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.

The Stress.

I have been SUPER good at dealing with stress the last couple of months. When my [ex]fiance kicked me out of the house unexpectedly while I was in the hospital at the beginning of May, I wasn't sure how I was going to deal with things. I didn't know if I'd remain calm, cry it out, or completely lose control of my mental stability all together. I surprised myself by doing relatively well under the circumstances of being told I could not come back to the home I'd known for 2 years and 8 months, to the EXACT day. When someone that is supposed to love you for better or for worse tells you that they "cannot handle your bipolar disorder" and had been trying to figure out a way to get you out of the house, and seized the perfect opportunity of you going into the hospital to do so because you'd "be safe there" (until when?), it kind of cracks you a little on the inside. Especially when you are struggling to heal physically from some literal heart damage. What part of kicking someone out of their home while they are in the hospital is okay, regardless of the reason? He said he has to concentrate on making himself healthier, which I totally agree with. Even though he would promptly deny it, he is a recovering alcoholic. Or was recovering, anyway. He started drinking again, and I will readily admit that I feel partially responsible since I honestly thought it had been long enough to where a beer would be okay. I will never make that very incorrect assumption for ANYONE ever again. EVER. What starts out as 1 beer, quickly becomes 2. Then it becomes 4. Then it becomes daily. Then it becomes frequent 6 packs. Then it becomes someone screaming in your face for just under an hour, telling you how absolutely disgusting you are and reminding you of every single mistake you have EVER made, to you having to clean up their vomit the next morning because you know it won't get cleaned up otherwise. Couple that with anger management issues, and you have quite the cluster-crap. That isn't even the clencher, though. The real slap is the fact that not only does he deny that alcohol and anger are his problems, but instead tells everyone, including me, that I was his problem. Subsequently, "now that you are gone, I have no problems."

I have a few questions.

If I was the problem, why did his breath reek of alcohol a couple of weeks ago when a mutual friend stopped by there?  If I was the problem, why does one of my friends, who eventually became his acquaintance, report that he has engaged in certain activities that he would say he has stopped?  If I was the problem, why was there a newly punched hole in a door that was not there before I was kicked out?

The answer is simple: I wasn't, nor am I, the problem.

So many things have become clear.  So many blinders removed.  Yet, I'm saddened by it, because I realize all the lies.

Real eyes realize real lies.

All the blaming, I almost took it. But it isn't my fault. Thank God I can see that now.  My bipolar disorder was getting worse, yes. That part is totally and completely true; but I can see WHY it was getting worse, and it was all circumstantial. A violent merry-go-round. Being kept unhealthy by an unhealthy person who wouldn't let me in. Who wouldn't get worse in that situation? Gawd.. I think about it, and honestly I'm amazed I didn't succeed in killing myself. That is really, really sad. Sadder still... I love him.  He can blame me if he wants, but I won't claim it. His malfunctions are his own and he needs to deal with his own demons. He will understand one day that what he did was wrong, no matter why he thought he needed to do it. Ironically, as I've grown, become more independent, and have taken steps to build my life, he tries to take credit for it, saying that his kicking me out is what catapulted me into finally taking responsibility for myself. Truth is, I've always been responsible for myself. I just lost my way when I started letting him dictate how I was going to feel and live. I'm taking my life back now, thank you.

Silly me. I thought I could help on the farm, without my own outside source of income, help with his business, and we could grow together. Not so, young, naive grasshopper. You are a fool. You can't help someone who won't let you past the front gate. Every time I thought I broke down an emotional barrier, he would just put another one up. I never stood a chance, and the whole time I was trying, I was really drowning. Being suffocated by the codependency of someone else, why dealing with the codependency inside myself. You cannot help someone who is insistent that they have no problems but you.

Thank you for setting me free, even though you did it in a horribly, horribly wrong way. Thank you for shattering the facade you put up that I would be "safe forever."  Thank you for reminding me that I can never get too comfortable in one place for too long and will always have to worry that one day I could be homeless again, because nothing lasts forever. Thank you for proving that I should have trusted my instincts in the very beginning and kept my belongings separate from yours so I wouldn't have to go through everything later and figure out what was mine. I don't have to worry about what you are doing anymore or try and figure out ways I can help you. I don't have to worry anymore about whether you are going to keep your promises and we'll start getting healthy again tonight.  I don't have to worry anymore about all the stupid little lies that you say you HAD to tell. YOU NEVER HAVE TO LIE, THAT'S A LIE IN ITSELF. And if you really believe that.... I feel so sorry for you.

I'm feeling it now. The weight. The stress. The impending fear, no matter how irrational it is right now. Chalk it up to past experiences, for I know that is where it comes from. I'm thankful for my little twin mattress on the floor in the front hallway of my best friend's house, nestled right by the front door. I'm thankful that I'm out of the elements and have food to eat, water to drink. I'm thankful that within a couple of weeks I found a good job, that while it started off very slowly, has the potential of being a nice life-sustaining income, that may only allow me to live paycheck to paycheck, will still allow me to live, once I'm on my own.

On my own. It's getting to that point that is hard. It's getting to that point that is really bringing on the stress. It seems like the money goes out just as fast as it comes in, and I wonder how I'm supposed to ever save anything.  Whether it's paying my best friend back for the computer she so graciously bought me so that I can work from home as a medical language specialist, using the college degree that I so diligently put myself through school for while I was raising my four children back in the early 2000s. Whether it's doctor appointments and prescriptions, both of which are necessary. Whether it's helping out here and there. Whether it's having to spend money on this or that, that was a basic necessity or something I needed, or a document that needed to be filed, or something I'd procrastinated on paying for. It's always something.

Now, I have a vacation coming up. Yes, vacation, in the midst of all this. Why in the hell would I be taking a vacation right now, you ask? Because when this vacation was planned and almost entirely paid for, I was not in this position. Plans were made, tickets were bought, decisions were practically forged into stone; and come hell or high water I am going on my damn vacation. Also, for the first time in too many years to even count, 2 of my children are coming on a trip with me, and if you had any idea what I've been through in the last decade, you'd understand why I absolutely, positively canNOT give that up! WILL NOT GIVE THAT UP! We are leaving Florida on August 4th, traveling to New England, and are not coming back until August 13th; and that's that!  Judge all you like, it won't change anything.

I will exhaust myself to near death between now and then, sitting here, transcribing, getting paid by production, just so I can make sure they have the best vacation I can give them. I will sacrifice everything I have to have this opportunity with my children that may never come back around, that I have been DYING for, for years now. I will sleep all the way to Maine in the passenger seat of a car if that is the only sleep I will get, if it means we will be a happy family spending extraordinary moments together on the side of a beautiful mountain. Just call us the Von Trapp family!

....and if when we return, I have nothing, I will start over.... again. I pray diligently every day that my time will not run out, physically or otherwise. I have learned through many, many things in my life, that nothing is ever guaranteed. 

So, stressed I am, and stressed I will be. I keep hoping that the right people will hear my story or see my family's need, make no assumptions or form uneducated opinions, and decide to help in some small way, to get me back on my feet... to get us back together. Just give me a freaking chance to start my entire life over, as I've been given no other choice.  To see that I'm doing the best I can with what I have.  To know that I don't pity myself, I'm just tired.

To relieve just a small ounce of stress... help me begin, I'll take it from there.

I hate asking for help, yet I'm forcing myself to do it anyway. CLICK HERE for more information.