Infidelity – The Chaos and The Confidence – Part 2

A double life.

Secrets, shame, hidden feelings, self-loathing, and guilt.

Strength, smiles, openness, bravery, courage, and love.

This was me. Over the past decade, I have lived with a splitting within my mind: a damaged processor, a flaky connection, and a screen that turns on and off – illuminating selective aspects of my life – depending on the situation, day, or even hour.

For a long time, I didn’t know what was wrong with me or why I couldn’t maintain a stable mindset, a normal functioning, and a mature response system within my life.

I couldn’t control the sides, the split, or the damage that I sometimes caused towards myself and others… though I desperately tried.

The more I struggled against the symptoms – the depression, the shame, the anxiety, and the general unease – the more they affected me, nearly destroying my world with the unpredictable outbursts, angered reactions, and crippling devastation that I experienced. My emotions ran wild and though I chased after them, I could never catch up – never hold them in for long enough to sort them out, validate them, or set them free.

I felt trapped in my body, my head, and my life. I wanted out.

I felt like a fraud. A liar. A damaged, defective, and inferior human.

And yet… the other side of me argued. Constantly lifting me. Masking me. Get up. Get out. Show up. Do your best… because you ARE the best. Stronger, different, more capable. Better.

Not like them at all.

To put it mildly… my head has remained in a constant state of chaos and confusion, for as long as I can remember. A minefield that nobody could possibly navigate without a map and a guide… not even me.

For the past (almost) year, I’ve been working on writing that map.

Honesty and Authenticity.

They sound like honourable goals… fairly easy… calm… freeing.

But it’s probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever chosen to do for myself.

Because for years, I’ve lived with lies. Splitting. Confusion. Indecision. A façade. A mask. Carefully constructed webs of shallow secrets, smiles, and deeper self-hate.

When I was a little girl, I took it to heart when I was told to ‘knock off the tears’ and ‘stop crying about it’. And that mantra carried with me throughout several layers of trauma, abuse, betrayal, and poor decisions. Though I could never fully grasp it enough to believe it would work… I tried to be strong, brave, and better. I hid the tears until I couldn’t. I masked the pain until it burst out. I worked endlessly to do better and be more, until I fell down in exhaustion, collapsing beneath the weight of my own personal expectations.

Gradually I broke… while still trying to hold it all together.

I lied to myself. I believed myself. I confused myself. And I let other people help me do it too.

This year I started to peel back the layers of me… to find the little person inside. The little girl buried beneath the loudness of the world around her. The one that believed that she had to maintain the protective shell around her, no matter how much it cracked or split. For years I tried to mend the breaks with tiny bits of sticky tape – tried to fit the pieces back together like a broken puzzle – only to find that another section was cracking on the other side, as I tried my best to fix this one.

Last February, when I uncovered the truth of my husband’s infidelity… my very first reaction was relief.

I wasn’t crazy after all.

And very quickly, the shell around me burst apart where I had tried to mend it throughout the years, until there was nothing but vulnerability, and a very raw and painful look at my life. But while it should have been easy to see that some of the things I had believed were lies, and some were truth… it was absolute chaos and confusion as I tried to sort it all out.

Honesty and authenticity has not been an easy leg of the journey and I have often been left after examining an aspect of my life, completely terrified and unsure of myself. I have been left feeling alone, ashamed, vulnerable, and lost... as though sharing my grief with even myself was breaking some sort of life rule.

But with each layer that I pull back, with each layer that I sort out and attempt to untangle the lies from the truth, and the pain from the healing, and the trauma from the blame – I feel a merging happening inside of myself. The sides of me that caused the chaos and the constant war in my head are learning to get along. To see that they were never on opposite sides at all, both trying to protect, to save, and to hide from the damage - some of which I created, and some of which was placed onto me. 

Last month I talked about the damage that I’ve experienced in my life, and the impact that I have felt as a result of infidelity in my marriage.  This has been a massive layer for me to not only peel back and examine, but to also assign appropriate relevance within my life. And it’s been a layer that has been riddled with outside opinions, harsh judgement, twisted facts, reactive emotions, and wanting to flee from it all… wanting to revert back to the shell at times. Pick up the pieces. Tape them back together and hide away from not just the world, but myself. Chaos. Confusion.

And then…

Confidence.

Not a false confidence… one that feeds the ego and says ‘I’m right, and you’re wrong’. And not the confidence that has you feeling like a million bucks in a new outfit with perfect hair and makeup and matching shoes.

No, this is a deeper confidence that can’t always be seen. It’s peace-driven, though it is a rocky journey to get there. It;s knowledge that as the web of lies that I believed slowly unravels, that I am able to look at them with new eyes… seeing beneath the words and the actions. Beneath symptoms and pain and grief. Beneath the instinct to solely place blame, though also knowing that it is okay to accept and to advocate for myself and the pain that infidelity has caused, and the direction it has at times steered my story. 

I can see the vulnerable girl beneath the shell taking a step away from the crumbling ruins and stepping into the world alone. Ready to meet others like her who are striving for the same reality. The ones who are also filled with pain and joy, tears and laughter, webs of chaos turned into honesty and authenticity. The ones ready to embrace the past as the beginning of their story, and the now as the good stuff – where the vague glimpses from earlier chapters are revealed in a raw truth that is unparalleled, and the future heading into an entirely new and beautiful, truly authentic direction.

Each day I step further from the shell of chaos that once protected and yet also harmed me. Each day I struggle with the things that I myself have done in reaction and protection, and those things that have been done to me. And each day I not only peel back the layers of deceit in my head, but I also fill my soul with new layers of truth and understanding.

