I feel like bipolar disorder and panic disorder together make it impossible for me to be "normal." I know the term "normal" is relative, but this is all that's been in my head for days, possibly longer. I'm getting to a point where I feel like I'm looking for that hole to crawl into where everything is dark and the only sound is music. I can't speak, I can't respond, I feel like I'm going to throw up every time I try to utter a sound. I don't expect anyone to understand, unless they have actually been there, of course. I'm willing to bet that a lot more will relate than I expect or realize, but I'm not sure anyone close to me really does. It hurts, feeling alone when you know that you actually aren't. But there is a difference between being alone and feeling alone.
Something worth repeating that I have said in quite a while. Bipolar disease is not a choice. We didn't ask for it; at least, I sure as hell didn't; or panic disorder, for that matter. Who the hell would WANT to spend what feels like every hour of the waking day and night (especially those where you are lucky enough to sleep) that you are going to drown, be suffocated, feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest, constantly check your own pulse or breathing, feel like you are going to die or even worse yet would rather die, than go through one single second more of whatever it is you are going through. Another thing worth repeating is sometimes WE DON'T NEED TRIGGERS. It just happens and it's factually part of the disease(s).
I'm not sure how many of you have high-functioning Asperger type symptoms like I do, but I get overwhelmed and irritated very easily at times. Yes, very similar to bipolar disorder; but I get to a point of sensory overload within literally a matter of seconds that I wish I couldn't see or hear. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, OVERSTIMULATION, ASSHOLES! Sadly, they aren't all assholes, nor do they mean to do it, but how to do explain it to them when they have no idea what it's like to be overstimulated to the point where you would like to rip all your hair out or punch a wall or cry nonstop without running out of actual tears? I'm not even sure what my coping mechanisms are anymore at that moment and don't even know how to deal with being in my own freaking skin, because it quite literally feels like it's crawling. Coping skills? Breathe? Nope, can't do that. Ground myself? Can't do that either. Scream? I sure as hell can do that. Take my mind to my quiet happy place? LMAO.
What are your coping skills? Like, the ones that actually work. Because even though it happens rarely, I feel like I'm at the end of my metaphorical rope.
It's hard to believe that two whole months have passed since I found out I have two brain aneurysms. I was having severe headaches that wouldn't go away with any amount of Tylenol or any kind of NSAIDs whatsoever, so I knew something was wrong. I ended up going to urgent care only to be told, of course, that I needed to see a neurologist. They gave me a shot of Tordaol for the pain. They may have well just stuck me with a needle full of saline for the hell of it because it make no difference whatsoever. It's almost as if they entertain themselves sometimes knowing they aren't going to relieve you of your pain, but merely need to be amused. Urgent care: 1. Me: 0.
Honestly, I debated on whether or not to see a neurologist. I mean, it was a headache. People get headaches all the time, right? Right. Typically they don't last for months on end with no relief in sight and never go away day or night, though. Fine. A neurologist it was.
The doctor was nice enough. He was from Argentina and I was warned as soon as I went into the appointment that I might have a difficult time understanding him, but don't be afraid to ask him to repeat himself because he really doesn't mind, which admittedly my first thought was "well shit." Surprisingly, pleasantly, he really wasn't that hard to understand. Maybe my occupation with ESL physicians is paying off more than I thought. We talked about my headaches; frequency, causes, alleviating factors, blah blah blah. At the end of the appointment he was going to get a brain MRI scheduled for me and was trying to also get an MRA scheduled, though he warned me that insurance would probably make me go through the MRI first before approving the MRA. Then he handed me a prescription for 120 hydrocodone, which basically scared the living shit out of me. I had never been handed that many opioids all at once in my life, and quite honestly I can't even tell you all the thoughts that instantly ran through my mind. Two of them, however, were "Thank you, Jesus, I'm finally going to be able to concentrate without being in pain." and "I am so fucked." You see, the Sober part of my Ramblings of a Bipolar Sober Chick name has absolutely practically nothing to do with alcohol. Not a freaking lick. It has to do with drugs. Opioids were never my drug of choice. Cocaine was. However, I sure used a turdton of narcotics and benzos, mostly benzos, to come down from cocaine. And alcohol. I used alcohol to come down. But cocoaine was el numero uno. Anyone who has battled drug addiction, though, knows that just because something wasn't your first choice of drug, doesn't mean it can't fill in very freaking easily. Ready to jump on the rollercoaster? N-freakin-O. Lord help me.
