The Invisible Prison

Locked inside.

Like a prison – without bars.

It’s almost impossible to explain.

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

I couldn’t see anything.

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

And it made me incredibly angry.

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

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

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

And often times… I’m just not okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right now, even while I type.

I’m locked inside of my head.

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

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

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

Read more »

Meds, Moods, and (Hypo)Mania

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

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

Insomnia.

I’m not tired.

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

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

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

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

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

I want to say screw it.

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

But more than that – I actually want stability.

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

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

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

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

I want to be able to sleep without medications.

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

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

But this is who I am.

These are the things I think about constantly.

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

This is the only way for me to be stable.

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

It isn’t easy.

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

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

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

Read more »