And now, I’m working on stepping out further. Taking another look around me and examining the places where I still see chaos and confusion, and where I need to head towards confidence. I talk openly and without shame, knowing that I have faced the harshest judgement from myself. My story is no longer a secret that I keep hidden deep within; instead I am free from the burden and the weight of carrying the chaos alone. And most importantly, I am working on opening my heart to others… to hearing their story and seeing their journey where they themselves are at. To seeing their actions and looking beneath the surface… to hearing their words and authentically starting to walk alongside them in whatever place they are at.

Everyone has a story. A reason. A why. Everyone has something (or several things) that has significantly impacted their lives (good or bad!) and now that I can be truly confident in my own story, and the place I am currently walking in my life; now I can sit and listen more clearly.

Infidelity within my life has caused significant damage to me mentally… it created a chaos that I couldn’t grasp or control or even recognize. But from the chaos, I have journeyed to find the confidence. A place of openness, truth, authenticity, realism, and comprehension that is beyond what I could have deciphered even one year short year ago. I’m not perfect in my healing. Some days are harder than others. And some days, yes, the pain is still excruciating and at times overwhelming.

But for the first time in years, I walk out the door each day with my head held high, my chest light, and my heart eager to feel, empathize, and understand with a new depth. Each day, more layers of chaos get carefully peeled back and I am able to not only share my story with others, but I am able to hear and reach out, and walk alongside those others as they share their own raw reality, or muddle their own way through chaos in their lives.

"Out of pain and problems have come the sweetest songs, the most poignant poems, the most gripping stories." -- Billy Graham

This year, I will embrace and without apology share my story while I peel back the layers as I work through them. I will welcome opportunities for growth and sharing both in my personal journey and as I sit with friends and family. Because shared pain is perhaps at times, the most beautiful mentor.

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New Year Same Journey

When I woke up this morning, I didn’t see today as the last day of 2018. I wasn’t ending a chapter of my life, to begin a new sentence tomorrow or a fresh start with a resolution that I would have no intention of keeping. I didn’t see it as an ending this morning as I rolled out of bed and got ready to go to the grocery store – to which I would face a beginning tomorrow morning where I would wake up fresh faced and ready to tackle a new year.

This morning I did however glance in the mirror at the reflection that stared me down as I brushed my teeth and got dressed. I saw the person who stared back at me with a quiet confidence that wasn’t there last year… the one who didn’t glance away in sadness, frustration, or yes disgust this time. I saw the person that remembered that one year is a long time… but it isn’t the only time.

As I tidied the house today and cleaned up some of the post-Christmas clutter that tends to accumulate; I kept coming back to the concept of time. It’s not the first time this year that I’ve visited this idea… and it won’t be the last I’m sure. For the past few months I’ve been taking some fantastic advice and trying to see the bigger picture within my life… thinking in various increments of time but coming back to the concept of decades or seasons.

If someone asked me to define this year… my word of choice would be hard. It was a difficult year and it seemed to be riddled with dark spots, tough times, and an unsettling uncertainty. There were tears and there were fights, there was loneliness, and there was a sense of loss. Between the rough patches, there were sparks and specks of light and hope… laughter, fun, and joy. But overall, it was a hard year in many ways.

Some days I quite honestly just did not want to continue on anymore, and at some points I felt as though I simply couldn’t.

So as today shifts into tonight; and tonight grows into tomorrow… I want to define my happiness and take control, and walk towards the New Year with passion and fight and resilience. But I am also looking at the path I’ve walked, ran, and sometimes crawled over the past decade and I know that a change in the calendar year won’t magically make it easier. I know that slamming the book of 2018 closed will not lead the way into the changes I’ve worked to make happen, because it was with these lows and this darkest year yet that I’ve finally gained some ground and become the person that I am now.

Tomorrow a New Year will begin for me… a new year which I hope will continue to grow and change me as a person. But the change will flow from now… from last week, last month, last year, and even last decade. Like always, it’s not a whole new me… it’s the same me as today… the one that just wants to walk her journey and learn along the way.

Happy New Year from my journey to yours, may this year continue with growth and love and with new learning each day, with every step we take.

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The Past Was Always Vague

It seems to be a theme in my life these days.

• Everyone has a story.

• Don't ask what's wrong with them... ask them what happened to them instead.

• Everyone has something that changed them.

For a long time, I spoke about my symptoms. The state I was currently experiencing, and the ways in which I was working towards recovery and walking along my journey. I spoke about trials and successes… and I mentioned trauma – in brief, vague, and very generic ways.

Always vague. Always ashamed. Always afraid.

I’ve spent the past four years writing, sharing, and speaking about mental health; with each opportunity to share creating further determination within myself to be honest, authentic, and open. For the most part, I’ve been successful… my story of mental illness, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, anxiety, suicide, and depression… no longer leaving me regularly feeling burdened or ashamed. I’ve found peace, despite the struggle – knowing that to end the stigma attached to mental illness, I need to end the stigma that I myself feel towards it.

It’s different though when you look at the history… the past.

It’s an intricate dance, and a balancing of speaking truthfully and openly about your experiences… and using those same things as a crutch – an excuse for your behaviour.

But the most impactful words I’ve heard this year was when a friend told me that it’s okay… and to actually look at my past.

Not as an excuse, or a reason, or way to ‘play the victim’. But as a way of seeing how events in my life formed the way that I think, act, and react to various situations. As a way of understanding the impact that trauma has on the mind, and the ways in which it causes different responses in each unique person and in each unique situation.