I will be the first to admit, I was in heaven the first day I didn't have a headache so severe that I had my head completely buried in ice, because it had literally been like 4 months since I had not suffered. A day without a severe headache for once was just like a day where I ran through the woods gloriously naked and jumped on a unircorn bareback and wondered off across a rainbow that ended in a bucket of frothy warm glitter that healed all ailments I could possibly have and smelled like cotton candy. I loved that glitter. It was magnificent. Now, mind you that hydrocodone is not very strong, but when you get any kind of relief from horrific pain whatsoever it's like heroin to you. The bad part is when you have a tolerance like I do and you are suddenly reminded that your pain really actually is worse than what hydro is going to even half relieve, your brain kicks into the "I need more than one pill" gear fairly quickly. In my defense, I really DID need more than 5 mg of hydro at a time to help my head; not psychologically, but legit physically. High pain and high tolerance are a shit combination. So, I took two at a time AT THE OKAY OF MY DOCTOR, just to clarify. The unfortunate part of that is running out early. We tweaked it here and there, and fast forward about 4 months and I was still taking them. I am extremely happy to say that as HARD AS IT WAS, I never took them like I was not supposed to, and I have been weaned off all narcotics for almost 2 weeks now.
Backing up the story again....
My MRI came and went. It showed nothing at all, which REALLY upset me, because I knew something was going on in my head. It couldn't possibly hurt this bad for no reason. So, the MRA was finally approved. An MRA is like an MRI except they inject dye into your veins to take a better look at them. I left the imaging place to go and pick up my daughter after the MRA, which is an hour drive, and about half way there I get a phone call from the neurology office stating they got an urgent phone call from the New Smyrna Imaging radiologist. I had a brain aneurysm. Needless to say, I missed my exit by about 15 minutes before I realized where I was going way past where I needed to turn for my daughter's house. I was told that I would be called back later for an emergency neurosurgeon consult, which really didn't help my driving, either. The nurse even said "you are driving aren't you?" Through tears, I said, "Yes." I hung up and the first person I called was my mommy. She did not answer so I left her a blubbering and crying hysterically mumbled message on her phone, to which she called back like 5 minutes later as I was talking to my sister.
It's hard to know how you are going to react when you get news like that. I had basically just been told I'm a walking and ticking time bomb, and now I'm driving down the highway wondering if my head is going to explode. Dramatic? Maybe yes, but to me, not at that moment. What was I going to say to my kids when I got there to pick up my daughter? Would anyone even care? Did I care? I wasn't sure about anything at all.
I got to my kids' house and told my "A's" (Aspen and Andrea) the news. Andrea was quiet and accepted it; she even stayed with me 2 weeks after my surgery; but Aspen just kept saying okay and looked really uncomfortable like he was either going to scream or burst into tears, and I wasn't sure I could handle either; so he just stuck with awkward. I can handle awkward. I'm awkward. I texted their dad, because he is the father of my 4 kids His response: "Copy that." Not that I expected more. As for my two "K's", Kaileb didn't respond at all. Karah started her response with "If this is true..." That pretty much hit like a bitch, but I can (kind of) understand given the past issues that are partially and most definitely partially not my fault. Her head has been filled so far beyond the stuff that I actually did and take responsibility for that I'm not sure things will ever ever ever be the same, but that's a black hole and this is about an aneurysm. Well, two aneurysms.
Whew. So, my neurosurgeon is awesome. He spent 45 minutes with me just talking and going over all my scans and answering every single question I had. I couldn't ask for more. We decided on a cerebral angiogram to map out the aneurysms where they would go in through my femoral artery and all the way up to my brain, which was the freakiest and scariest things I'd ever heard, and inject dye into my brain, which I must say was uber painful. Some people say it doesn't hurt. Bullshit! This is when they found my second anuerysm. The big one was 7 mm, so it was determined right then that it had to be repaired. The smaller one is 3 mm so it's currently on observation. So, on that day, I began all my life altering preparations.
On June 22, I worked my last day of both jobs. On June 23, 2016, I had my first brain surgery.
