beginning to slip one way or the other.

So this is me being honest. I’m tired and I’m fighting, I’m learning and I’m growing, I’m alive and I’m well, I’m neither up nor down, and even though I sometimes still struggle, I’m also feeling the strongest I’ve ever felt. Nothing beats that feeling of strength and hope, the realisation that you can have a future and that it won't be defined by your Mental Illness. 

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Mind Over Matter

Mind over matter. It’s an excellent mantra for when you need to get through certain aspects of life, lift your spirits or convince yourself that something is or isn’t right. But for me, it’s more than that and it’s one of those phrases that can even be dangerous when taken out of context.

It’s not a secret that I sometimes wish that I was ‘normal’. That I didn’t suffer with uncontrollable mood swings riddled with extreme highs and scary lows, or a personality disorder that can make me turn from a happy elf, singing and dancing, into the Wicked Witch of the West within an instant. And throughout most of my late teen years and early adult life, I have lived out the phrase – mind over matter – I wasn’t sick, I wasn’t crazy and I wasn’t abnormal in the least. If I worked harder, changed myself into what everyone else was and wanted me to be, and kept quiet, kept telling myself that it wasn’t who I was; it would all go away.

But that’s not how life works.                         

Sometimes you have the power to completely change things… and sometimes you need a little help, a little love and a little acceptance to overcome those obstacles. Sometimes you need to be open and honest and experience life the way it is – not the way you want it to be. Sometimes you need to accept your limits and work within them.

I’ve tried using the mind over matter method – refusing treatments, medications, and therapy because I thought I could convince myself to get better – I could change what was, simply by thinking it. Doing so almost killed me, but even still, it’s easy to slip back to that mantra, to let it convince me that I can do it all alone. But it’s also devastating when you can’t; when you believe you have failed and are a loser and are worthless and that you can’t even be ‘normal’.

So much of the stigma behind mental illness – especially mood/personality disorders – is because we have been taught this lie that we should be able to overcome everything. We should be able to pick ourselves up and move on, that depression or anxiety or mania are all controllable and those that can’t get a grip on it themselves are simply weak.

But we are not weak. We fight every single day to remain level – to find the therapy and the treatment plan that works for us – to not get caught up in the mind over matter attitude, and seek out help. We fight behind closed doors and with whispered words because mental illness is still taboo – can still cost people their jobs, their friends, and their lives. And then we are told to fight it harder, to stop being mopey or sad or manic… they roll their eyes behind our backs and call us overdramatic, overemotional or plainly exaggerated. We see the look in your eye that says ‘just knock it off already!’ and we wonder what is wrong with us, why we can’t just be like everybody else.

Most days I want to be the way that everyone else appears to be… until I remember that each and every person out there has their own battles that they are fighting. I only know as much about them, as they let me in to glimpse at their lives… and people only know me through what I allow them to see. Once I remember that, it’s easier to accept what I am – what I’m working towards and the challenges that I have already faced. It becomes part of me, open to expression and honesty and willingness to share, to not let my experiences hinder me – only help me. It reminds me that sometimes, in some areas of life – using your mind to change your circumstances can work. It also reminds me that sometimes there is nothing wrong with needing a little help, to use your mind to seek advice and treatment and support.

I’m level right now – in a recovery phase of bipolar disorder/borderline personality disorder – and as much as I tried, it was not because I simply convinced myself that I was stable. It’s hard work, dedication, tons of support and a lot of trial and error that have brought me to this place… my mind: it’s here, it helps – it reminds me why I need to keep going – but it didn’t magically change my circumstances, and it won’t magically heal me. But I can work towards healing, fight the stigma that comes along with the illness and change who I am, in time and with patience, with love and with support, with success and with setbacks; I will be stronger. 

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The Truth

The truth is:

I'm just a girl.

The truth is:

I struggle with Mental Illness.

The truth is:

I'm fighting back.

The truth is:

I'm not alone.

It's absolutely amazing what the mind can convince you of. Once I let my mind convince me that I wasn't worth it, that I was just a nobody who was undeserving of love and compassion and understanding. I was in the darkness and couldn't see the light... not only that, but I didn't even believe there was a light. 

Some of the things that I am learning seem so simple, such basic principles that you must wonder how I didn't 'get it', how I didn't understand. I'm learning to accept who I am... mental illness and all. I'm also learning that I am worth fighting for, worth loving, and worth living for. I'm also learning that it isn't easy, but it is possible. I might be different. I might experience emotional roller coasters that are at an intensity that I can't even explain and that most people couldn't fathom. But I am worth it and I'm not the only one. 

The inside of my mind is a battlefield between truth and lies, reality and deception. Logic thinking becomes skewed, the truth twisted into an ugly mess of lies that are so convincing that you not only believe them - you live them. 