For so long I was afraid to say too much. This fear of hurting those who hurt me. And this shame associated with remaining in harmful/toxic situations. But also the shame of still choosing to stay… to fight… to work. I felt unable to speak about the pain, the trauma, and the history… guilty myself for not making different choices… unworthy of acknowledgement of the pain.

I’ve spoken for months now about the trauma and the revelations in my life that have impacted me this year. Things that have shaken me… not just because of the current impact in my life; but because of the impact that they had over the course of a lifetime. But I refused to speak in authenticity. Honesty. Openness. I felt conflicted over the word victim, and the use of my story within my journey – not sure how to find the difference between words like victim, blame, responsibility, honesty, and explanation.

The longer I put it off though, the more urgent it feels to express these things… to include the history within the story of my journey. Because they are a part of who I am, and the struggle that I face on a daily basis. And I believe that we all have things that have deeply impacted us… and the only way to end the stigma against mental health, is to end the stigma surrounding the rest of the storms in our lives. To talk about the un-speakable topics. To share the pain. To express the experiences. To learn to empathize and understand that we all feel grief and trauma differently… and that no single response is more normal than another.

Speaking up and sharing the history and the journey and the experiences and the pain and the success, does not mean that I am living in the past, or that I haven’t done the work to move forward. It doesn’t mean that I hold onto hatred for those who hurt me… or even that the horrendous things that other people did which deeply impacted me, make them bad people.

What it means is that I have accepted it as a part of my own journey… and that I’m no longer afraid or ashamed. I’m no longer trapped inside of the bubble in my head that says that I “can’t” share my story because other people might think “__________” or that it might embarrass, humiliate, or hurt the other party within my story. It means that I am at a place where I can talk, and write, and share about my experiences and the things I’ve felt, and the way that they impacted me and changed my life. The same way that the decisions that I make now are changing my life again.

It means that I no longer see myself as ‘weak’ for not responding the way that I believed I should have. It means that I no longer see myself as ‘weak’ for the impact that my experiences had on my mental health. It means that I can now see two decades worth of trauma that led me to react and behave in ways that I didn't understand. It means that I see it now, and I can openly share about it and speak about it... because it did impact me, and while it isn't an excuse for my reactions, it is an explanation. And with an explanation, comes the ability to heal and to continue to change and head towards healthier behaviours. 

It means that as I continue to write, I will no longer filter the past, the current, or the future experiences that have continued to impact my mental health. It means that going forward, I will continue to work towards full authenticity in the sharing of my journey.

It might take me time, but I will learn to let go of the shame and write in full authenticity as I go forward from here.

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The Awkwardness of Speaking Out

“If I Fall, If I Die.” There are a few moments along my journey that make me smile… call them inside jokes, or my twisted sense of humour. Occasionally they come up and I will sometimes laugh, or try to explain the reason for my smile… but usually, it’s met with a stare, a nervous chuckle, or it’s simply ignored, obviously making the people around me uncomfortable with my casual approach to the topic.

One of the stories that I most often tell is the story of the day that my husband was faced with going into my work to talk to my manager about my absence… the reason that I would be spending the next couple of days in the psych ward. I had just attempted to jump off of Inglis Falls in a suicide attempt. Since I am an avid reader and my job just happened to be working in a book store, my husband was also trying to find books to keep me amused in the hospital. When one of the other store associates tried to help, she suggested a brand new book – the title ironically, “If I Fall, If I Die” (Michael Christie). It wasn’t until nearly two months later, when I began this blog and shared what had happened that she found out why the title was vehemently rejected by the store manager – at the time, she only knew that I was unwell and would be missing work. When she eventually told me the story, I immediately found the humour in it, laughing quite loudly at the entire scenario… of all of the books to suggest!

To this day, I find that story funny. A touch of humour to add to an otherwise horrific time in my life, a time when I had been determined to die by my own hand. But it still makes people uncomfortable… even today, more than three years after the fact.

But it isn’t just the story that makes people fidget in their seats and look away. It’s the topic in general… the disconnect that people are faced with when an otherwise ‘normal’ appearing person, opens up and reveals a story, a fact, or a joke about their struggles. It’s a topic that has yet to be normalised.

It’s a disconnect that even I, myself can feel.

When I wake up each morning I look in the mirror… I judge my appearance harshly – searching for the good girl… the normal one. I don’t see the manic or the depressive. I don’t see the girl who has tried to kill herself or that has experienced hallucinations and blackouts and a darkness that simply cannot be described.

When I meet with a friend, or share a story with an acquaintance, I can’t always associate the things that I describe and feel and do, with the person that I am.

I can talk about suicide. I can share my story and give an inside look to what I was thinking, or how it felt. But it feels worlds away… unreal. How can I share that last week I was suicidal, and today, speak with eloquence on the issue? How can I reach out for help and describe the darkness, the unusual behaviour, the depth of everything wrong… how can I be so aware, and yet so out of control? How can I flip between put together and on top of things… able to converse and join discussions and speak out for mental health, only to fall into a fog – a pit of heaviness that leaves me spinning so fast that I no longer know who I am or more importantly, how to come back?

So when I look in that mirror each day… I know. I know the awkward silence that ensues when I openly speak out about mental illness, or bipolar disorder, or borderline personality disorder, or suicide, or hallucinations, or simply confusion. I know that it is hard to see that this is not only real… but it is terrifying and it makes no sense. I know that the humour I find, it is found because I can’t associate these things myself… and I know that from an outside perspective, it’s nearly impossible to understand.

I know that attempting to normalise mental illness is a long shot, with each case so unique, and each person’s experiences so vastly different, and yet somehow eerily similar. I know that when I speak about suicide, people will shift uncomfortably, or their eyes will flit away, looking for something else to focus on.