Update (March 20, 2017): I had my second brain surgery in November of 2016. Basically, my memory is shit.
Holidays Schmolidays. I can't be the only one who feels that way right now. As a matter of fact, I know I'm not. Which is why I'm writing this. I'm not really sure it's actually going to help anyone else, accept to definitely assure them they aren't alone in this, at all.
I just cried. I think it was the twelfth time this week. Oh wait, today's Sunday, so actually it was the first time this week. I have no idea why I'm sitting here torturing myself by having Christmas music playing in the background right now. It makes me want to throw something. I love Bing Crosby's voice, just not right this very second.
I was hoping this holiday season would be easier than last year. Up until last year, I had always done relatively well for the most part. I mean, there were definitely a couple of years that were pretty hard, but nothing like last year. Last year sucked. It sucked giant Santa balls. This one is undoubtedly feeling in the same direction. Right up good ole' Kris Kringle's chocolate whiz way. It's not something I do on purpose, and it's most certainly not something I can 100% control. If I could, I would probably be dancing around my living room right now singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with jingle bells hanging off my nipples. Just kidding about the jingle bells. They'd be hanging around my wrists. Unfortunately, I just literally cannot MAKE myself be Christmas happy all the time. I have my moments.
I've been told to focus on the positive countless times this past week. While I appreciated the unsolicited advice (LOL), it simply isn't that simple. If only people knew how much I wish it were. I am very thankful for the positives. I'm thankful that I'm no longer homeless. I'm thankful that I'm dealing with my bipolar disorder and depression and all the holiday triggers without self-medicating or self-injuring. I'm thankful that all 4 of my children are alive, healthy and seem to be doing well. I'm thankful I have a job. I'm thankful for the encouraging and uplifting people I talk to. I'm thankful for the ocean breeze that is 2 miles away. I'm thankful that I haven't had a nervous breakdown so far this month, although if one more romantic Christmas movie comes on this weekend I actually might, because bah humbug my ex-fiance is a douche bag.
Can anyone relate yet? Let me add a little more.
I think my ex-fiance has a lot to do with the fact that this holiday season is just as rough as last year. Granted, at least I have a place to live this year. I'm not in a drug and prostitute infested crack hotel like I was last year worrying about whether I am going to have a bed to sleep in each and every night or week. No one is getting stabbed in the neck right down the hall. I can walk out of my building without someone trying to get me to take a ride with them to get me to do God knows what. I'm just still.. angry. I don't feel like I've healed much. Maybe I am just now getting to a place in life where I can actually allow myself to heal. Life is actually slowing down just a tad. I finally, just as of this last month, no longer have to have any contact with him. I can start to move on. The stuff he still refuses to give me, he can keep. I was able to finally get the few most important things. He can keep what he destroyed. He almost destroyed me, but failed. The anger, the hurt, the pain, the sadness.. it's all right here, right on the surface. The triggers during this time of year are paramount when it comes to everything "him." I don't know how to make my mind shut up, but I'm trying.
Moving on.
Most of you know this; however, I've gotten a lot of new followers recently. (Still not sure how that happened, but I'm thankful for that, too. One, because that means awareness is being raised. Two, because I am here to listen to and help others if I can. Three, because that means someone is listening, or at least pretending to.) Two of my children talk to me. Two don't. The fact that two don't compounds the sadness and triggers of the holidays so freaking much that I wouldn't even know where to start or end with trying to explain the magnitude of it. My heart goes out to anyone who experiences this. If one more person tells me "he'll come around" or "she'll feel bad one day" I'm going to punch them in the face. It really doesn't help me. Really. Because seriously, you just don't know that. Don't tell me you do, because you don't. There are no absolutely positively no guarantees in life, so don't tell me that one day everything is going to magically be all mended and wrapped in a pretty pink bow because you just don't know that. A multitude of things could happen in the interim where it's just not even a possibility, so please. Just stop. It doesn't help. What helps is listening and just helping parents of estranged children reach a point of acceptance and a place where it's going to be okay even if they don't talk to us again.. which is super hard to do, but it's 12,948 times better than false hope and setting us up for potential disappointment. I hope you can understand that.