In the past, my mind has convinced me that I'm not worth it. That I should kill myself and end my misery, because life isn't worth it. There is nothing worth fighting for. It has convinced me that it is alright to mutilate my own body, to pull my hair and bang my head against the wall; to cut my arms and legs and hips and shoulders with a sharpened razor to simply feel something other than the emotional mess inside my brain. It convinced me that it was what I needed to do to cope. It convinced me that I should leave my husband and that my marriage was over, that my kids were better off without me and that I was no good at anything. 

My mind hasn't always been on my side. And that's why I fight against myself. That's why I need to constantly remind myself of the truth and work hard to appear 'normal' on the outside. Inside my mind is chaos. 

The truth is:

I might always struggle with Mental Illness.

The truth is:

I'm fighting back and I'm winning.

The truth is:

I'm not alone and the only way to help others understand and to reach out to others who are suffering, is to talk about it, write about it and be transparent. 

The truth is:

I've given up on caring about the stigma and the fear that stops us from talking. 

The truth is:
As much as I'm not alone, neither are you!

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Small Things

(Small stones can appear much larger based on the lens they are viewed from.)

** Knock off the tears.
** Stop crying.
** Why are you over-reacting?
** What's the issue?
** Stop being so dramatic.
** It's not that big a deal!

It seems innocent enough to say one of the above phrases, and most of the time I'm sure that nobody would think twice about using one or all of them - especially if the person standing in front of you was reacting in a way that seemed ridiculous in comparison to the situation.In fact, you might look at such a person and have thoughts that go as far as to compare that person to a toddler throwing a tantrum, unable to see the reason that you try repeatedly to explain to them.

Let's make up a random example.
A couple make plans to go out for the evening, the babysitter arrives and they arrive at their destination restaurant to find that it is unusually booked up and full. One spounse thinks okay, that's fine - let's go find another restaurant, or something else to do. But as he looks at his wife, he realises that she's already gone. The tears have started and she's choking back a sob and as much as she struggles to hide it and push it down, it pops back up. He tells her to relax, it's not that big of a deal and yet, she can't help it. Before long she's not only crying but she's angry, he attempts to take her to another restaurant, to distract her but she's already become another person, vicious as the anger begins to take over. Soon there is an argument and he becomes frustrated because he doesn't understand what the big deal is, she becomes lost in her thoughts. Her black and white thinking has taken over... the night is ruined because the original restaurant is booked, he hates her because she's emotionally sensitive, and who knows, he probably didn't even really want to go out with her in the first place - he hates her.

It all sounds so ridiculous, and very much like a toddler throwing a tantrum... doesn't it? That's because, from my experience and my research it is.

Emotional Dysregulation. People with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) don't have the same internal process for dealing with difficult or negative emotions. The thought process is actually quite simple - either you love me or you hate me, it's good or it's bad, life is awesome or it's not worth living at all. Small things are not simply small things. The daily events in life are overwhelming and unmanageable and set off chain reactions in the mind that convince you that everything is against you. And most of all, you can't see it. As far as you can tell, there is nothing wrong with your behaviour - I know, personally for me it was easy for me to admit that I'm a little more sensitive - but that was always as far as I could admit. Everything else, my insane over-reactions, angry rages and bouts of intense emotion were always someone else's fault... they were completely justified to me.

One time that particularly stands out to me, was several years ago. I was baking a cake - just for fun - and as it came time to turn the cake out of the pan and onto the platter I was going to be using, the cake stuck to the inside of the pan and basically only half the cake came out. Did I have a reason to be a little upset - yes, baking a cake is a lot of work and it's frustrating when it doesn't turn out. But how I reacted was completely inappropriate - I instantly felt frustrated and felt the anger begin to bubble. When my husband attempted to calm me down, told me to stop over-reacting and calm down, convince me that it was okay - I lost it. I started yelling (I don't remember exactly what I said, but I know it wasn't very nice!) and the incident ended with me picking up the glass platter full of broken cake and slamming it on the ceramic tile floor. It took hours for me to calm down and before now I've never admitted fault or apologised for my behaviour. At the time I was so out of it, so convinced that my actions were justified that I saw nothing wrong with it.

Thankfully, things are changing now. I will keep stressing that I am not perfect... that a few months of therapy and new meds haven't completely changed me and made me totally normal yet. But I'm working on it. Unfortunately as I said in my last post, my actions have had effects that have probably reached further than I even know, and some relationships have been permanently damaged. Having BPD and Bipolar, finally having a diagnosis, is not an excuse for my previous actions and I am in no way, trying to continue justifiying them. I treated people in a way that makes me amazed that I have anyone left in my life who cares about me. But while it isn't an excuse, it does clear things up... it does give me a place to begin working, examples from my past to help me not make the same mistakes in the future.

Now, with work and with therapy and with practice - the small things aren't always massive events in my life now. I am learning to regulate and can
see the destructive behaviours, recognise the emotions and accept them without losing myself. Without harming those around me. It isn't easy. I still slip and I might struggle with this for the rest of my life - and I accept it. My husband accepts it. And we aren't giving up.

One small thing at a time, we are working through it.

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