I know that people will listen, and they will read, and they will see the experiences that I share. I know that they will at times make absolutely no sense at all, and the disconnect will feel so great to what they have experienced in their time with me… but I also know it will in some way resonate. It will spark a recognition or maybe a curiosity. It might cause doubt to flare up, and silent arguments to form… it might cause courage to speak about your own internal struggles, or it might simply be an encouragement that you’re not alone.

Whatever it sparks… engage it, learn about it, breathe it in and let it out.

Forget the awkwardness that ensues… live in the discomfort of asking questions and accepting answers. Talk, share, and listen.

Every person has a story… and even those that might seem invisible… strange… hard to understand… they are valuable.

If we want to end the stigma surrounding mental health… if we want to encourage people to get help and to speak about their struggles, we need to embrace the humour. We need to share the stories. We need to ‘like’ a post, or spread the word, or simply just be there for a friend. We need to see beyond the outer shell that they allow the world to see… we need to embrace each other as we are… silent pain, fear, and embarrassment; hurting, anger, and successes.

Let’s fight the chasm, let’s build a bridge between normal… and ill.

** If I Fall, If I Die by Michael Christie, is a fiction novel about a mother and son, and their relationship - it is NOT a novel about suicide.

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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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The Day After

My time over the last decade has felt like a non-stop effort to put together a giant puzzle made with millions of pieces. Some pieces seeming like they should fit where I want to put them, and yet never quite settling, the image it reveals skewed - off somehow.

Working through it I untangle the mess of pieces and try again, the puzzle finally coming together – the image beautiful and clear.

As life grows and moves around me, the ground shifts and I watch as the pieces jiggle loose. But I’m there to catch them, shifting them gently back into place before they can slide too far out of their proper place.

Suddenly an earthquake hits… an event of such a strong magnitude that I can’t even react before the table is thrown violently and the pieces are scattered around the room, chunks of a picture that I can’t even remember. Desperately I search around me, looking for fragments… but it’s confusing and the room becomes dark, ad although I know that the puzzle still exists… I can’t find it anywhere. I don’t know who or what I am. I can’t decipher the patch of puzzle that I put together two decades ago, from the one that I most recently began to work on. It’s disconnected, jumbled, and senseless.

I’m Alice, thrown into wonderland. The lights are bright, but the world is hazy. Everything is nonsense, and nothing feels ‘right’.

Slowly the lights come back on and I grab a section of the puzzle. I throw it onto the table haphazardly and cling to that tiny portion of a picture, knowing that it is right, and it is real.

One by one I gather more of the pieces, the sections still scattered, loose pieces here, there, and everywhere.

As the collection grows on the table I can now see more of the picture, but once again it is jaded, messy, and skewed.

I want to put it all together, go back to where I was… just move forward one more step and forget about what happened..

But I can’t. As I try to put two small sections together, I notice that the corner of one piece is chipped, and another is bent. In my haste to try and understand the collapse, I have trampled pieces… sometimes entire sections becoming broken.

As my awareness builds I can see the damage. Things that I have done to change the picture that cannot be undone… they might be healed, mended, glued, taped, or fixed… but they will never be the same.

That thought alone sends a wave of shock down my spine and I can feel myself shaking, the entire puzzle table threatening to spill again… the thought of repairing what was broken overwhelming.

This is the hardest part of a mental breakdown.

The day after.

It's Today.

It's like starting from scratch while the world continues as though nothing happened... because to them, it didn't. Not in the same way, or the same form. They watched the earthquake as it hit... as though from a theatre, me an actor - causing emotions to rise and swell, fear and anxiety to take hold as they watch the scene play out, not knowing what I will do, or if I will even find the light to go on. Pieces flew from the stage, hitting the audience as they landed... effecting them in a ripple effect. The brokenness extending, damaging beyond my reach. I've fallen behind... lost time... lost days, and hours (and in the past, even weeks). I feel out of place, alone, isolated... lost in a world of time and difference and choices.

I know I will rebuild... I know I will return to where I was. I know that I will have to change some habits, build new ones, re-learn myself. I will have to apologize, and I will have to accept. I will have to make choices. But for now... it's quiet. It's understanding the destruction, the triggers, the path. It's becoming myself again... simply finding the pieces and not worrying about putting them all back together today. It's nothing, and it's everything. Once again, I'm no longer the same and I will have to relearn the new path that I have to take to recover.

This is where I'm at.

This is the journey. 

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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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Chaos, Emotion, and A Glimpse

Emotions are a tricky thing.

A little over three years ago I felt okay. I was still struggling with a bipolar diagnosis and finding my own unique degree of “normal”… but I felt like overall, I was starting to get things together. Life was busy and I was keeping up – full time job, four busy kids, the entire family moving every direction with activities, and a marriage that needed work but that was dedicated. It wasn’t perfect, but I did feel like I was starting to get a handle on things – that if I worked a little harder, and pushed through the rough times a little stronger, than it would be okay… I would conquer the madness.

Even though I knew it was stressful and a struggle to move, I never would have imagined that just a few short months after moving I would find myself in one of the darkest places that I had ever been – in essence the start of a roller coaster of a recovery journey. The emotions that floated around my head had always been extreme, but as I began to travel a new road, research my illness’s, and take off the many masks that I had always worn; I found that I no longer knew how to handle anything – let alone the emotions that ran rampant through my brain, fluctuating with little warning, sending me down twisting paths that always felt like they were trying to trip me up.