My oldest is 22 and recently got married. He has his own life now. If it were just the simple fact that he is an adult and has moved on with life and so on and so forth, it would be much easier to accept. It's the fact that this has been going on for years that makes it difficult. I'm not only cut out of his life, I'm also cut out of his wife's life. He even instructed her not to become my friend on Facebook. I'm blocked from his. I wish I could say I understand it all; why, how, etc. I just don't. I think I understand why he felt he had to do it at first, but so much time has passed that I can't grasp the why of now. I fear that I'm never going to be able to get to know his wife the way everyone else has had a chance to get to know her. She's beautiful, sweet, endearing. God gave him an amazing girl. I'm super happy for them. I'm just really sad. I don't get to see the pictures of the life updates that everyone else gets to see. I don't get to have occasional dinner with them. I'm scared to death that once my first grandchild comes along, I'll never get to spend time with him/her. I'm missing so much. My eyes are burning right now with the tears that are begging to spill down my face. I'm missing it all and there is nothing I can do about it. I've tried.
My youngest daughter just turned 18. She hasn't spent any time with me for about 5 years now. So many things made that reality especially hard. She was my shadow. Like, almost literally my shadow. I would walk from one room to another and turn around and run right into her because she had followed me without me even realizing it. She would fight my other 3 kids for the spot right next to me and would insist on being my sidekick at all times. I wasn't the only one who noticed, either. Everyone at church would say "here comes mini-you" when she would walk into a room. She wanted to do everything mommy did, be everywhere mommy was. She has a lot of my same traits, including bipolar disorder. I wish she didn't have that one. I wish I could take that one away from her. I wish I could take away the pain she has gone through because of this hated illness. I wish I could fade her scars that she had caused on her own body. I wish I could take away all the nights she felt like she was worthless and didn't want to live anymore. I'm glad she's still alive after so many attempts. I wish she would talk to me. I wish she didn't blame me because I have bipolar disorder and she feels like it's my fault she has it.
I wish I could stop crying now... again.
I'm in a lot of contact with my other two children. My oldest daughter, who is 19, spends quite a bit of time with me. She is legally blind, and she and her dog will come spend a weekend with me or several days. We are always laughing when we are together and we always find something to do and a way to smile. She is a lot like me, too. She takes things to heart like I do. She see's the best in people. She always wants to do things for others, even if it costs her something (to a fault sometimes, like me). She got accepted to the local university for the spring semester. I'm so proud of her. My youngest son is 15. We don't get to spend as much time together as we would like because of his crazy busy schedule right now and the fact that I live an hour away, but we do our best. We send each other silly texts and joke around. He's my comic relief and makes me smile. He really cracks me up. He plays soccer a lot and I'm glad he found something he loves to do so much. I'm really looking forward to spending more time with him once his schedule loosens up a bit when school lets out and his activities slow down. I call these two kids my two "A's" because their names start with an A.
My two A's when they were younger:
I have the opportunity to take my two A's to the Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party on the evening of December 13, and you really don't understand how completely ecstatic I am about it. Totally stoked. They are about a million gazillion times more excited than I am, so I know that's a lot. My daughter A has only been to Disney one time and my son A has never been, which is sad since we've been in Central Florida their whole lives, so needless to say they absolutely cannot wait. Even though the tickets are cheaper than regular daytime Disney tickets, they are still above my budget, but you know what? They've waited long enough. I've waited long enough. If I don't do something special and positive for once this year, I am positive I just might lose my mind. So, I have to do this. We will have practically nothing at all to spend while we are at the park, but at least they will have fun. I hope. Yes, they will. Judging by their excitement, they will. They know I'm struggling, and one thing I can say about my children is that they have always been really good about being understanding when it comes to finances. I'll never forget my daughter telling me when she was younger, "all I want for Christmas is you." I'm tearing up again.
How do we get through the holidays, exactly, when our lives are in shambles or if we have trigger overload? I can't always get away from my triggers, and I think it's safe to say you can't, either; however, I think that if there are certain triggers we can avoid, we should certainly do that. Here is what I have discovered this year so far:
1. Don't watch all the sappy Hallmark Christmas movies that are flooding the television stations right now. Our lives very seldom come close to even remotely resembling the crap that's in the script and instead of making you go "awww" and giving you a warm and fuzzy feeling, you end up wanting to break your shit instead.
