The Power of Few. Who Are You Honest With? DEPRESSION.

I feel blessed to be part of the To Write Love On Her Arms (TWLOHA) Street Team. I get to read blogs, participate in discussions, do projects, and watch videos that a lot of people don't even realize are there. So, I want to share this video and discussion with you. If you would like to answer the questions in the comments, you are more than welcome to do so. I've learned that reaching out is one of the hardest things I've ever done; it's still hard. But let me encourage you - if you are struggling, reaching out is the absolute best thing you could ever do. You are not alone. You do not have to suffer in silence. You have a voice. A beautiful, marvelous voice that can be heard. Your story is important. You may not believe it right now, but it is.

I've bolded my own answers under the questions, and that will serve as my blog post today.

Jamie Tworkowski: Founder of To Write Love On Her Arms.  The Power of Few.

“The Power of Few.” Discussion Guide

Although the theme of TEDxUCSD was “The Power of One, the Power of Many,” our founder Jamie Tworkowski chose to talk about the importance of living a life where we let a few key characters into our stories. 

Below are some discussion questions we’ve put together in hopes of sparking conversations in response to Jamie’s talk. We hope you’ll watch the video and then work through these—on your own, with your roommates, during a UChapter meeting, at your work retreat, in your living room. More than anything, we hope you are inspired to begin living your story with a few characters by your side. 

1. “And you need to let somebody know you. You need to have a conversation over coffee or over a meal...You need to be honest with someone. You need to let somebody see your questions and your pain and your struggles.”

Who are you truly honest with? What keeps you from being honest about the difficult things in your life? 

I have learned to be truly honest with myself, most importantly. Too many times would I just tell myself I was fine, tucking away the shame and guilt of feeling so depressed that I wanted to dig a hole in the backyard and bury myself in it; the shame of feeling like I was going crazy, because I struggle not only with simple depression, but bipolar disorder with severe depression and psychotic behavior (self-injury/self-harm). I am also completely honest with God, as if He doesn't know what I'm going through or thinking at any given moment, anyway. My faith is important to me and although not all people believe in the same things that I believe in, my core beliefs are a strong glue that holds me together. When I started being honest with other people about the difficult things in my life, it was challenging at first. Stigma attached to mental illness held me back quite a bit in the beginning, especially when I was officially diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2012. I was called crazy, too much to handle; I was told that I used my mental illness as an excuse to not have to cope with life and that I just needed to snap out of it. If only it were that easy. If only I could just pull myself together and not feel my feelings, and not think my thoughts. If only. Then I realized I wasn't alone and that it was actually quite "normal" to NOT be able to snap out of it. That's why they call it an illness. An invisible illness, at that. I'd been familiar with To Write Love On Her Arms way before my official diagnosis. I believe I first heard of TWLOHA in 2008, when I started my road to recovery out of drug addiction and was dealing with self-injuring behaviors then. Let me tell you, struggling with those feelings and everything else going on in your mind and not knowing WHY yet is pure torture. It brings a whole knew meaning to feeling crazy. This organization, after researching and learning what it was all about, hearing the stories, seeing all of the people that struggle with the same things I do, began to pull me out of a shell I didn't even know I was in. There were other people who got so enraged on the inside that the only relief they could get was by creating pain on the outside? Yes. I was no longer standing in the middle of a crowded room screaming among deaf ears. Now, I am able to share honestly with anyone and everyone I come across. I began openly sharing in groups through a 12-step program called Celebrate Recovery and have given my full testimony twice. I will be giving it again in 2015, in front of at least 5 times the number of people I'm accustomed to speaking to. I run this blog, as well as have a page on Facebook called Ramblings of a Bipolar Sober Chick, and I can honestly say that I am an open book. There is no longer anything that keeps me from being honest.

What steps can you take to begin to be honest?

Although I, myself, have learned to be honest, my biggest point of advice to those who haven't been able to do so (and believe me, I totally understand how hard it is when we risk ridicule and facing a judgmental world, where some do not even try to understand depression or any of its counterparts, or view it as a real illness), is to reach out. I realize I am repeating myself, but it's so important. Find someone you know is struggling with something similar and just talk. You don't have to dive right in and say, "hey, let's talk about depression today," but just talk about how you are doing and what you are feeling. You might be surprised at what you end up having in common with someone. Talking to others has a power behind it. It makes you stronger without you initially realizing it. As you grow stronger, the more you are able to be honest. The more honest you are, the more you realize that maybe, just maybe, you might be able to give that guilt and shame a good swift kick in the butt, and it is there that you experience true freedom.

2. When Kevin Durant gave his MVP acceptance speech, he took the stage along with his entire team. It was as if he was saying, “This is my story. This is my real story. Not the impressive one, not the public one. This isn’t just about me. These are the people - these are the characters in my story.” 

Who are the characters in your story? Who would you thank in your MVP speech? 

The characters in my story are definitely my mom, my children, and many friends in Celebrate Recovery, as well as other close friends, old and new.

I would thank my mom, because even though she wasn't there for me much growing up, she took a very bold step and straightened her life up 4 years ago, getting clean and strong, and becoming the mother I'd been waiting for, for 36 years. Thank you, mom, for caring about yourself enough to leap boldly into the unknown future and coming out like a champion, beautiful and radiant. Thank you for, even in your darkest hours, somehow showing me who Jesus is so that I could grow close to Him. Thank you for becoming someone that I love to talk to, being someone that I miss dearly because we are now so far apart, and for the shoulder I know I can cry on if I need to. Thank you, mom, for becoming the mother I know I can count on through thick and thin, who will always stand beside me and support me no matter what is going on in either one of our lives. 

I would thank my children for forgiving me for the mistakes I have made as a mother. Thank you, my 21-year-old son, for showing me what boundaries look like. Thank you, my 18-year-old daughter, for showing me what grace and determination look like. Thank you, my 17-year-old daughter, for showing me what beauty and strength look like. Thank you, my 14-year-old son, for showing me what joy and devotion look like at such a young age. 

I would thank my closest friends in Celebrate Recovery, those that I've gone through the 12 steps with and those who are in my small group who practically know every single thing about me and my life, for always holding me accountable when I seem like I'm slipping away; for not letting me completely isolate myself on weeks when I've wanted to the most; for always making sure that I'm doing okay, but at the same time giving me honest space when I truly need it.

I would thank my other friends, some of whom I've known much of my life, yet never had a clue as to what really went on behind closed doors until a few years ago when I began talking about who I really was. Thank you for not running away. Thank you for saying the words I love you when I desperately need to hear them. Thank you for being my voice during times when I felt like I had no voice of my own.

3. “Every good story has a few characters that are trying to figure something out, that are trying to journey through something, work through something, overcome something.” 

What does your story look like right now? What are you trying to journey through or overcome? 

My story; right now my story feels like complete and utter chaos, honestly. I can probably attribute much of that to bipolar disorder, itself, but there are many circumstantial factors that contribute, as well. I recently overcame homelessness after a really unexpected rough patch hit me in May of 2014. I was in the hospital with a heart condition, as well as stabilizing my bipolar disorder, when I received a text from my then-fiance telling me never to come home again. I won't go into details about the reasoning he had for his decision to do this, because it isn't appropriate for this question. Hearsay never belongs in a personal answer. I will say that he was a recovering alcoholic that began drinking again, and combine that with anger issues, and it painted a very nasty picture that took its time developing over a 3-year period. Regardless of his reasons, it was the worst way to find out I had no home anymore, and even worse to know that I was leaving a hospital jobless, car-less, and homeless. My high school best friend lent me her floor by her front door for 5 months, while I acquired a job and began working, doing the best I could to work toward building my own life again. As of the middle of September of 2014, I have been living in a very small room in an extended-stay hotel. I call it my apartment, because to me, that's what it is. I'm living on my own and accomplishing what I was sincerely afraid I would never be able to do by myself again, even though I've been on my own for years before. My bipolar disorder had been very crippling the last couple of years, as doctors tried to find a proper and working regimen of medication for me, and other circumstances of life did not help the crippling at all. I'm struggling with illness again, and need such things as a lymph node biopsy done and ongoing medical care, and because I am uninsured I have to pay everything out of pocket. I barely make it financially from one week to the next, as I pay for my room by the week, but I'm still here and I'm still doing it, pain and all. When I say pain, I mean both physically and emotionally.

I am trying to overcome the heartbreak of losing someone that I still love from the deepest parts of me, but I have to keep reminding myself that I cannot fix him. He has to fix himself. He has to learn to love himself before he can truly love anyone else.  He has to treat his body with respect if he is to ever honestly treat anyone else with genuine respect, and not just because he thinks he is a "good person," in general.

I am trying to overcome severe financial strain and keeping a roof over my head, while trying to get various medical diagnoses handled, with the possibility of cancer clouding my vision.

I am trying to overcome depression setting in, like a raging storm just beyond the eye of a hurricane. I am trying to overcome fleeting thoughts of hurting myself, knowing it will only be temporary relief or gratification if I were to do so. Hurting myself on the outside while trying to kill the thing on the inside. I am trying to overcome the feeling of wanting to throw everything in this small room out of my third floor window. 

I am trying to overcome the physical pain and push myself through it, so I can sit in this chair and work, since I work from home and sit 8 hours straight. I am trying to overcome the aspects of bipolar disorder that distract me at least 75% of time while I am trying to work, making it difficult to earn a living where I get paid by production and not by the hour.

I am trying to overcome massive loads of fear of the unknown.

4. “It’s our belief that you deserve that; you deserve some other people who step in and remind you that your story is not only worth living but worth fighting for.” 

Why is your story worth living? Who helps you fight for your story? 

What has made my story worth living is the simple fact that I have helped others. Every experience I have had or situation I have had to go through, from childhood sexual abuse, to drug addiction, to emotional and physical abuse as an adult, to bipolar disorder, all the way to trying to take my own life - I have met at least one person from each struggle I've had that is going through the same thing, or has gone through it, and they need someone who understands. Many times much more than one person. They need to know they are not alone. They need to hear my story and say, "Wow. I thought I was the only person who did that exact same thing." or "I never realized anyone else had gone through that before." Hearing, "you are an inspiration" or "your story has helped me so much" is enough. It's just enough to make it all worth living for. Do I still feel like giving up sometimes? Of course. Illness doesn't leave us alone forever just because we feel like we are standing on top of a mountain for a while. I have a handful of friends who truly step in to fight for my story. The members that have accumulated on my personal blog/support page that I created are amazing people, and we all fight for each other's stories. I believe that TWLOHA helps fight for my story by constantly reminding me that it is important. God definitely fights for my story.

5. “We believe there’s such a need for people who remind us that we deserve to be loved, we deserve to be healthy, we deserve whatever help we need. I hope you have that.”

What do you deserve? What can you do to get that? 

I deserve to be loved. I deserve to be cared for. I deserve to be treated with respect. I deserve to be viewed as a human being and not as a waste of space who only finds anything and everything to cry about. I deserve to be treated like any other person who has an illness that CAN be seen. I deserve loyalty. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to thrive and not just survive this life. I deserve to be told that I'm worth the fight. I deserve a chance to show the world that I am somebody. I deserve to be reminded that I am beautiful.

To get these things, I will continue being here for other people, and I will continue being who I am. Who I am should be enough. 

What do the people in your life deserve? How will you help to remind them?

The people in my life deserve the same things that I deserve. I will always remind others that they are worth so much more than any mistakes they've made or any name they've been called, or any illness they struggle with, mental or physical. I will remind others that I love them, as I can only speak for myself. I will remind others that they deserve peace, grace, and happiness in this life, and most importantly I will remind them that their story is important.

IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE ABOUT MY CURRENT STORY AND CONSIDER HELPING, CLICK HERE.

Dear Depression: You Can Leave Now.

Depression takes a lot out of you. Not just emotionally, but physically. My eyes are literally trying to close on me as I type this, but I need to get it done for my own sake. I've really been battling depression for a couple of weeks now. Like, the low kind that comes from bipolar disorder. Yes, there really is a difference. I'm tired and frustrated, and discouraged, because of the physical struggles I am going through. The possibility of cancer returning does scare me.  The fact that my CEA cancer tumor marker level is elevated does make me angry. The simple truth that I don't have enough financially yet to make it to that next specialist appointment (and struggling to keep a roof over my head simultaneously) does cause me to just sit and stare at walls for hours on end sometimes.

Mostly, I just concentrate on breathing. I know that sounds a little weird, but I feel like if I DON'T concentrate on breathing sometimes, I might just stop altogether. Not intentionally, of course. No ideations here. Just exhaustion. Pure, total exhaustion.

I've definitely been crying more than usual, which actually makes me cry even more, because I hate that I'm crying so much in the first place. What a silly little vicious cycle I put myself through, albeit not on purpose. Depression is like floating in the water, just beneath the surface, and while you are there, holding your breath, you can see everyone else just above the water, walking, talking, breathing, smiling, laughing, moving.. and you can't move at all. You are in a completely different world, and though you aren't physically drowning, you feel like your mind is. You choke, spit out metaphorical water in your mind, gasp for air. You have that special kind of hearing that only occurs while under water, like you are in a tunnel and everything around you is just a muffled echo. You know that the sounds you hear should mean something, something you can make sense of, but none of it makes any sense at all.

This is where my mind falls apart. It goes from a whole brain of depression and just explodes, and all the little pieces go in every opposite direction you could possible imagine.  Thoughts are too many, too deep, and unwanted.  I struggle to pull it all back together, but the more I fight, the faster the pieces of my brain spin, like little spin tops set into motion on a thin sheet of glass. The fight is in me, it's just sleeping. Much like I should be right now.

That's what I'm going to do. Get some sleep. Worrying is getting me nowhere. Fear is a prison. Living is a decision I've already made to do. Dreaming is hoped for. Sucking is optional.

Don't suck. Just be Batman.

(yes, this is my arm... after back flow from an IV infiltration during hospitalization. #staystrong)

What Do You Want From Me?

I have made a lot of mistakes in my life. I remember them, you don't have to keep reminding me. You may remind me directly or you may remind me indirectly, like a screwed up ninja bouncing around in the dark leaving subtle (and not-so-subtle) hints everywhere that I'll never be good enough for you. I'll never be good enough for anyone.

I don't believe that. I believe I AM good enough. But, damn. What is the breaking point, exactly, between my past and my present that certain people just cannot, or refuse to, see? I constantly hear people say, "leave the past and your mistakes behind you, you can do nothing about them, you can only concentrate on today." I wonder if those people have any clue whatsoever how difficult a task that is when you have a few monkeys swinging by on branches constantly throwing "past poo" in your face. Swinging through life on branches coated with feces of the past is a monumental task at times. No, all the time. Personally, I'm sick to death of it. It makes me wonder if ANYTHING I do matters at all.

Please stop the world. I want to get off now.

It's only Monday and already I feel like my week has been crushed. My kids mean the world to me, and even though only 2 of them are talking to me right now, when one of those two is enthusiastic about having a relationship with me and asks for my help specifically with something that is special and important to her, it brightens my entire life. My circumstances make it difficult for me to get around and get certain things done, but I literally do everything in my power to make my kids happy, including walking the 5 miles to or from their dad's house, if need be. Turns out, I'm not even "allowed" to do that.

Want to know what a heart of gold looks like from the outside of a body that belongs to a beautiful strawberry blonde 18-year-old? There you go. To say that my daughter is amazing would be the understatement of the decade. She has been through so much, and continues to struggle, in her life; but the way she deals with her struggles astounds me. She doesn't let her Aniridia get in her way. Not if she can help it, anyway. She faces adversity head-on. Her compassion for others overwhelms me completely. I have watched this girl spend more money on other people simply because the desire of her heart is to see the ones she loves happy, than I've ever seen her spend on herself. She's completely unselfish, has more love than she probably knows what to do with, is an inspiration to more people that she probably realizes, and always, ALWAYS gives of herself without expecting anything in return, yet I know she has a yearning to be loved; and she is. She is loved so much. I'm biased, of course. I'm mommy. I mean, what mom wouldn't love a child as incredible as this one? Actually, sadly there are some pretty shitty moms out there. I'm not perfect AT ALL, and definitely far from a perfect mom, but no one can ever say I don't love my children. Even in the dadgum middle of my biggest and most harsh mistakes, I've proven I love my children in ways that many parents, or people, will ever know or understand.

Important note: I DON'T CARE IF YOU UNDERSTAND. I DON'T CARE IF YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. I'M RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT I LIVE AND HOW I EDUCATE YOU. I AM NEVER, EVER RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU DO AND DON'T UNDERSTAND.

Last year, she would leave me notes all over the bathroom mirrors when I was still living at the farm. I forgive you for ruining and using up my favorite red lipstick. How could I possibly be mad about lipstick when my mirror says "Best Mommy Ever" written by an 18-year-old? I wish you could see the amazing stuff she wrote to the right of that. I have no idea what happened to that picture. I wish I did. It was the most encouraging message she ever could have left me. I'm sure it's wiped clean now that I'm gone. It was all about not giving up and that my scars mean something, especially to God. I can feel my eyes burning just remembering that moment when I saw it for the first time. She had already left to go back to her dad's house.

Her dad. One of the biggest reasons I am writing this right now. I don't bash. I don't like to bash. I will write about what I don't understand, though, and at the moment, that's quite a bit. I'm boggled, if you will.

My daughter has something very special planned for someone this weekend. There are several food items that she wants to prepare. She knows I'm creative and also love to cook, and do a darn good job at it if I must say so myself, so who did she ask to help her on Friday night with these things? Me. Unfortunately, I don't have a vehicle at the moment. However, I will find a way to get around, even if it's my own 2 feet, in order to make things happen. Originally, she was going to come over here so I could help her cook things. She can be dropped off. Our concern is getting her back home. Then we thought of the possibility of me making my way over there, by whatever means necessary, to help her get this stuff done. Apparently, neither will happen. 1) Her dad doesn't want to pick her up from here when we are done. Not can't; won't. 2) I can't go over there because her dad and step-mom won't be there and I can't be there when they aren't.

Are you kidding me right now? Am I being Punk'd? No, I'm not being Punk'd. I'm evidently just still in a vicious cycle of someone else's narcissism that I that had improved and was just bitch-slapped via text from my daughter (who felt really bad about having to tell me that) by someone that is so self-righteous, that I've got to be going to hell if I'm really that much of the bottom feeder that I just got portrayed as. I'm still reeling a little bit and trying to come up with SOME kind of valid reason why this was just said. I have nothing. If I recall correctly, I've been at the house plenty of times when they weren't there, even BABYSAT THE CHILD THEY HAVE TOGETHER FOR THEM, and it's never been a problem. Why suddenly is it a problem now? I'm more confused than a chameleon in a bag of Skittles. My imperfectness has just become too much? Afraid that I'm actually better than you in some small way? That sounded pretty self-righteous for ME to say, but really; I feel like I'm being punished because my daughter loves me. This is the same man who has told me on more than one occasion that my children need their mother and that he would always encourage them spending time with me and never hinder it.

Houston, we have a serious problem. One that NASA cannot fix.

So, here I am writing when I should have been sleeping at LEAST 5 hours ago, will now be sleep-deprived for work, none of this is helping my head pain at all, because I've been trying to come up with every single feasible way I can to still help my daughter on Friday night; and I'm super sad because I'm currently at a loss. At a loss of thoughts, a loss of further words, a loss of the one thing I was looking forward to the most this entire week, a loss of mind, a loss of ideas. I'm a canvas waiting to be splattered by any type of art medium; get to splashing!

There is no point in trying to contact her father. He never responds to my texts, emails, or messages. Ever. He will have one of the kids respond, or I will suddenly get a random text from their step-mom. I'm sorry, but did I have any of my children with your help? I think not. Step off.  I tried my hardest to be friends with both of them, but they both have such a tight grip on my past and every single one of my transgressions that I have ever committed, that they can't even concentrate on the issues they have between them. Trust me when I say there are many, and why I seem to be the focus so much instead of each other is more than baffling. Anything to take the attention of history repeating itself, I guess. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. Sometimes I just think, "Bitch!"

What I do know, is that I need that pretty face smiling right there. We were in Maine together when I took that picture of her. At least we have those memories, and hopefully more to come.

Parents: If you truly want to be a good one, don't interfere with your children's development of a relationship with the other parent. Don't talk bad about them to them. Don't call them names or be accusatory in front of them. If you truly want to nourish and enrich your child's life, let them love who they need to love and allow them to be loved in return by the people that matter the most, whether you have a problem with them or not. The only case where I would state otherwise is in reference to child abuse, and I don't abuse my children. I've never wanted anything but the best for them. I screwed that up plenty and owned up to every single bad decision I've ever made. It's time to move on.

Just move on, already. If you don't, you might be the one wanting to spend time with them one day... and they are going to be able to make their own decision that they aren't interested.

Dear Body, Mind, and Soul: (Sometimes In The Third Person)

I love you, so why are you fighting me right now?

I've taken care of you physically. I drink a lot of water; way more than I ever did before. I eat much better as far as food choices go. I do my best to completely stay away from processed foods and would much rather cook my own meals from scratch, with lots of veggies. I love fruit, too. I love Paleo. I try to base my diet on it whenever possible. Organic is amazing. I never thought I'd say that, but I'm loving eating natural, and even spending the little extra when I can to get farm-raised or grass fed meat. I will probably never not eat meat, so deal with it. I very rarely drink soda anymore. Fast food is practically obsolete, aside from the occasional Chick-Fil-A sandwich or extremely rare burger from Five Guys, because I'm an addict and there should be a 12-step program for both Chick-Fil-A and Five Guys. I even drink Almond Milk in place of dairy now. If someone had said that I'd do that a year ago, I probably would have thrown up in my mouth a little. I'm doing the best I can. Overall, I can honestly say I have that sense of "health" that I didn't have before beginning to change the way I eat. I'm also beginning to get back on track with exercise, too. I miss dancing, but at least my walking is becoming more frequent, and the more frequent it becomes, the longer I walk. Yet still, I'm so fatigued. My GI system is beginning to yell at me a little again, as if to say, "Remember me? Yep, I can still f&#$ you up! You can run, but you can't hide, little girl." Screw you, GI system. I'd beat you with a stick if you weren't part of my actual body. My lymph node reminds me daily that I might have something substantial to worry about. It teases me, whispering "You're so screwed. You can't get me biopsied so you don't even know what's in here. I might be wreaking all this havoc and you don't have a clue!" Whatevs, lymph node. I curse thee. My throat has been hurting for about 48 hours now. That's new, and when I say new, I mean literally 100% new since I was 9 years old new. The last time I had a severe sore throat was when I had excruciating tonsillitis as a child and subsequently had my tonsils removed when I was 9. I NEVER get a sore throat. I've never even had Strep throat. It's weird. The slight cough does not help much, which is also weird. Then, today I woke up with the worst headache I've had in a really long time. It took 6 Excedrin to even get it slightly under control. I'm pretty sure I shouldn't take that much. But, my head. It was yelling at me so loudly, I couldn't even understand what it was saying. Shut up, head. Calm down, throat. I've been so good to you, and this is how you repay me.

Mentally, I keep you in check. I try, anyway. I give you the medication you are supposed to have to stabilize you, yet you still insist on going nuts on me sometimes. Actually, that infers I'm crazy, which I'm not. Okay, I am. Not. Whatever.

I do realize you aren't getting ALL your medication right now or the complete rest that you need, but do you really have to go into overdrive at the moment? Do you have to be repetitive in your incessant silent questioning of everything and everyone around? Obsessive, even? Worry much? Pfffffft. Did I say obsessive? Oh yes, I see it now. I said it. Typed it. Lalalalalala. O.o

You are beginning to tell me lies again: That life isn't worth it. The pain is more than you can bear. I am a burden to everyone I come across. I'm getting fat again or still need to lose at least 20 more pounds. I'm too screwed up to ever allow someone to love me; besides, I'll never trust anyone EVER anyway. I'm not lovable. What's love got to do with it, got to do with it?  I'm going to fail. I'm totally about to be homeless again. I have cancer again or any other horrible diagnosis I could possibly come up with right now. FEAR. Anxiety. BLAH. B-kawk.

You are thinking way too much and forgetting that thoughts are the first step to just about everything in life, and will dictate whatever comes after a thought if you let it. Medication or not. You are not letting go of the person who hurt you completely, because you are being completely idiotic. You aren't cooperating when I talk back to you and tell you that everything is going to be just fine; eventually. It will totally help once you get all of your belongings out of narcissist #2's "house," but until then you really just need to chill out. As the memes and t-shirts say, KEEP CALM. (laughing out loud)

Spiritually, do I not feed you? I pray every day. I have faith. I believe in God and know who He is to me, and better still, what He has done for me. I read my scripture every morning and journal my devotions, just like I journal my life. I get my worship on, turn my music up, and totally live in abandon for those moments when it's just me and God. No distractions. Music.. the one thing that helps eliminate outside distractions when trying to talk to God, because for me, music itself is never a distraction. So why do you still feel a little lost? Unheard? Forgotten, even? You know it's not true. You know you are nourished; are you just refusing to absorb. Is it because you've missed so many Friday's of Celebrate Recovery at church in a row now that you are beginning to feel detached? I'm not going to give up on you. I'm not going to stop what I'm doing. To completely lose my faith would be to completely sink a floating ship.

My head. If it would just stop pounding. Maybe I could think more clearly. I need anesthetic. Nothing is helping me.

This post is so jumbled, yet organized at the same time. I'm not going to proofread it, either. My body is protesting against me and I just don't have the energy for editing. For me to say that, actually says quite a lot.

Some pictures from the visit with my 18-year-old daughter I just talked about. She convinced me to let her twist my hair up in paper towel strips and let my hair dry like that... anything to make my kids happy, no matter how old we get! Then she let me do a new hairstyle on her. <3

Pitchy Numbness.

The last two times I have sat down in front of my computer to write something, I've gone blank. I'm still blank, but the words will come. It's the chaos and I'm overwhelmed. All the "little things" and simple happenings all rolled up into one giant "something." I feel like I don't know what to do with myself, but I know what I don't want to do. I don't want to end my numbness by turning to the one thing that's always made me feel.

I like being by myself now. I like having my own space. I still feel hesitant to say my own place, because technically it's temporary; but, maybe I should. Maybe I should just go for it and say, hey.. this is my place. This is my little one-room apartment that I pay for by the week. If you don't like it, take a hike.

It's what I meet when I open the front doors of the place that I don't miss. The rushing of images past and memories buried. The ignorance, naivety, stupidity, hint of danger, and temptation. When I lived here in 2006, I was still an active drug addict. Cocaine was my bitch; or I was hers. Either way, we had a relationship. I have no desire whatsoever to go out with her again. That's not what this is about. It's the emotions that come along with remembering all of that crap. I was in Room 111. Take the stairs down two flights, take a left, go right at the hallway, and the door is on the left. At first, I thought, "wouldn't it be kind of neat if I lived in the same room again?" No. No, it wouldn't. Not with the way I am feeling right now. I can only imagine the multiplication of images in my head if I were actually in the same exact room. There was a slight hint of nostalgia to the idea; then it was gone. I did coke in that room. I lived in that room for 6 months. That room holds other unpleasant memories. It holds some great memories with my kids visiting, but the good crashes into the bad too roughly. There was a guy who lived on the second floor, almost just above Room 111. I didn't recognize him at first, but he turned out to be someone my family knew from Altamonte. From the hood. He sold crack. Not to me, I never smoked crack. Plenty of people here did, though. Mostly on the third floor, where I am now. Thankfully, I haven't seen any crackheads (that I'm aware of). He used to feed me downers (Xanax) all the time when I was on coke, so I could function for work. He eventually got thrown out of the hotel because his son was advertising to people they sold crack and what room they were in. Idiots. There was a lady from the third floor who used to talk to me out front while I smoked cigarettes all the time. She was a lot of fun to talk to and wanted to come to my room. It was all laughs and games until she whipped out a crack pipe and asked if I minded. Noooooooo, I don't mind. I mean, I do coke in my room, what's the dif, right? I'll never forget the smell. It was horrible. Like burning nasty candy. I have no idea how else to describe it. She never came to my room again and I distanced myself as much as I could after that. Every time I'd walk to the corner store there was this other lady sitting in the grass. She'd have a different story every night about why she needed money, as if she'd never remember she'd talked to me a few days before. Either her mom was in the hospital and she needed money for the bus; or she had just gotten out of the hospital and needed to get back to the other side of Orlando. I'd tell her every time I barely had money to take care of myself. The internet was always an issue that year. I worked online then, too. I've been a medical transcriptionist/medical documentation specialist for 10 years now. I had more issues with internet connection during that 6 months than I've had in my entire life. I was ALWAYS late for work, unable to work, or struggling to work. Always having to convince them to let me pay late because of their internet service interrupting my work. Of course, it wasn't only that interrupting my work, but it had a lot to do with it. They ended up giving me my very last 2 days here free because of their internet.

I don't do drugs anymore. That's one huge difference from when I lived here 8 years ago. I don't really see too much evidence that things have changed here, though. A little, maybe. I don't see crackheads; not obvious ones. I haven't seen any noticeable drug dealers, except the one that tried to get me to get in his car. I do smell occasional marijuana as I'm walking down the hall. I just roll my eyes, because I know that's one thing that is never going to stop here. I'd rather it be nothing, but I'd rather it be marijuana than any other drug. I am on the smoking floor because I have a cat. The smoking floor is also the pet floor. I understand, kind of, their logic; but on the other hand, I kind of think it's unfair, as well. But whatever. I'm not giving up my precious kitty. I feel like she's all I have left sometimes.

So far, I've had the crazy barking dog, who has quieted down considerably. Actually, I very rarely hear it anymore. The guy next door turned out to be bipolar, as well, and was taken away for a day. Since he's been back, I'm not sure if he just hasn't left his room, or if he takes the dog out a lot. It's kind of weird now that I think about it.

A couple of nights ago I went to walk to the store for a bottle of water. The inevitable was bound to happen. I'm heading through the parking lot toward the corner store and a car stops in front of the entrance, still a good 150 feet from where I am, with the passenger door open and he's yelling "excuse me!" Nope. I dart to the right and cross between two cars to the next section of the parking lot and make a left toward the store again. He just pulls forward and blocks me there, too. "Excuse me." Screw it. I approach the car and the conversation goes something like this:

Him: "What are you doing?"
Me: "I'm working, but I'm walking to the store real quick."
"You need a ride somewhere?"
"No."
"You work from your room??"
"Yeah."
(inaudible and unintelligible)
"What?"
(again... seriously, I'm not leaning into your car any more than I already am, so speak LOUDER.)
"I can't hear you."
"What you do?"
"Medical transcription."
"What room?"
"Really?"
"Okay. You got a friend?"
"Yeah, I got a friend."
"You need another friend?"
"I have enough friends."
"Alright then."

I walk away, he drives away. Seriously? I am not stupid. I know what you want. I know what you want to offer or sell to me. I know what you want for payment for your offer. That is not my life anymore and I'm glad that my tone of voice, facial expressions, and the way I answered your questions finally relayed that message to you. Get out of my face. I will not get in your car, I do not want what you have, and I do not need you in my life, nor will you be coming to my room. Again, I AM NOT STUPID. Do you know what is super sad about this scenario? If it had happened in 2006, it probably would have went completely differently, because that would have been an easy step to not only getting high, but getting my room paid for. Do you know what that tells me? I AM NOT WHO I ONCE WAS.

MY PAST: I DON'T LIVE THERE ANYMORE.

Last night, I had trouble with the internet. First time since I've been here. It's hard to believe I'm going on week 3 of being here already. My days are flying by. I don't feel like I'm living. I'm just surviving. Thankfully, it was a one night thing, and I think had more to do with a password switch (first of the month) than anything else. So far, so good.

More than anything, I look around me and just want to see more of my things. I'm in a battle of the dumbass right now and can't seem to get anything that's mine. I've only asked for a few things that are still at my ex-fiance's farm. My journals, my comforter, the Wii, my coffee mugs that have my children's pictures on them, something my grandma sent me for the kitchen... and preferably my keyboard, because music and writing are the only two things I can use passionately to express myself and I really need to play badly. I don't think that's too much to ask for right now. I can't afford to get a storage unit yet for everything else. I wish I could. Believe me, it would make my life so much easier if it was ALL out NOW. The responses I get: Blame for his financial issues, blame for his depression, blame for his loneliness, blame for his alcohol and drug usage, blame for his anger issues, saying he loves me and wishes things were different but..... There are no "but's". You did what you did. You wanted me to be responsible. Does anyone see me having a problem with that? Nope. He says he needs to be responsible now and learn how to be by himself. You've had 5 months so far and I see no progress. I don't know what to tell you, except for stop ignoring me when I ask for what belongs to me, stop waiting to answer until it's only convenient for you, and give. me. my. things. Move along, move along. For the love of God, move along. He tells me that because I've moved the date back on getting all my stuff I've prolonged his recovery time. Are you kidding me right now? Let me read that again. Yep. Yes, that's what it says. No sir. I've had to move the date back for two reasons. 1) You never answer me when I ask when I can pack my stuff and start getting it together. You never answer me when I ask when a good time would be to do anything at all, so what do you expect? 2) I'm being responsible for myself and have rent to pay, so I've had to postpone getting a storage unit for stuff I thought I would never have to move again, because you made a false promise to me 3 years ago. If anything, YOU have postponed MY recovery time. I'm not the one playing the blame game and treating someone else like a piece of invisible trash.

I wish you had NEVER texted me again and just left me alone after the first time we split up.

So, yes.. the numbness is coming. The chaos, the memories, the current situation; it's all balling up like a giant wad of gum I've stepped on and it's now stuck to the bottom of a shoe that I can't take off. The laces are knotted and my fingers are cramping from trying to untie them. My mind is like a tornado, yet blank. My ability to function feels like it's slowly dwindling.

Yet I can still write this blog.

How these words came out, I have no idea. I'm staring at paragraphs that I don't recall forming.

My numbness is pitchy, and a little off-beat; but, I will leave you with this very raw and un-edited piece of me:

The Stigmatized Reality of Me. Mini-Depressive Episode.

Why do I say stigmatized? Because I know I'm going to get comments that put me down on YouTube for posting this video. I'll get called attention-seeking, a cry baby, or possibly worse. I chose to post it anyway, because this is what happens sometimes. Not often anymore, since I'm pretty stable, but it happens. This is nothing compared to my lows - and I'm not sure I'd even be able to think of recording anything during a manic episode. Maybe one day we'll see; I have no idea. I had an episode of hair-pulling rapid-cycling tonight, and this was the tail end result.


The beautiful girl that says mommy a lot and "I like pie." That's my baby girl I miss so much.

The extremely talented boy playing the guitar and singing. That's my son that I want to hug so badly.

Memory Lane and Journal Entries. Circa 2002.

I have spent the last several hours of my life reading my journal from the year 2002.  I couldn't seem to fall directly asleep, as happens many mornings after I've worked all day, into the night; or all night..... my brain does not like to automatically go from "we have a code red, please bring the jaws of life," or "when I entered the patient's room, he was standing in front of the mirror butt naked," or if if I've had an oh-so-crappy evening of "I love you, but I wish things were different, blah blah blah bibbity bobbity eff you," to "ah, my bed, it's so comfy, quiet and all nicey nice to sleep in."  I have to have some kind of in between.  Early this morning I spent some time reading old experiences and personal moments.  Here are some excerpts from the summer of 2002:

__________________________________________________________________________
May 25, 2002  Saturday
It's been a nice and lazy day.  No kids, just peace and quiet around the house.  I decided that I needed a real break from being a full time, single mom, and all I did was the dishes in the sink and that's it!  I didn't walk around the apartment cleaning every little thing like I usually do when the kids are gone.  I didn't sit in front of my computer or do homework all day long.  I slept and watched TV, prayed and did some scrapbooking.  Mostly just sorted through stuff that I haven't put in there yet.  The day was nice just relaxing like that!  I've been thinking about Brian a lot since my therapy session with Garrett.  About how he was when we met.  I find it nearly impossible to believe that it was all an act.  It hurts too much to think that I was living in some fantasy world where I was merely a player.  What a horrible game for someone to make up.  I just can't believe that.  There are times when I think about it and I just want to begin laughing hysterically and run my fingers through my hair while pulling it in this wild and crazy gesture.  Just like a lunatic.  I still feel a little crazy when I think about it.  I still feel like there is something wrong with me.  Why couldn't he love me for me?  I thought he did, and then suddenly everything I did was wrong in his eyes. 

June 16, 2002  Sunday
I just feel like both my body and my mind, my total being if you will, are being pulled in a million different directions.  My body feels as though it is falling apart just as much as my van is.  Pieces aren't falling off, of course, but they may as well be, because they just don't seem to work properly.  Sometimes I just ache all over and can't seem to move.  Other times I just feel so completely exhausted that I would be perfectly content to lie around on the futon all damn day long and do nothing.  I notice my cramping and pains on my sides and lower stomach more often now, so I guess the endometriosis is spreading.  My surgery is in the process of being scheduled, hopefully for the month of July some time.  I asked to have the dates of July 3-15 looked at since I won't have my kids during that time period since they'll be vacationing with their dad, but naturally there is no guarantee I'll get the surgery date I desire.  I'd just like to have to polyps removed before I have full-blown cancer if the surgeon can fit me into his schedule! I'm irritated with Bev over my surgery situation, because I feel like she is really belittling it.  All she can really say is that surgeries today aren't what they used to be and don't hurt as much, blah blah blah.  I just feel like she is pretty much telling me that this just isn't a big deal at all and that I'm going to be just fine and won't need any help.  Like I'm going to walk out of the hospital pain free and completely relieved.  It makes me mad and sad at the same time that she is viewing my hysterectomy like I'm going to have my tonsils removed or something.  I think I'm entitled to be angry, sad, disappointed and frustrated over this surgery, and once I have it done I'm entitled to be in pain, cry, scream, and whatever else I want to feel or do!!!  I didn't ask for pre-cancerous polyps, I didn't ask for endometriosis or adenomyosis, I didn't ask to have my ability to have any more children to be taken away. 

July 17, 2002  Wednesday
I grow a little more capable of being okay every day, but this week has been so hard for me.  Now that I've had major surgery, it has been nice spending time with Bev, since she has opened her home and taken care of me since I have not been able to take care of myself, and being able to sit here and read, and journal, and take time to heal.  But I REALLY miss my kids and my heart is hurting.  I'm used to having them every day of my life, and I've never been away from them except when they go with their dad every other weekend.  Aspen has been really sick the past couple of days and I hear him crying on the phone saying in his 2-year-old voice that he wants his mommy and I just start to cry.  It turns me into an emotional wreck hearing my baby so upset and I'm completely helpless to take care of him.  I can't pick him up, can't risk getting a fever or ulcers in my throat like Aspen has right now.  I'm so thankful to Debra for taking care of him, but I feel like such a burden right now with the kids spread out all over the place because no one could take all of them at once for a week.  I know they miss each other, too.  

July 27, 2002  Saturday
Oh my Lord.  I got really sick a few days ago, have been getting worse, and yesterday fainted from pain, collapsing on my bedroom floor.  I was rushed to the hospital by ambulance since I just had major surgery a couple of weeks ago.  They immediately went in surgically because of the pain I was having, but it was only supposed to be an inch long incision.  I woke up this morning with a row of 20 staples across my abdomen.  I never expected to wake up in so much pain.  Morphine is a wonderful, wonderful thing.  As soon as I opened my eyes I immediately started crying.  I was in so much pain, it was unbearable.  I had been cut open from hip bone to hip bone.  I had an infection and an abscess on my colon that had to clean out.  The kids brought pictures that they made for me to the hospital.  Karah cried.  I cried. I can't even see my journal because of the medication, I have to stop writing.
__________________________________________________________________________

Oh how I miss my children. Reading the things I wrote 12 years ago - TWELVE YEARS AGO - has brought forth so many feelings I didn't even realize I still had. First of all, I can see the bipolar disorder in me just from the first entry. I knew there was something going on with me even then. Ironically, I was in therapy, and still wasn't diagnosed. Brian is my first husband, and children's father, by the way. It's also ironic the way I spoke about the situation. I feel the same way about my current situation with Ron. Was I merely a player once again? What is it about me that makes the men I love, and who supposedly love me, erase me from their lives? Do I just have a knack for choosing hidden exhibitions of uncoded narcissism and I want to be loved so badly that I fall for the initial charm, only to be shocked into unpleasant reality once they know "they have me?" Do I just love too much and it's not enough? Or maybe I love too much and it's too much to handle? How effing codependent am I, really? The reminder that I can have no more children was surprisingly a little harsh, as well. I don't know why; I'm 40 years old and why would I want another child anyway? My youngest is 14 and my oldest is 21. I think it's the fact that I missed out on everything a woman who is expecting a child, whether it's their first or tenth, should be able to experience. Call me a fool, but I would have loved to have had someone with me at all my appointments, someone who would lay his head on my stomach and talk to the baby, someone who would rub my belly, someone who would cherish every single moment along with me, someone who wouldn't jerk their hand away if the baby moved because it was weird to them, someone who got excited about sonogram pictures, someone who would hold my hand all the way through labor and delivery and stroke my hair telling me it was going to be okay instead of letting nurses and other relatives to "the job." I loved being pregnant, and I loved expecting; but I miss the love of pregnancy with the person who helped create it. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. My girls are 18 and soon-to-be 17. My 18-year-old WANTS me to have another baby. She has encouraged me to adopt many, many times in the last year. That was before my fiance decided he didn't want to marry me, of course. She recently remarked, "you should have a baby anyway." I love her so much. If I were to have a baby, she is definitely one person I know who would be there through thick and thin. My own child. Imagine that. My soon-to-be-17-year-old. That's such the opposite end of the spectrum, that the last entry brought me to tears. "Karah cried." How I miss my Karah, so very, very much. I pray every day that she will give me another chance in her life. I've stopped trying to figure out why I've been cut completely out of it. Does she even miss me at all? Has my daughter really stopped loving her mom? The girl who just 4 years ago would still insist on sleeping in my bed with me and would fight her little brother over the spot next me, and lay her head on my shoulder? I can't bear the thought. It reminded me that her birthday is soon. She will be 17 in just a couple of weeks, and it will officially mark 1 year of her ceasing communication with me, as it was just after her birthday last year that the texts, calls, and emails just stopped. She was there - and then she wasn't. So what do I do this year? Do I try like I did last year to get her to go to lunch with me or something? That's what started it, I believe. She had already started putting me off a bit, and I pushed too hard and ended up telling her that when she was ready to spend time with me, she would. It's almost like I made up her mind for her, and I wish I'd never said it. I feel like it somehow triggered her decision, as if she was saying, "then I won't......... in your face!" I've been working on letting go; but how can I ignore her birthday? I can't. I will send her a card that I hand make for her, along with something else that I make for her; because that is our thing. I make things for her. She got a lot of her creativity in art and writing from me, and it's a passion we share. I hope that I can find something to do for her that will make her at least smile, even if I don't get a chance to witness it. I know it's usually the birthday girl that makes the wish, but I have a wish of my own for her birthday this year. A wish for just one hug. I just want to hug my daughter.

Final thought: I REALLY MISS MY KIDS. I never thought, in 2002, that there would be a day when I DIDN'T have them every day. As a matter of fact, the thought never crossed my mind.

Cherish the moments you have. You never, ever know when life will change dramatically on you.

Bipolar Disorder and the Boy Next Door.

I'm not sure how old he is, but from the sound of it at this point, I would say he is most likely in his 20's. I have yet to meet or even see him. However, I do know this. He is just like me. He struggles with bipolar disorder. My new neighbor, the one with the barking dog that I have been so aggravated with, whose door I slid a note under asking him to please keep his dog under control, the one I just moved in next to almost 1 week ago, struggles with the same mental illness that I do.

At 4 a.m. yesterday morning I had yet to fall asleep after work. I was close, my eyes were closing on me, but they quickly popped back open at the sound of very loud retching, vomiting, and dry heaving coming through the thin wall that adjoins my room with the boy next door. I fairly made the first assumption that he'd been partying and was sick the morning after, given the fact I live right by a college university and I'd heard a lot of commotion in the hall and through the walls the night before. My assumption, however, was wrong. He was, and in fact still is, going through medication withdrawal. Lithium, to be specific. I can fully 100% empathize with the situation, in more ways than one, obviously. I struggle with bipolar disorder. I've also been on lithium; a very high dose, actually. It was the very first drug they tried me on for my own bipolar disorder, as apparently it's commonly a first line drug of defense against the disease and has been around for a very long time, with proven effectiveness in many people. It also has some of the nastiest side effects I've every experienced and most gut wrenching withdrawals states I've ever been put through. It's also what I used to try and take my own life in 2012, so therefore I have any extra dose of knowledge of what it feels like to have lithium toxicity, and then have to come down from it.

Today at about 1 p.m. I was either watching a movie or doing something or another online. I honestly cannot remember which, because the events that followed were so sudden and dramatic that I was shocked into reality far from whatever else I was concentrating on at the time. There was a sudden banging on my neighbors door and a loud male voice yelled HOUSEKEEPING! First of all, there are no male housekeepers here. Second of all, I'm so far from stupid and so close to street smart to know it was indeed not housekeeping at the door, and was, in fact, the police.. or as I endearingly call them, the po-po. This was truly my immediate thought and I was actually taken aback that my neighbor opened his door so quickly, because that meant he was either incredibly stupid, very naive, or was in no state of mind to even think about what just occurred. In retrospect, I'm sure it was the latter.

Of course, my first thought was crap, it's going down in the hallway. I had no idea just yet what on earth was going on, who all was in the hallway, or why I was suddenly standing up in the middle of my little room. I suddenly felt like jumping out of my third story window, even though I hadn't done anything. It was like fight or flight kicked in and it didn't even have anything to do with me. Done drugs or been arrested much? Me? Nah. *rolls eyes*

The tale slowly unraveled, starting with someone telling him if he didn't calm down, the paramedic was going to have to give him a shot. Ah, so it wasn't just the po-po, then. So, if the paramedics were here, it must be medical related. Well, I heard him puking and it's obviously an emergency. Next thought: He must have overdosed on something and someone finally decided to call 911. Wrong again.

As I listened to the conversations taking place not only in the hallway, but in my neighbors room, it turns out that his mother had called 911 because of some text messages he had sent her. He had run out of his lithium, couldn't afford to get it filled, felt like he was dying, so really just wanted to die. Suicidal ideation. Mother's worry. It all made sense now. Lithium is mainly used for treatment of bipolar disorder. The po-po stayed steady in trying to talk to him. He didn't want to go anywhere and said that he was fine. They told him his behavior said otherwise, that he was too upset and aggressive, and his speech was pressured and erratic. They called his mom on the phone, which I could obviously only hear one side of the conversation. They were going through the text messages on his phone. Then I heard one of the po-po call my neighbor's name in, which I will not post out of respect for his identification. The other po-po came back loud and clear with a 10-4 on ID stating he'd had injunction orders placed on him to stay away from certain people, and in return the po-po outside my door muttered that figures. I could feel the stigma building around me. It was crazy. It was like the air was becoming thicker by the second, and I didn't even have my door open.

Another lady po-po comes out of the neighbor boys room laughing and speaking softly, or at least thinking she was, not realizing that even though I wasn't standing at the door like an eavesdropping fool, I could still hear every single word everyone was saying, and she was remarking, "did you see him?" "damn it stinks in there." "I'd f#&$ing go crazy if I was his mom, too." The urge to swing my door open and educate a few po-po's was almost overwhelming, but in the back of my mind somewhere I was still contemplating jumping out my window for unknown reasons, so I kept my hand off the door knob and my mouth shut.

Their absurd remarks continued; arguments ensued about criteria and this and that, why and why not they could or could not take him in. Could they Baker Act him? Was there enough proof to sustain he was a threat to himself? The lady po-po finally told him that he had the option of coming with the paramedics voluntarily and be in and out, just to get checked out and make sure he was okay, or they could take him and he'd be held for 72 hours, and that (get this) his dog would then be left in a hotel room for 3 days by itself and that would be his fault.

Way to go with the compassion combined with guilt trip, not, Orange County! WTH! Animal and human cruelty all balled into one giant cluster of stupidity. Magnificent display!

My neighbor boy insisted he was fine and was like, are you guys serious? Back and forth, back and forth. I heard some comment about the fact that the fire department was out there, as well, so apparently I had an entire squadron of badges in the hallway outside my door, and chances are 98% of them had no idea what they were doing, knew nothing about mental illness, and had no clue what steps to take other than to just threaten him with a 72-hour hold in Florida South or give him the option to go in. He wanted to know how he would get back, and his mother on the phone volunteered to pay for a cab for him to get back here to the hotel if he would just go in and get checked out. Ultimately, he decided to finally do this, after much more persuasion, and reluctantly left with the paramedics, officers, and everyone else who was in tow in on this fine eventful afternoon. Neighbor puppy went totally insane when the door shut, barking and whining up a storm, banging and scratching against the door like someone had just stolen his best friend, and for once it didn't bother me in the slightest. It made me sad.

Puppy quieted down relatively quickly, which I was grateful for, mainly for neighbor puppy's sake. Roughly, around 7 p.m., I heard neighbor dude return. It was a mixture of joy and extreme sadness at the same time. Joy, because I new that puppy would be okay; sadness, because no more than an hour and a half later I could hear him throwing up again. This loud, painful-sounding, gasping throwing up, that I know had to suck more than anything at that moment, and also meant one thing: He still didn't get his medication. Upset because I know what bipolar disorder feels like, and if he really is out of his medication and can't afford it, and he's going through withdrawals, and they let him go home like that, probably citing some judgment that he "wasn't a presentable threat to himself or society, hey here's a script, I hope you can get it filled because we don't have time for you," I know what hell he is in right now and they are only putting his life in immediate danger, in more than one way.

Welcome to the system of the United States of America, folks. Where they just don't give a crap which crack you fall through, as long as you are sure to fall through one of them so they don't have to worry about it. Welcome to the land of opportunity; the opportunity to be laughed at and treated like a criminal because you have a mental health disorder that you are unable to control, and the opportunity to have prescriptions written for you that are for just what you need to make you better, but you are SOL if you can't pay for them #becauseeffyouthatswhy.

I was relieved to hear another knock on his door at about 9:15 p.m. by hotel staff, who came up and said they had heard that he was in the hospital and just wanted to check and make sure neighbor puppy was okay if the boy next door was still away. Thank you, Crestwood, for restoring a little bit of faith in humanity after the horrible display of it earlier in the day.

I've heard him get sick a couple more times, gasping for air and crying out to God. I've considered putting another note under his door, this time not about the dog but to let him know that he isn't alone in his struggles. I decided against it, for now anyway, simply because I do not known him and I'm not ready to throw myself out there with my personal struggles to someone I know nothing else about and lives right next door to me. So, I will pray for him, instead. If the opportunity ever knocks, I will answer the door.

Rough Transition, But New Life. With A Side Of Mania, Please. Thanks. Not.

After 4 months and 15 days (or 138 days, if you want me to be like one of those parents that says "my child is 32-1/2 months old, how old is yours?". like, no offense if you're one of those parents.) of struggling with homelessness, I am now in an extended stay hotel, paying 2 weeks at a time to keep a roof over my head, working my butt off, and making an attempt to save for a "real apartment" to acquire some time in the future. Technically, it's kind of like an apartment. I have my tiny little kitchen area across from the bathroom, my work desk area, and my sleeping/living area (that would be my bed). Okay, so it's like an efficiency apartment, but the point is, it's mine, it's a room, and I'm living in it.

It's my first stepping stone of many toward a future that does not include sleeping on the streets, having to depend on others for a lot more than I care to, and a journey on finding me again. I got lost somewhere inside, but I know I'm in there. I got caught up in the madness of loving someone else, and while there is absolutely nothing wrong with loving someone else, if you aren't loving yourself at the same time, it's pretty much the same as killing yourself.

If the transition into my newly obtained room were completely uneventful, I wouldn't have a whole lot to write about. Chances would have it, that I have plenty to write about. Dear Lord, do I have stuff to write about. It starts with attempted murder-suicide and ends with me sitting here on my bed wondering if I should be worried about my "neighbor." The two are completely unrelated, by the way.

My best friend and I rounded up my little gathering of belongings on Wednesday afternoon, September 17, 2014, and packed them up into her sister's SUV.  Bringing them to my little hotel room was uneventful in itself. I was super excited when they told me they had found a non-smoking room for me, then subsequently let down immediately when they found out I had a cat and would have to take the smoking room on the third floor after all, because that's where the pets go. The third floor. It was almost like an episode of rapid cycling. Alas, I cannot part with my cat. She is my companion who has been with me through all of this, and before, and has been my source of unconditional love through the mess of my relationship with my ex-fiance; besides my love relationship with God, of course.

I'd never be able to leave her anywhere. She cuddles up to me without reservation, and really is not like that with anyone else, so I know I'm special. However, she is the one who tried to commit murder-suicide when we first got here. After bringing my stuff, we went back and picked Confetti up, who was already placed in a pet carrier and ready to go. When I got back to the hotel, I had 2 pillows left to carry, one of which contained my laptop inside the pillow cushion, 2 cooler type bags with a few canned goods and food items, and the cat carrier with Confetti inside. I'm on the third floor, as already stated; but what I haven't stated is that when you get off the elevator, you have to walk down to the very literal end of the hallway and turn in order to get to my room. I did that. My key suddenly didn't work. I'd barely made it to the room without dropping anything. I literally tried my key like 13 times at least, praying that "one more time" it would work. It didn't.  The realization that I would have to go back down and get it fixed sunk in and I decided to leave everything but my laptop and the cat in the carrier by my door. I got my key fixed and returned to my room. That's when the real fun began. Confetti has peed in the carrier. Poor kitty. A little too much freaking out and change again. Only I didn't really realize how much she peed until I went to lift her out of the carrier. Oh my gawd, her underside.. my hands... URINE! Gross. I didn't even put her down, because the last thing I wanted was my freshly made bed, or anything else for that matter, smelling like urine. So, I immediately carried her into the bathroom and put her in the sink.

Thank the sweet little baby Jesus that none of that stuff in the picture was on the counter yet and the sink was, for the most part, free of clutter, because psycho attack/murder-suicide attempt was about to commence. As soon as the water came on, she flipped a little. I rubbed some nearby shampoo into her belly and was just about to start rinsing off, and riot-cat appeared, flailing all legs with claws out, grabbing onto anything within reach. Unfortunately, one of those things was a hairdryer, which was currently plugged into the wall, and subsequently went flying into the sink filling with water that I was holding the cat in; thus, her attempting to kill both of us.  It's hard to know how to react in given situation, so I pulled the hairdryer out at lightning fast speeds by the cord and let it hand from the wall. Just as I did that, Confetti did a spiral ninja attack move and latched onto my shirt around my neck and shoulders with both front paws, then wrapped both her bottom legs around my chest. I'm staring in the mirror saying, "okay, this is a major dilemma." I'm being soaked by a shampooed cat, I don't want my throat slit, she isn't peeling off easily, and I really need to rinse her. So, I carefully removed her paw by paw and finished bathing her. By the time I was done, she needed to be dried, I needed to be dried, the floor needed to be dried, and I never did get the hairdryer back in it's holder, so it's still hanging there. Once freed, Confetti immediately went under the bed, never to show her face again until she finally got so hungry she HAD to come out to eat.

The adventure had only begun. She's come out from underneath the bed a lot more often now. She loves being by her mommy, but when someone is too loud outside the door, something happens loud, she scurries for coverage again. She'll adjust. I'm trying to adjust. I think the adjusting is a little harder for me at the moment. My biggest challenge is getting enough sleep.

I don't care how cute you think they are, I'm totally 100% convinced right now that these little dogs are the spawn of pure evil. Yip yip yip yip yip! Seriously, please just stop. You guessed it, they placed me right next to someone who has a little yippy dog that barks incessantly through the day and a lot of the night. I don't know where the owner is during this time exactly, but what I do know is that I've gotten about 8 hours of total sleep over 3 days, and I'm really starting to feel it. What really broke me was this morning at about 6 a.m. when the dog started up and the dude across the hall suddenly yelled SHUT THE F&#^ UP! then proceeded to run across the hall and bang on the door like they were the po-po until the dog did shut up. I've said something to the front desk and I've emailed management. Tonight I went a step further and slid a nicely-worded, yet firm, note under my "neighbor's" door letting him know of the situation and to please fix it. Since he got "home", all I heard was cabinets slamming and haven't heard the dog since. I don't know if I should be worried or not; and whom should I be worried about if I do worry? It's a definite relief, though. I can't lie. I feel like if I say anything more about it, I will have just cursed myself and the dog will start up again. This would be part of the reason for my episodic mania right now. Sleep deprivation and bipolar disorder that is only partially medicated do NOT mix well. I swear the question "I wonder if I dove out of my third floor window head first, would I die, or just suffer a traumatic brain injury or broken neck and then have to live like that?" crossed my mind.

I also stood in my little kitchenette the first night with a can of tuna fish in my hand for like 20 minutes just staring off into space, because I had come to the realization that I had no can opener. And I was hungry. No worries, I made do with something else after I snapped out of my eye-burning, numbing, catatonic state of sudden crash of reality. It's funny now that I can look back a couple of days. It was really not funny at all at the time. I've since had someone bring me a can opener, as well as some pots and pans, a spatula, a potato peeler for when I actually have potatoes, and a few cooking utensils. I'm so thankful. Thus endeth the kitchenette series of the almost-nervous-breakdown. Now all I need is food!

The ants have been driving me crazy just a little bit. The little ghost ones that you can barely see and you don't even really know they are around until you feel one crawl on you, then you notice the almost inconspicuous line of them crawling from each corner of your only window down to the floorboard, along the floorboard, on the nightstand, along the ceiling, and... some other places. I borrowed some spray and literally sprayed EVERYWHERE. All floorboard lines, corner lines, around the window, around the door, the ceiling lines, the cabinets. I've had to repeat twice around the window, but for the most part it seems to be working. The spray is for other bugs, too.  Yesterday, I kicked a cockroach out my door and it ran across the hallway and underneath the door of someone else's room. Oopsies!

There goes the dog whining again, but it seems a little less. I'm doing a whole lot of deep breathing to keep from going totally crazy. I hope I don't have to complain again, but it is what it is. Respect; that would be nice.

Aside from the mania, I really am adjusting. Some have had the misconception that this transition has been easy for me. Don't get me wrong, I love that I am in a room now. How could I not? I'm not sleeping on the streets, I have space, I am taking steps to regain who I really am. Emotionally, it is hard. Bipolar disorder does not help. Neither does realizing that you really are moving forward. Now THAT must sound like a crazy statement; but, see... there is always this little piece of hope in us that the really painful losses of love we have in our lives will find their way back home.  Mine doesn't seem to be finding it's way home. In fact, it's still as uncooperative as ever, and honestly all I really want is to have my belongings back. Everything is a challenge. My brain is a roller coaster. A never-ending roller coaster. Physically, I've been in pain for a few days. It's annoying. My fatigue is still there. My swollen lymph node is still swollen. So, that stuff just leads back to emotions and frustration and it is a vicious bipolar-fear-hope-worry-joy-needabiopsy-rested-fatigued-anorexic-hungry-gotthis-needfood-foundmyglasses-goingtothedoctornextweek-paycheckisntsoonenough-thankgodicanpayforthedoctor-cantpayformytestsormedications-imadjusting-istillneedhelp-beingresponsible-steppingforward-prayingforamiracle-depressed-thankful cycle. Yes, all of that.