 

Three years ago I posted on Facebook, trying to make my life seem exciting and good – showing off our new home that we were settling into and bragging about the beauty of living in the country; I was trying to make it seem like an adventure that I fully intended to not only participate in, but to enjoy. And yet just yesterday, I found myself curled up in the corner – struggling to breathe as I battled emotions so intense that I felt like I had been propelled right back to the beginning of my journey. As I fought through my emotions and worked through the steps that I have learned to bring myself back to the present I grew overwhelmed – upset, frustrated, and confused – over both how far I have come, and how far I have left to go.

Just yesterday, I found myself wondering if it was worth it… if I would ever be the vision of “normal” that I have spent years aiming to be.

And then I was okay again. My mood bounced back up. I smiled… I cuddled… I played with my kids… I felt hope and motivation. I felt good – even if it was only for a brief few minutes before the chaos resumed inside my head.

And throughout the day I used up my strength – my inner monologues and my conscience fighting amongst itself. I used up my patience and my own understanding – I used up my own pool of excess emotion to propel myself through dinner, through conversation, and through the evening with the family. By the time that bedtime arrived, my head hurt and my brain would not shut down. Things people said – the way that I reacted – the things that I did and felt and said and saw… it all replayed on repeat. My emotions swirled back up and as the exhaustion settled in, I wasn’t sure that I could bother to repeat the steps and the process to calm myself down and think rationally.

And the worst part is – sometimes I question it all.

Nights like tonight, where I can’t sleep and my brain works non-stop, I wonder if it’s worth it to keep moving forward on this spiralling pathway that I’ve chosen. I want healing. I want recovery. I want to be able to say that I did it… I conquered those thoughts… those ideas… those reactions. I want to be able to say that I have no more darkness in me, and that medications and therapy and a lot of work has helped to restore my brain to some semblance of “normal”. I know that tomorrow I will mask it again and I know that I will pretend that I am okay as I work through more of my “stuff”. I will smile and make nice, I will socialise, I will bring up normalcy and stigma, and I will talk about fighting and winning against mental health.

But the truth is; emotions are not easy – and fixing chemical imbalances and learned behaviours and reactions, is more difficult than anyone will ever admit to.

Because the truth is hard to admit.

It is never easy to say that you are struggling and that you feel like a failure.

It is never easy to say “I’m not okay” or “I’m suicidal today”. Stigma is everywhere – in the world, in our friends, in our homes, and in our family. Our loved ones become numb to our pain or our confusion – our constantly heightened sense of emotion and our inability to deal with life in an appropriate way. Compassion fatigue allows those who we trust with our baggage to become desensitised – to possibly say the right things but without meaning, or to simply ignore our struggles and our victories.

And so we return to the places we came from – hiding the truth and masking our journey with quotes and inspirational sayings. We pretend that although it may be tough – that we are fighters and that the worst of the journey is over, just a few small hurdles left to clear.

My emotions are not okay. My own emotions might never be fully okay or one hundred percent manageable.

After years of working on controlling them, on doing recovery work, and on researching therapies that can help me process and see things differently – I can honestly say that some days I feel worse, being aware of and in a position where I am expected to be able to redirect those emotions, and process things in a more acceptable manner.

A little less than three years ago, I tried to jump off of a waterfall and my life was saved by two police officers who pulled me to safety as I let go over the ledge. I was confused and unable to handle my emotional state – I was depressed and while it was an intentional act, I was also unaware of the depth of my own state of mind, and the way that my brain processed things differently. I wish I could say that being in that place, was the worst day that I have experienced.

But the truth is, it wasn’t.

Some days are utterly unbearable and there are many days where taking my life still seems like an appealing option… a better option than living in this constant fear, pain, and chaos.

But then I remember the good days. I remember the small victories that I am the only one who has noticed – the way that I didn’t go to bed one night feeling like there had been a massive war inside my head… or the way that I controlled myself in an overwhelming situation… or the time I set a date for myself to make a decision, and then I let it pass by. There are victories every day. There are reminders and support systems and people who might not ever “get it”, but who are there. There are the days that I force myself to talk about it – the good and the bad – the victories and the struggles, so that other people might not feel alone any more… or so that someone else might see the battle that I face. There are the days where I say I will not give up – and there are the days where I cannot do much more than sit and pretend to be okay. There are days where compassion fatigue and struggles of their own prevent my friends and family from checking in or from being able to help when I ask… and then there are the days where they are there – a touch, a hug, a tea, a friendly “hello”, and I hadn’t even thought that they noticed.

Three years ago I had no idea what I was doing. I was simply trying to survive in the best way that I knew how – with no knowledge, no true support, and no ability to identify what was really going on in my head.

Today – I still feel the same way a lot of the time. But emotions are tricky, the mind

can be a complicated maze to navigate, and recovery is never a straight pathway. So today – while I don’t understand, and while I have chosen to stop trying to navigate my head for a while, I will talk about it. I will share a bit of the chaos – I will share a bit of my life. And sometimes, sharing a small glimpse into someone else’s head, is the very best thing that you can do.

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Recovery in the Quiet Times

Today I’m taking a quiet afternoon to myself. During the process of self-discovery and recovery, where I have spent hours upon hours trying to understand my own thoughts, emotions, actions, and reactions – I have discovered that I need space. I need time. I need to breathe.

When my husband and I met, we were in high school. Soon after we began dating, our first son came along – followed by three more children, college, and careers. Life spiraled faster than we could see coming and we embraced it. From sun up until sun down we worked – we went to school – we played with our kids – we paid bills – we rushed around from one thing to the next. There was rarely any time for anything else. We were young and we had a family that depended on us.