2. Avoid alcohol in excess (and avoid drugs entirely). If you want a glass of wine, have a glass of wine. Just don't drink the whole bottle. You might think it's going to help you, but it's not. You'll end up calling or texting everyone in your phone's contact list and telling them you love them so much or you hate them so much and neither is probably a good idea, not to mention all the other things you might end up saying. Plus, alcohol is a depressant, and most drugs are just bad. Yikes.
3. Write. A lot. That journal or notebook that has been sitting in a drawer for months or even years can come into some good use right now. Just start writing. Write everything. If it's in your head, write it. You'd be surprised how much stuff you are actually thinking about. You'll also be surprised at how much better you just might feel once you've gotten it out of your head. Sometimes I read what I've written later and all I can say is "what the hell?"
4. Only listen to music that is going to lift you up. If it's making you feel sad or angry, turn it off immediately. Kind of like I did the damn Christmas music I had playing when I started writing this blog. It was on for a whole 7 minutes.
5. Go for a walk. I have taken so many walks recently that I'm actually kind of angry that I haven't lost like 20 pounds at this point. It releases both physical and emotional tension. I don't always FEEL like going for a walk, but I have come to realize that if I take that first step out the door and make myself do it, I'm always really glad I did and feel better afterward. Except for the morning I went jogging on the beach in my bare feet and didn't see the hundreds of jellyfish on the shore until I was tripping over them and I basically almost died.
Lastly, never ever ever be afraid to reach out. None of us have to do this alone.
My inbox is always open on my FB page. Ramblings of a Bipolar Sober Chick.
I heard someone tell a friend who also has bipolar disorder recently, "you people always feel like killing yourselves, so I don't want to hear your drama." I'm pretty sure the anger I felt surge through my body quite literally made my skin a lovely shade of burgundy, but just in case it didn't and it wasn't obvious that he'd hit a nerve, I made sure he knew it. What ignorant crap to spew out of ones mouth!
Fact checker:
1. No, we don't always feel like killing ourselves.
2. It's not drama, asshole, it's mental illness.
3. Unless you are going to say something compassionate, or at the very least, intelligent, just shut up because you only sound and look completely stupid and uneducated.
4. Suicide isn't a joke in any way, shape, or form, so at the assumption that my friend is actually seriously contemplating suicide, you just took the expressway to making her feel a hell of a lot worse, and quite possibly pushing her over the edge... so, thanks.
No wonder mental illness is so hard to talk about. Especially for those of us that actually HAVE a mental illness. I mean, why in the world would anyone ever want to open up to anyone if THAT is the kind of response we are going to get? Yes, we have periods where taking our own life seems like a very good option for the time being, but it's all part of how our brains function; and contrary to seemingly popular belief that we can just "snap out of it," uh no... we can't. We can't control it the majority of the time, and I speak from experience. Medication absolutely helps, but it isn't a cure. There is no cure for mental illness, unfortunately. There is only palliative care, along with therapy, love, compassion, and the hope we get from others who inspire us and from those who actually are willing to listen, even if they don't have any answers. From the people who say, "I may not understand 100% what you are going through, but I'm here for you if you decide you want to talk about it." From the people who are going through it alongside us and let us know we are not even remotely close to being alone in this universe, because there are a lot of us out there. Bipolar disorder is NOT a rare illness. It affect about 5.7 million American adults, or about 2.6% of the U.S. population 18 and older, according to the National Institute of Mental Health. That number could be dramatically increased if everyone who actually is struggling with it was properly diagnosed. The percentage may seem small, but that is still quite a few people; enough to where the entire human race should be paying attention. Add to that the percentage of other mental illnesses, and we have a whole slew of Americans (and I am sure, others in other countries, though I have yet to do that research so I cannot comment on it) who need professional psychiatric care; and we need to stop making people feel ashamed of that fact. Your physical health is important and you go to the doctor for that. Why not take care of your mental health, as well? It is just as important.