During this time, my battle with mental illness was just beginning to pick up its pace. There would be many days where sleep was an illusion, fighting became my go-to reaction, and life didn’t make sense. Pushing through, neither my husband nor I really understood why we did the things that we did, how to change, or even what was wrong.

Of course, life simply can’t continue on forever in a tangled, confusing, chaotic mess and so when we crashed – we crashed hard. Both of us faced demons from our past, triggers from the present, and emotional/mental/physical problems that neither of us was prepared to handle. We nearly gave up; on ourselves, on each other, and on our marriage. We didn’t deal with things well – our problems spiraled, my mental health became a severe mental illness and I almost lost my life.

Since then, life has changed for us.

Thankfully, we have been able to establish an incredible support system and have opened up to friends and family along the way. Through our journey – both together and individually we have discovered things that we couldn’t have even begun to comprehend before this point. Things in our life – the way that we think, feel, and act are changing – and as our knowledge grows and we spend hours in self discovery – we continue to find better ways to move through life – both separately and together.

For me, one thing that I have learned – is that I need ‘down time’. Without down time my mind becomes muddled – call it chemical, genetic, or a product of life – it is something that I have learned is vital to my ability to function well.

Personally – I find this frustrating.

It isn’t that I don’t like life – in fact I do very much like living a full life. I like to go out. I like to spend time with friends and family. I like to explore new places, things, and people.

I also like to be alone.

Sometimes I need to be alone.

Sometimes I need to take a break in the middle of the week – I need to sit on the couch with my feet up and a book in my hand. Sometimes I need to close my eyes and have a short nap. Sometimes I need to literally sit and do nothing.

And yes. Sometimes I get frustrated with myself. Sometimes I wonder why I can’t have endless amounts of energy like my husband seems to have. Sometimes I wonder why I can’t function in the same way that everyone around me seems to be able to – pushing through and just faking it.

But I can’t. Believe me, I’ve tried.

I have spent countless days in misery as my mind became overwhelmed with pain and fear and anger and confusion. I have spent time in the presence of people where I have broken down, unable to continue on a conversation because I have put myself into a situation that I cannot handle at that time. I have been to the point of suicide because I simply can’t do life anymore. I have felt like my brain has been cracking down the middle, fighting with itself – two sides of the canyon – one side yelling at me to be normal, to keep going, to just ‘suck it up’, while the other side of me begins to see things, hallucinate, become unstable, paranoid, or simply dark.

I have fought through instability, mania, depression, and borderline rage. I have struggled to find level – and I have struggled to keep myself from falling down a rabbit hole more times than I can count. I have spent more time than I care to remember in hospitals, in counselling, in groups, and in study – trying to understand why I just can’t function ‘normally’.

And finally, I have spent time fighting. Fighting with myself. Fighting with others. Trying to explain to them – what I can’t even explain to myself. I have spent hours crying because I can’t do what I desperately want to do. I have spent time debating, explaining, and eventually silent, because others in my life simply don’t get it. I have felt guilt over relaxing, and fear over a fight that I was sure to come, if I spent those moments quietly – if I cancelled plans, or if I just said no.

But now, after years of work. After walking a recovery journey that fills me both with pride and frustration, I finally have the confidence to say enough is enough. It doesn’t matter. I don’t question a diabetic that needs insulin. I don’t question a cancer patient that needs rest. I don’t question a person struggling with an illness on why they need time to recover. I respect it. I respect them. And I respect myself.

There will always be people in my life who don’t understand this need I have for time, space, and silence. But I don’t need them to understand… now that I understand, I get it. Not everybody needs the same thing that I do – and not everyone is going to see what not having these things will do to me. And that’s okay.

I’m okay with that.  And that, is how I know how far I’ve come.

That is how I know – that regardless of whether or not other people may understand my actions towards my recovery and myself, I know that I am doing what I need to do – with confidence, with guidance, with support, and with determination. These are the things that I have learned. These are the things that will ultimately ensure my success.

So now, I’m going to go sit quietly in the corner of my couch, my kids sent outside to play in the sunshine, my husband puttering around the house, and a book in my hands. No justification. No fighting. Just doing something that I desperately needed to do today, to avoid a break. Just being me.

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Two Roads to One Destination

Whispered truths.

Admissions among friends with the clause that nobody can know... or requests that they don't say anything to a certain person or a certain group of people.

Fear of judgement. 

Fear of the unknown. 

Fear of failure. 

I want to say that I am stable on my road to recovery. I want to write about how I embrace myself and all the quirks that come with who I am and the way that I think, act, or feel. I want to say something profound - some truth that will be earth shaking. I want to be solid in my thinking - to say that it is all  a straight pathway as I navigate my journey. 

But I can't. Because I'm not. 

I still have good days and bad days. Lately? It's been manageable and I have seen some major improvements in my thoughts and my behaviors. I have been sorting out my routine and my life, sticking with meds and putting in the work required to live in stability. 

But it doesn't mean that my journey is over or easy at all. In fact - it's almost the opposite. 

The further down the road to recovery that I travel, the more I see from those around me - the expectations that once I'm good - I'm good. An unspoken agreement that I might be able to slip back a step or two, but to completely fall down, is unacceptable. The looks and whispers and judgement that I see and/or hear when I say that I am having a difficult time and when I say that I need to do something different than what is acceptable to my friends or my family.

It comes from everywhere and it isn't deliberate. It simply isn't understood. 

I have a diagnosed mental health condition. My brain might never fire correctly on it's own... it might mean that I will travel a lifetime of medications, counselling, and constant self monitoring. It might mean that I will slip and fall and need help getting back up. It might mean that one day I will not appear to be the person that I appeared to be the day before.