I can relate to my friend, sadly. Although I have never had the exact phrase muttered to me, and I would likely knock some sense into someone if it ever was, I have had something as equally hurtful said. Actually, I reflect on what I just said about knocking some sense into someone, and I retract.. because I didn't. I didn't knock sense into the person who said something horrible to me, because I never actually expected to hear something like that come from someone who was supposed to love me more than anyone else on this earth. He was supposed to be the one person who would love me through everything, the one person I could trust to share my thoughts and feelings with, yet he ended up pretty much just like everyone else. Wistfully, it is usually loved ones who hurt us in this way, and not strangers. Just another vast reason for education and paying attention. I went through an exceptionally difficult road with my bipolar disorder in 2012-2013 when I was going through medication changes, along with other factors in life I just don't care to include in this particular post. I cried; a LOT. I had only allowed someone to make me feel ashamed of crying once before in my life, and because of that first incidence I didn't cry for an entire 2 years. In fact, I had completely numbed myself to any emotion that would cause me to be anything but indifferent. That, I found out, can be way more unhealthy than allowing yourself to feel the God-given emotions you have in the first place. This time around, I didn't numb myself, but I still found myself very hurt, frustrated, and then ultimately feeling bad because I cry. What was said to me? "You always find something to cry about."
I guess it never occurred to him that I had legitimate reasons and sources for emotions each and every single time I shed a tear; however, given that he was usually that source, or at least something he did or said, I guess he really wouldn't think of that, would he? He isn't exactly the type of person to take any sort of responsibility for his own behavior, but instead would rather point fingers in any available direction away from himself. I can't think of a single thing during our entire relationship that was actually "his fault." It was always mine. But that story of narcissism is definitely a story for another time. Point being, no, I wasn't always finding a reason to cry. I just happened to cry as a response to pain AND anger, both of which I was experiencing an untoward amount of during that time period. Now, you might be thinking, "Really? You got upset because someone complained about your crying?" You're damn straight I did. Before you get any bright ideas about calling me defensive, I will tell you right now that "being defensive" has nothing to do with it, and happens to be something else that is said to those with bipolar disorder, as well, and I truly hate it. It's called being human. Additionally, anything I say in response to it is called standing up for myself, which took me a REALLY long time to be able to do. If you want to call me defensive, that is positively your prerogative; but if you want the truth, I just look at you calling me that and think that you are just mad because you didn't get my goat, so to speak. Don't you just hate it when former doormats learn how to speak their minds?
I'm a former doormat.
I cry. I think. I am.
I stop to smell the roses, yes; but I also occasionally stop to smell the deadly nightshade. Just not usually on purpose.
It's those moments when I allow the poisonous thoughts inside my head that I end up where my friend recently was. Contemplating and entertaining thoughts on how this world would just be better off without me. Thinking about my emotional, and sometimes physical pain, and letting it obscure any positive thoughts that might help me out of my funk. Not seeing how certain things are ever going to change and finding it unquestionably pointless to go on. You see, when your mind functions in the way a bipolar mind functions, it isn't always easy to see past the pain. Have you ever been in so much pain that you seriously wondered if you could even take it anymore? I have.
I want to LIVE, not just SURVIVE. When in survival mode, it gets tiring. It's like running through a tunnel and never ever seeing the end, wondering if you are ever going to see the brightness of the suns rays in your face or feel raindrops hit your skin. It's like being in the middle of the ocean with absolutely no view of land and just floating, and suddenly your flotation device is ripped away from you and you are struggling to stay above water, but you know, you KNOW that eventually you are no longer going to be able to swim. You are going to drown. It's like running in sand. If you have never tried it, I implore you to go to the nearest beach or any other place that has at least above-ankle deep sand and try running through it as fast as you can, and see how tired you get.. or even how far you get before you can't run through it any longer.
If you don't have a mental image or feeling yet, I feel for you. Bad, that is. I feel bad for you. It makes me wonder if compassion or empathy or anything resembling either even exists anymore.
If you encounter someone who is sad or making comments about taking their own life, or just hurting themselves, don't make it worse. Don't tell them they always feel that way. Don't tell them they are being dramatic. That is your ignorance and inexperience talking, and it shows. If you can't deal with it, just let them know you aren't sure what to do and ask them if they need to talk to someone else who can help. If the person has a history of actually being dramatic or saying things for attention, guess what? It's still a mental illness and quite possibly a personality disorder, and they STILL NEED HELP. It happens. Still, be kind. Call a crisis line and ask how you could help, or get the person help. If it is way too much for you after that, maybe you should set your own boundaries and back out of the friendship, but don't call them an attention seeker. They might not even realize they are doing it. If you feel like anyone who mentions suicide is an idiot and that's your common response... well, you're just an asshole.