Right now I'm doing somewhat okay... and I truly hope that I remain stable and level and in control. 

But I am also aware of the possibility that I might fall. I am aware of the fact that I might need to take some extra steps to ensure that I keep going on the correct path - even when it causes you to look twice at me.

Sometimes I make decisions based on my mental health - something that I don't usually admit for fear of being misunderstood or of being seen as weak, or excusing behavior. Sometimes I feel close to my breaking point - about to slip and fall, hanging on by a thread because of a fear of doing something that I need to do to maintain stability. 

It's a constant truth. It's a constant secret. 

Recently I made a big decision in my life, that really brought out this fear in me. I gave very few people the real reason that I made the decision that I did - bringing in other factors in my decision and making those the focal points. I avoided the truth... and the truth was that it was something that I needed to maintain my stability. I could feel myself falling down this rabbit hole, spinning wildly and trying to hang on for dear life. But I could feel my grip slipping and in the end I made the decision that I felt was best for me, my health, and for my family. 

But I didn't tell people that. Even those closest to me. I made other excuses and gave other reasons, but I didn't just come out and say that my health required me to make that choice. And it was because of this fear. This hidden feeling of judgement within me. 

Is it real? The judgement, the looks, the lack of understanding?

I can say yes with certainty. It is something that I have discussed at lengths, in conversations with family and friends that have left me vulnerable and afraid, worthless and like a failure. Conversations that have expressed frustration and impatience with me for being the way that I am, and not being able to just do what everyone else does. Conversations that have left me questioning who I am, what I'm capable of, and whether or not the people in my life are better off without me. 

I wish that I could say that I didn't care about the opinions of others or about their judgement and their misunderstanding of me and my situation. I wish that I could say that the looks, the comments, and the hurtful words slid right off me, never sticking, never bothering me. Although I try to let that be true, it isn't always the case.

Thankfully I'm in a place now where I can try and fight that fear. That need to whisper and keep my reasoning quiet. I am in a place where I can speak up and fight for what I need to maintain a stability in my mind. 

But sometimes it still hurts. Sometimes it is still difficult to explain. Sometimes it doesn't even make sense. 

But I can walk away knowing that I am doing all that I need to do to stay sane and to stay level. I can stand tall and firm and know that just because those around me might not understand, it doesn't mean that I am wrong, or weak, or making excuses. 

I can also try and raise awareness. I can stop the whispering and talk in a firm voice. I can say what I need and why I need it. I can show those around me that I am strong and capable despite my illness. I can take care of myself and ignore the fear of being different and of being judged. 

I can stand out. I can stand firm. I can stop the whispers, the lies, and the secrets. I can make having a diagnosis and living my life in a way that works for me, okay. 

Because I am okay. I am fighting, and I am working, and I am changing. My diagnosis does not define me, but it does help me find the pathway that works for me, sometimes, there is more than one way to live, more than one choice that can be made.

Sometimes there are two roads to one destination and while one might look different, or frightening or simply strange; sometimes it is the best path for your journey.  

 

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Labels, Labels, Everywhere

Woman. Mother. Wife.

Bipolar. Borderline. Psychotic. Unstable.

Balanced. Stable. Healthy.

Unhinged. Wired. Manic. Crazy.

Happy. Sad. Up. Down. Chaotic.

Overwhelmed. Exhausted. Scarred. Incapable.

Me.  As I am.

It's amazing how many different words float around in my head on a daily basis - contradicting thoughts, emotions, and definitions. It isn't that I try to label myself. It isn't that I want to label myself. It just is what it is.

The fear wells up in my head on a daily basis - the thought that I'm sick and that I'm not complete - the idea that I'm missing an essential piece of who I am.

I want to define myself - I want to know exactly who I am.

But the problem with that... is that I truly don't know from moment to moment what that will look like or even why I crave it.

But I do.

Maybe it's the thought that I will always be unwell, that I will always have the threat of another breakdown looming over my head. Much like an alcoholic will always be an alcoholic - I will always have Bipolar Disorder, I will always have a history of being unstable. Medications can help to keep me level. Counselling and recovery programs can help me get to the root cause of my problems, they can help me analyse my behavior and show me what I do and why I do it. But as it gets easier to address my issues and even easier to recognize my own faults, triggers, fears, and episodes - it also makes it more constant... giving me an awareness unlike anything I have ever known before.

And I look around me and I see people - everyone with their own label that I can see them trying to overcome and I wonder if I will simply replace one label - one problem - with another.

And I see online - articles about identifying the Borderline in your life - telling spouses, family, and friends of those with the disease about the horrible things that a person with a Borderline personality will do. I see the other side of the argument... pages and articles written by those with Borderline, Bipolar, Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, OCD or any number of Disorders begging those in our lives to understand - to love us anyways... to be patient and kind and loving... we don't want to be this way.

And then I flip through more social media. And I see the meme's... the ones that say that you can change your life - you can be whoever you want to be - you are stronger than anything - only you can make yourself happy - only you can love yourself - only you can define yourself.

And that's the thing - there's truth to all of it. A little bit in each. But it isn't as simple as that either.

I give myself labels every day.... some days I feed off of a word - a diagnosis. Some days I spew that word out, that label with hatred - swearing that I am more than that. Some days I just feel resigned to it. I am this. I am that. I am good. I am bad. I am sick. I am healthy. It is my fault. It isn't my fault. Some days I just wish it was clear.... I wish that labels could be stuck to our foreheads when we wander outside - so everyone could see what we ourselves feel like - so that everyone could see that every person out there has something that they are insecure about - something that they doubt - some way that they see themselves or feel about themselves.

Some days I wish it were like that - but only with positive things.

Photographer. Friend. Child of God.

Strong. Overcomer. Courageous.

Authentic. Honest. Friend.

And I wonder - why can't it be. Why can't we wear our labels proudly? Some days we are not going to feel positive, but maybe - maybe if we remember the positives a little more often, they'll shine through a little stronger - overpower the negative a little bit more. Maybe then our beauty will be the first thing we identify by and the first thing that someone else sees.

Maybe instead of the woman who tried to kill herself and that struggles with Depression and Bipolar and Borderline Personality... I will be the woman who is kind and thoughtful and empathetic and strong and courageous.

Some days I will fail at this. Some days, my own labels will overpower everything else and creep up on me and define me. But on the days where I am able - on the days I can say with pride - "my diagnosis doesn't define me" those days I will shine. Those days I will help erase stigma. Those days I will help another find hope. Those days will strengthen me. Those days will be the ones to propel me to keep going - to continue fighting - to continue talking.

Those are the good days. Those are what I want to define me in the end.

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To Those Who Have Stuck Around

I had always been the odd one out. Periods of isolation, enthusiasm, obsession, and short-lived friendships were normal for me. I thought it was just girl-drama – that nobody was really as close as those best friends that they portray on television. I didn’t realize or understand that my clique-jumping and inability to really get close to someone (without becoming obsessive, envious, or eventually angry) was really the early stages of my Borderline Personality Disorder rearing its head. I also didn’t realize that my hobby-jumping, sports switching, club shifting – followed by periods of doing nothing – were indications of Bipolar Disorder. To me, I was normal - I didn't understand why I wasn't like everyone else.

He’s been with me for seventeen years now. We have survived through the emotional roller-coaster – the turmoil, the ups, the downs, and the chaos; and some days I truly wonder how we made it.

It’s on these days when I sit and think about it, that I don’t really understand it at all. Don’t get me wrong – I love my husband with all of my heart, but I know that I am not an easy person to live with, and some days I am definitely not an easy person to love.

You see, I didn’t just wake up one day at twenty five years old, suddenly psychotic and breaking down – sick of life and unsure, and well, mentally ill. Looking back through work that I am doing, I can see the traits as they developed through my childhood and early adolescence. I can see peaks and valleys, I can look back on the skewed thinking and my alternate view of the world around me, and now that I know better, I can honestly say that that is where it all began. As the years went by and life became busy and hectic and stressful – triggers were found out and I came up and down and to the edge of the cliff mentally, several times before it all became too much, before I was finally unable to handle it myself, and before I finally began to get help.

Sometimes I was mean and angry – I yelled and I pushed my husband (and others I love) away. I didn’t know how to process things and it was the only defense that I knew and that I trusted. Other times, I was energetic and ambitious – my dreams were infinite and I could tackle the world around me… I was obsessive and perfect, my life looked like a happily ever after to those outside our little bubble. And then, then I would fall – depression would engulf me and our happy family was miserable. I would become isolated, disinterested, hateful, and self-loathing. Everything appeared blackened and I dragged my husband and a few select people through my darkened world as I contemplated life – but more often death. As I threatened suicide, ran from my home, slept in my car, placed myself in dangerous situations, and scared the hell out of people that I desperately wished could help me, but who didn’t know what to do.

And yet, they still loved me. They showed me kindness, forgiveness, patience, and overall love. Even on the days where I believed I couldn’t be loved, and that I didn’t deserve any of it – they stayed. They put up boundaries for their own safety. They stayed awake and stopped me from leaving the house. They called the police. They let me sleep on their couch. They talked to me. They didn’t doubt my heightened feelings. They tried everything that they could, and they kept me safe.

I know that some days were harder than others. I know that at times I drove my husband to the brink with worry for me. I know that some days, he (and others) had no idea what to do. I know that on days where I would disappear and they worried for my safety, they did what they had to – they continued on. They cared for the kids. They cared for my husband. They prayed for me. They confronted me. They took my anger and they made decisions in my best interest, sometimes against my own judgement.

I wish I could say that now that I am stable and on the right track, that things were easier. But that would be a lie. Because when the disease is in your head, in the way you think, react, and control situations, you can’t just turn it off. The work that I am doing helps. It has made a dramatic change in me and I can honestly say that I can handle more of my triggers, better than I ever have before.  But there are still days and moments when I know that I am difficult to say the least. I know that there are days when my husband wishes that I were ‘better’, and that I could just ‘stop’, the way that my brain works. I know that there are times when I do or say or fight for something and he wants to blame my mental health, because sometimes that is easier. I know that there are some days when he wishes there was no mental illness to blame. In other relationships, I know that others do not understand and I know that I still hurt others when I isolate myself or react badly to a trigger or situation.

Trust me. I know.

And I’m grateful. I am so very grateful that they try. I am grateful that they don’t give up, and that I don’t scare them away. I am grateful that they worry and that they check in on me. I am grateful that I am even a thought in their day.

And I am grateful to my husband. It isn’t easy to be married to someone with a mental illness, and we have definitely gone through some very rough times in our marriage, but we’re together… we’re struggling through the murky days and coming out to brighter ones… more often, longer lasting, and more vivid than we’ve ever known.

So on those days that you wonder if what you’re doing helps or if it's worth it, remember - we see it, we feel it… we just can’t always say thank you in the moment.

Keep reaching out to those you love. Keep the conversation going – when your loved one is doing well, ask how you can help when they’re not. Take time to make sure you are grounded, but know that your presence in their life is invaluable when they are struggling. They know it. They’re grateful.

I’m grateful.

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