I hear so many people say, "I would sit up with you all night if you felt like hurting yourself." But would you? Would you, really?
January, 2015
"Somebody please help me right now. Like, really... right now. I'm in a room full of people; okay, four people including myself. That's full to me because we are in my room. My hotel room - that I live in. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I try to be so nice to people, but they use me. And people really wonder why I have social issues and anxiety around people. I'm not even in the conversation right now. The three of them are talking and I have no idea what is going on. Actually, I take even that back. The girl across from me is a lot like me. Quiet. Social anxiety. My roomie that I took in to help her out is having a conversation with this chick I just met and was nice and said, yes you can come up for a while. Why am I such a pushover? Why do I STILL feel like it's not okay to say NO. It's like phases I go through. I stand my ground. I let something slide. I've actually learned a lot about myself in the last hour listening to this stuff that has nothing to do with me. It's actually really hard to type this while they are still conversing. I feel like chewing all the skin off my fingers, or pulling my hair out one by one, or screaming at the top of my lungs. I can't listen anymore. Everything they are saying makes me feel all my feelings for Ron and makes me think about how much I miss him. Oh my gosh, my feelings. My heart. Just shut up. I want everyone to leave. I terribly miss 3 weeks ago when I was completely by myself. I'm sliding. I hate this. I don't want to be here."
That is a random sampling of the stuff that goes through my mind at any given moment of anxiety. So chaotic. And yes, I really am sitting among 3 other people right now. I'm going to close my laptop, simply because I can think no further and I'm mustering up nonexistent courage to tell everyone to get out, because I don't feel like I can calm down at all or think right now. My very skin feels like it is vibrating. I want to cry. To be continued...........
SEVEN WEEKS LATER:
It's better. I have moved out of the hotel and into a townhouse, and things are starting to look up. I really love my roommate and her daughter, and other people in the family that I have met so far. I have yet to feel really super anxious since I got here. It's safer. I'm pretty sure I was actually going crazy at the hotel. I was surrounded by drug dealers, users, prostitutes, and even a murderer. It is awful how much that place has changed and gone downhill since I was there in 2007. I had no idea, of course, before I got there. But, it was the only place I could go to get back on my feet after what I deem as my traumatic experience with Ron last year.
It's pretty hard to believe we have been separated for almost a full year now. Two more months. I kind of choked up just now, which was actually a little unexpected. I have felt my heart beginning to heal, finally. I don't get all emotional anymore when I think about him. Rather, it's my horse that I miss that gets me more emotional; I don't miss Ron. At all anymore. The best thing he ever could have done was leaving me at the hospital and never looking back, even though he says it was "the hardest thing he has ever done." I call BS on that one, but it really is okay, because I couldn't take his verbal abuse, screaming, throwing things, alcohol and drug use, and a multitude of other things that started happening anymore. Naturally, he blames everything on me, from the finances to "his reason for drinking." I'm taking a stand and letting everyone know that I did the best I could. I loved him to my fullest, but it wasn't enough. I took care of the house, the animals, everything was always clean, I cooked for him, always made sure he knew I loved him, and sacrificed a whole lot of friends and a good church for him. I will never ever ever do that for someone again. I was completely stupid and ignorant about him. He says he wishes he'd known before that I had bipolar disorder. WHO THE HELL CARES WHEN YOU FOUND OUT? What he should have done was attempted to support me, instead of always making fun of me when I cried.... funny, that's the second person I've been with that has done that. SMH. He always had to point out what was wrong with me; God forbid if he tried to understand and be supportive while I was trying really hard to "fix" myself, until I realized I actually wasn't broken in the first place.
It has definitely affected my social anxiety. While I don't have it at home much anymore, it still increases when I have to go to church or Celebrate Recovery, because he's right there in my face.
From this day forward, I have to pretend that he doesn't even exist. There is no "we'll still be friends." Sorry. You can't just go back to that when you lose what you thought was your soulmate. I honestly believe that will help my social anxiety a lot, because I won't be concentrating on any one person anymore. I'm free to concentrate on myself. And that's okay, not selfish at all.
Do you believe that self-love and self-care are important?
When you have social anxiety, where do you go to calm down?
I can't find the video of the other person I was talking about. :/ But I will try!
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.
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)
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.
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
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:
