Tag: bipolar disorder

Clarity

Hello, everyone. It’s been a long time since I’ve updated this blog. I thought I’d share some updates regarding recent events. Before I begin, however, it should be noted this blog is for mature audiences. This also acts as a content warning for discussion of mental health, self harm, and s*icide. I am going to be open, and honest, as I always am when discussing my mental health, but I understand it is not an easy discussion for all to have. You have been warned.

For those who know me personally, you know October is a very difficult month. As a (not so) former goth kid, October used to be my favorite month. I loved immersing myself in the culture of spooky, finding new house decorations (because we all know Halloween decorations are year round). And then I lost someone very near and dear. I didn’t get to tell her goodbye, there was so much left unspoken between us that it left a giant hole that took years to recover. Then I lost my grandfather, the only grandparent I really knew or gave a shit about. October is also my birthday month, and as the years tick by and my circle of friends shrinks, the day is more depressing than celebratory. Finally, there is the loss of Dave. Readers of my blog might recall the post I made about him shortly after he passed in February 2020.

I first noticed my mental health taking a downward spiral towards the end of September. Whether it was in anticipation of the following month, or another trigger, I am unsure. What I do know is I was thrown into an unfamiliar social gathering and completely froze. Now, to understand why this is such a big deal, you need to know me as a person. I have extreme social anxiety, and I’m actually quite shy. But I’ve learned if I can entertain the crowds, hide the fact that I’m terrified beyond all comprehension, I get less attention than I would if I hung to the wall in a corner. To me, it is all a performance, which has brought on feelings of being a fraud from time to time. Needless to say, no one ever believes me when I state how truly introverted and shy I am. But at this particular gathering, I completely froze. Everything I’d taught myself about navigating social situations went out the window. I had two mild panic attacks and had to excuse myself while I reminded myself how to breathe.

The next indication was having a full blown anxiety attack after my shift at work. I hid in a corner and fought my brain to stay grounded in reality all the while clawing at my skin and stimming uncontrollably. It lasted about twenty minutes before releasing me from its grasp. I was exhausted afterward.

Back in the old days when I started to slip down the dastardly hole of severe depression, I would self harm. Nothing serious, but enough to require my attention. When my emotions got too overwhelming, it helped me turn an abstract concept into a physical pain that I could care for and fix. The price for that is self harm is an addiction. I started self harming again, small cuts across a tattoo that I hate, and wore several long sleeve shirts. I also banked on the hope that if my sleeve were to slip and my cuts were to show, no one would question it because mental health in such an obvious fashion makes people uncomfortable. People will typically avoid that which makes them uncomfortable.

The final straw, however, was my brain sending me from a gentle spiral all the way into a full nose dive to rock bottom. It happened so quickly even I didn’t have time to prepare. My nerves were shot, my anxiety at an all time high. I was uncomfortable in my own skin and my mind was so loud it took every ounce of focus just to function from day to day. And then the realization that no matter what I do, no matter how good I am, this is never going to stop. A never-ending cycle of ups and downs, of reality forming and breaking before my eyes that leaves me scrambling to rebuild. A perfectly logical decision one day turns into a terrible decision the next, and all have the potential to absolutely destroy my life. And it is never going to stop.

I’ve always known this, but when you’re drowning in a blackened pit searching for a way out, realizations such as these are truly devastating. I hurt myself again. It didn’t take it away. And I decided it was the end. It was time.

I won’t say I didn’t cry. I did. I cried a lot. Sadness, relief, anguish, joy…all combined into one. Soon it would all stop. Soon the pain, the rushing thoughts, would stop. Soon I would know peace and escape this hell.

I executed the plan perfectly, said my goodbyes, my I love you’s. Took off for the cemetery where Dave rests. I let myself cry, mourn, but ultimately everything felt very final. No one knew where I was. No one knew I wasn’t home. It was late, it was dark. It was perfect. I walked into the cemetery where dew had already begun to gather in the grass. It was so dark, I could see every star in the sky above my head. It was quiet. I sat beside Dave and I talked. I said out loud all the things I’d bottled up, all the feelings I’d kept hidden with nowhere to go. I was honest with myself. I laid back and enjoyed the stars. And my mind was quiet. My soul at peace. Soon.

On my way back to the car, I paused and asked for a sign that I should continue on. Right in my line of sight, a shooting star streaked across the sky. Not much of a sign, I’d seen three just like it only moments before. I sat in my car, turned on my music, dumped the pills in my hand….. And nothing happened.

It didn’t make any sense. My set up was perfect. No one could interfere. No one was rescuing me….. I could feel the pills in my hand so heavy. Waiting. I knew what they’d feel like in my mouth, I knew what they’d taste like. I wasn’t afraid. But I couldn’t do it. I sat there for an hour just holding the pills. My mind was still quiet. My soul still at peace. But my hand wouldn’t move. I grabbed my phone and texted a friend, asking her to call me. The first thing I said to her was “I am an actual fucking coward.” “Why?” “Because I can’t do it.”

The next day I was left feeling very confused. What stopped me? What force lives deep down, hidden from even me, and stilled my hand? I don’t know. But something stopped me, and chose to continue living. Even if it meant pain. The ultimate question I was then left with… Was why? I contemplated on this all day. I’m no closer to an answer now than I was in the graveyard. And maybe I’m not supposed to make sense of it.

There is a song I’ve been listening to by a song artist named Citizen Soldier. Fantastic artist, highly recommend him. The song is called “Thank You for Hating Me”. The title is self explanatory, but essentially he thanks the people who hated him, tried to break him, because their hate made him stronger than he ever thought he could be. It made me realize something about myself.

I hate myself, or so I claim. But I do my best to avoid situations where I’ll be embarrassed, humiliated, or harmed. If I actually hated myself as I claim, why should I care? Why am I afraid of failure if I’m already a failure? So either I hate myself, or I don’t hate myself as much as I think. Maybe I don’t hate myself, but I don’t know how to love myself.

Today, however, has been one of the best days. I have laughed, genuinely laughed. Mostly at myself. The interactions with people today have been more real, not just a stage performance. I have enjoyed it. And the best part is….. It’s mine. It isn’t a chemical forcing my brain to be happy. It’s my happiness. And that is so rare. I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m going to enjoy it while it is here.

Maybe it’s okay that I don’t have life figured out. Maybe not having all the answers isn’t a bad thing. Maybe one day I’ll learn to love myself. Or accept myself at the least. It’s even possible that maybe something did die that night, and something else took its place. I don’t know. I might never know. But what I will say is I’m so thankful to so many of my friends who listened to me and refused to pass judgement. I am grateful.

What Do Emotions Feel Like…. Synesthesia Edition

Everyone associates synesthesia with this great, powerful gift that allows you extrasensory abilities. Indeed, the newest trend and a quick search on a search engine will make it seem that almost everyone has this. Artists have used it to create beautiful works of art, singers and songwriters use it as inspiration. And writers, oh, it grants them a gift of being able to describe things with almost inhuman detail. This gift has been proven harmless. With such beautiful creations springing forth, it would appear this strange and baffling thing is a superpower. 

For the most part, I’ll even agree. Until you begin to try and explain something to someone who doesn’t have it. Then life can get weird. I experience life in sound. Different types of pain have sounds to me (sharp pains are high pitch, dull pains are bass), even foods are sounds (chocolate is low pitch, bread is middle, lemons are high pitch. Anything way too sweet or salty is glass breaking high pitch, and therefore painful). 

I’ve based entire opinions of people based on the sound of their voice. Perhaps it isn’t fair, but I can’t help it. High pitch and nasally voices are painful, where lower tones are pleasant. Accents add an interesting spice to the sounds, and perhaps that’s why I love accents so much. 

If I’m not interpreting the world in sounds, then I’m experiencing texture, sometimes color. France, for example, feels like warm and makes me think of a lovely orange color, where Scotland feels like soft grass, and makes me think blue. 

Now that I’ve given you a road map of my brain, let’s make things even more interesting. What do emotions feel like, sound like, etc? Before I go completely into that, allow me to explain one other aspect. My mind is always noisy. There is always a dull static that surrounds my head. It’s like hearing snippets of conversation in a crowded food court, but drowned out by the roar of the crowd. I call these my potential thoughts. Thoughts, emotions, imaginary conversations, or memories I’ve not experienced yet, but lurk in the shadows waiting to happen. 

Happiness is a strange emotion. It feels loving, impenetrable, like I could take over the world. It sounds like a harmonious symphony, and laughter feels like waves of an ocean. It feels warm. 

Anger feels like ice and fire competing in my veins, with a darkness waiting behind whoever wins. The angrier I get, the harder these two fight. 

Sadness feels like loneliness. It feels like a television left alone in a dark room, with the channel playing nothing but snow. Loud static can be heard. 

Depression feels like this, but with the added benefit of clarity for the potential thoughts. There’s always a dark, twisting figure tat seems everywhere and nowhere, and this figure encourages these thoughts. This leads to the spiraling low, and the static becomes like knives. “Just kill yourself. It’ll save the world a lot of trouble. Everyone will be better off without having to deal with you. You’d be doing them a favor. No one actually cares, they humor you because they need something, want something, from you. As soon as you’re no longer useful, you’ll be tossed away entirely.” 

Bipolar low feels like…. I’m surrounded by hundreds of these figures, and they’re all shouting at me to just end it. Just do it. Which leads to, what I feel, is a level of bipolar psychosis. The world seems to be moving so fast around me, and I’m standing still. Or maybe it’s the other way round, and I’m spinning so fast I have the illusion of standing still. The world doesn’t include me, I’m an outside observer peeking into a window of reality. 

Thankfully I haven’t experienced that often. It is truly terrifying, to exist but not. To feel, but not. 

Stress feels sour, like sour milk. And the more stressed I feel, the more soured I feel. I even begin to think I smell sour, which increases the stress. 

Why am I writing this? Why am I telling you? To be honest, I have no idea. Maybe I just need people to know and understand the extra layer I feel beneath the emotions. Maybe I’m hoping someone will read this who can give answers, or can relate. Maybe I’m hoping my words can help a study. What happens when you combine synesthesia with a mental disorder. Chaos and beauty happen, of course. 

I hope this has been educational. I feel better now, at least. 

Just a few thoughts

Just a few thoughts

​I’ve heard a lot of people say they’d prefer to be alone, without friends or lovers, because they wouldn’t get hurt. 

Wrong. 

No matter who you are around, or not, the person that can hurt you the most is yourself. 

But sometimes the people you bring into your world can help you fix some of the damage you’ve done to yourself. 

I also do not believe that a person is either good, or bad. These are simplified categories we use to justify feelings. I think it is all perspective. Everything is a matter of perspective. 

I do not believe that God, or the devil, has the ability to make us feel, or do, certain things. That implies we lack free will. If we didn’t have free will, I wouldn’t be writing this right now. You wouldn’t be reading this right now, either. I believe we are all capable of “evil”, and we use God and the devil in the same sense that we use bad and good. Without one, it is impossible to appreciate the other. 

I think country music is annoying. Sorry, that was random, but the man delivering boxes at Sonic is blaring it. Felt like it deserved mentioning. Everyone’s just whining to a twanging guitar. 

I wish the world could focus more on love than being right. The joy of a meaningful conversation, the laugh between friends, cuddling, surpasses the joy of being able to say “I’m right”. And that’s coming from someone who is addicted to being right and proving a point. 

Why is country trying to sound like rock and pop mated and had a strange love child? Sorry again. The song changed. I wonder if I should tell the Sonic delivery guy that he’s featured in my blog? Nah, that would be weird. 

I want to find a love that makes me feel as happy, as comfortable, and as accepted as my best friend makes me feel. Then he’d be my best friend and I could marry him. I want a love that isn’t forced, or fake…. But beautiful like a glorious painting, a symphony, and moving like a novel. I want a love that is…calming like a gentle storm. Does that even exist? Probably not. Which brings the entire blog full circle to the first sentence I said. 

Sometimes I feel like I’m going to be alone forever. I feel like everyone will leave eventually, or in the grand scheme of things I am nothing. I am the flame on the end of a match to most people, when what I want is to be someone’s sun. I want to matter. I don’t want to feel like I’m easily replaced with a new model. I want to heal, I want to help, I want to inspire, I want to love, and live. I want to matter.

But I’m going to be alone. At least that’s how I feel. Maybe it’s better to be alone? Because then I won’t get hurt. Trusting people hurts. Because people hurt. Because the world hurts. 

Yet I’m currently alone, and the only one hurting me right now is myself. My inner “demons”, if you will. 

And the country music. That’s not helping.

This blog went in an entirely different direction than I thought it was going, but I kinda like it. It’s very…real. Very me. Very random. It’s perfect. 

Perfectly me. 

Comfy Cloud

I was driving home today, lost in thought while music droned on in the background. My thoughts can sometimes be freeing, as I imagine life carefree and happy. My thoughts can also be a prison, bombarding me with every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I enjoy driving, as it relaxes me and let’s me clear my mind. Sometimes the journey is a little symbolic; a mental journey to clarity made manifest. Today was no different.

In the past few months I’ve begun to struggle with my brain. Once upon a time I knew who I was, what I wanted, where I was going, and what I wanted to do. I knew myself well enough to counteract the symptoms, prepare for the highs and lows that accompany my mental disorder. It would seem, however, that I’ve become a stranger to myself.

I don’t know who I am anymore. I have no passion, nor desire. No inspiration. As a result, I also no longer know how to fix, my broken pieces, or at least cushion the fall.

So, I’ve decided to start seeing someone. Or, I did, until I chickened out and left the parking lot. I know it’s something I need to do, because I cannot do this on my own anymore.

What scares me the most about the entire process is…. everything. I try to pinpoint one thing even to type about it now, and everything screams at me. Single file line, please!

I’m scared to become a zombie like I did the first time I went on medication. But I remind myself that I am older, and wiser, and medicine has come a long way in 13 years……Holy shit, has it really been that long? Damn. Alright.

I feel like a failure. 13 years unmedicated, and now I’m having to do something. I remind myself that millions of people are on medication for various reasons, and there’s no shame in it.

What if I’m not bipolar? What if it’s something else, something worse? That thought terrifies me. If my diagnosis was to change, how would I go from being bipolar to something else?

What if I’m not taken seriously? What if they think I’m just…crazy? Or overdramatic? Well, they’re paid to help you, so that’s silly…

Finally, but certainly not least… I’m inspired by my sadness. What will I do if I lose it? I don’t want to get rid of the only thing that gives me something to write about and hits my soul……….. But then I think…. What if I could live in a world where I was inspired by joy? Experienced true joy, happiness, delight, on a daily basis? What if, instead of tears covering my paper from sadness, tears slid down my cheeks from laughter? What if darkness didn’t lurk over my shoulder, influencing all of my hobbies and talents, and instead gave way to light?

I don’t want to be inspired by my sadness.

It was that thought that brought be clarity, as I arrived home from my travels. Darkness, sadness, doesn’t have to be my driving force.

Maybe if I can find myself, I can l “fix” myself. The question becomes… Where do I look first?

Mental Illness Is…

Mental illness is sitting in your car trying to gather enough courage just to go inside. Sometimes even your own home.

Mental illness is painting on a smile, just so no one can see you tearing yourself apart.

Mental illness is sometimes hating thee people you love more than anything, because it is a welcomed relief from hating yourself.

Mental illness is sitting alone in your car crying because it’s the only place no one can see you.

Mental illness is thinking suicide is the only way out of a bad situation, because you’re scared of what’s coming next.

Mental illness is listening to someone say unnecessarily hurtful, anger filled things to the people you love…only to realize you’re the one saying the negative things.

Mental illness is wanting to be alone, but wanting people to refuse to leave you alone.

Mental illness is believing you don’t matter….and if someone tells you differently, you believe they’re lying.
………
…………
Mental illness is mentally scripting out your suicide letter, and trying so hard to mentally word it in such a way that everyone knows it wasn’t their fault, there was nothing they could do.

Mental illness is being overly controlling in other aspects of your life, only because you’re losing control in every other aspect…..

Mental illness is a swirling black void filled with all the terrible things you’ve done, all the terrible things you’ve said, and every day it tries to consume you.

Mental illness is paranoia, questioning every little thing anyone says, over thinking, over analyzing, and assuming everyone is trying to get you. Or, other side of that coin is thinking everyone is your friend even with mounting evidence they are not.

Mental illness is pain.

My First Rejection

So, I received my first rejection letter. It was a soul crushing experience. I tried desperately to put into words what I was feeling, only to crash and burn into a fit of tears.

I’m going to share the entire experience with you, because I want others to realize they aren’t alone. Also, I’m going to link in my favorite topic: bipolar disorder.

A few months back I was slapped with an idea for a story, and before I knew what was happening, my fingers were flying across the keyboard. Hours disappeared at a time, and the story was writing itself. I found the experience therapeutic, because I was able to release so many of the dark and negative thoughts rumbling around in my head that I’m afraid to admit out loud. I found myself sitting in the edge of my own chair, wondering what was going to happen next. There was no planning, no charting, just me and the keyboard. It was a scraping clean of the subconscious, with hopes of making room for bigger, better things. I was once more surprised with my own writing, a sensation I’ve been lacking for many years now, and realised I wanted it released to the world.

Until I actually pressed submit.

I spent the remainder of my evening trying desperately not to throw up on customers, checking my email repeatedly even though I knew nothing had changed since I’d checked it five minutes before. I kept saying over and over “There’s a stranger touching my things!” And I felt like I was being violated. It was the weirdest thing.

I kept telling myself I was going to be rejected, because I am the type of person who always thinks the worst until I’m pleasantly surprised by awesome. Once I was home from work, I laid down and kept saying “Prepare yourself. You’re going to be rejected.” I thought I could handle it.

I was wrong.

The email came while I was asleep, so it was the first thing I saw when I woke up. “Thank you for submitting your work. Unfortunately it isn’t what we’re looking for at this time.”

All at once, the world began to spin in reverse. Cracks and tears began to appear in the fabric of my reality. I was sitting there trying desperately not to cry, and failing miserably.

The remainder of the day was spent curled up in a ball crying, or sitting in the car crying. You’ll notice the common theme here is crying.

And all my wonderful friends and family tried their best to cheer me up with statistics. And I did appreciate it, I swear I did. Unfortunately I couldn’t rise to the occasion and thank anyone properly because I was too busy fighting my own demons to worry.

See, here’s another thing about being bipolar. It is a learning process every day. No, seriously. And that point makes sense to all the above I’ve said thus far. Scientists are still learning about it, and so too are the ones who have it. Every day we are faced with new challenges and potential triggers, and learning what to do and how to react.

And I learned insane amounts of worry and stress can bring on one hell of a down turn once it’s finally relieved. Suddenly I wasn’t just coming to terms with a rejection letter, I was coming to terms with everything I’ve ever done wrong in my life, and convincing myself I wasn’t a failure at life. Suddenly I was crying because my grandfather died almost a year ago. I was crying because I was a divorced, single mother. One of my dear friends, whom in my eyes should receive sainthood, received the brunt of my downturn. I kept telling her “Just let me have this moment, just let me fall apart. It’s not me, it’s the chemicals in my head, I’ll be okay soon.”

Finally she understood it wasn’t a “get back on the horse, champ” speech I was looking for, but someone to just listen to me while I spiraled out of control.

I learned that the right thing said at the wrong time can make me angry, even though I knew the intentions were in the right place. I waited until my brain was back to functioning order before I responded or “liked” anything. Now I feel much better, and though I do still have anxiety, I will eventually try again.

Which brings me to the next part of my post. I’m honestly thinking about switching my blog to mainly bipolar logs (read: personal therapy) since it seems to be what I talk about most. Which, can you really blame me? It is the topic I understand most, and understand the least.

But here recently I’ve been seeing quite a few articles pop up titled things like “45 things all bipolar people want you to know” and “five things Hollywood gets wrong about being bipolar”. I thought I would take this opportunity to share some nuggets of wisdom from my own experiences, and experiences I’ve gathered from the world around me.

1. Bipolar disorder is not black and white.  One thing I hated when I was taking sociology and psychology was how badly everyone tried to fit everything in a neat little category, and liked to pretend there was no such thing as a grey area. That simply isn’t how real life works. Person A and Person B may have the same disorders, but that doesn’t mean they suffer the same symptoms. Person A may have strong anxiety issues, where Person B may have strong cases of sociopathy. Person C may have all of those, and Person D may suffer from something else entirely.

2. We’re often relieved to learn something we do is classified as a symptom. I am a bit of an impulse buyer. I spend way too much time on Amazon, and if there’s something I want, I get it. I always thought this was just a bad habit (memorizing my debit card number didn’t help either), until I had to start saving money for a trip. I was doing so well, until a swing hit me, and suddenly I NEEDED that burger, or NEEDED that top. Next thing I new, money I’d saved up for a month was gone, and I was left standing there going “Where the hell did my money go…?” I was actually relieved to learn impulse buying is actually a symptom (falling under the category of risky behavior). Good news for me, bad news for my bank account.

3. Most articles center around people who are medicated. I haven’t been medicated since I was 13, choosing instead to go it on my own. I’m not saying people who take medication are weak, or can’t do it in their own. Quite the contrary, medication is a scary thing and often the side effects are more terrifying than the disorder itself (see any commercial regarding bipolar or depression medicine, and the list of possible side effects takes up more than half the commercial). What I’m saying is medication and I had a disagreement and I decided I could do things on my own. But reading articles focusing entirely on people who are medicated can sometimes make those of us who aren’t feel as though we are doing something wrong. WHICH, by the way, we are not! I’m not using this as a platform against big-pharm, because I realize some cases legitimately need medication to function or survive. But I also believe firmly in behavioral therapy.

4. There is a right thing and a wrong thing to say. Problem is, we don’t know what it is either! This is one point I want to stress heavily, especially for anyone who is fortunate enough to be our friends, our family, and who is willing to sit and hold our hands. At least in my experience, I am often waiting to hear the right thing. And when people talk or try to help, I’m not okay until I hear it. The problem is, however, I don’t know what that is until I hear it. And it could all depend on what point I’m in in my cycle. A piece of advice given to me on one day may anger me, yet the same piece of advice given a day/week/month later may suddenly make prefect sense and lead to the lovely “Ah ha!” moment. We’re not trying to be ungrateful, or heartless. We’re not trying to say we don’t appreciate the intention. Sometimes it just hasn’t clicked yet.

5. We are passengers in our own heads. In some of my worst cycles, I’ve often explained that it feels like someone else has control of my body and mouth, and I’m just a passenger. I’m not justifying, or giving a way out of accepting responsibility. All I’m saying is sometimes there are so many chemicals moving and shifting around, we’re just as lost and surprised as you are.

6. Sometimes we don’t know what to do either. Think of it like getting drunk. You have your go-to drink, the one that makes you happy. You’re comfortable, you’re okay with it. You know how your body will react. Midway through the evening, however, you’re accidentally served a drink you’ve never had, and it’s strong. You react differently, you’re not sure you like it. Then you’re served a completely different drink. This one makes you nauseated, causes you to ache or feel sick, but you know it’ll pass soon. Another drink and you’re feeling very confident, a feeling you can live with. Before the night is over, you’re slipped drugs and you lose all control. The combination of strange drinks plus drugs, becomes deadly. That’s what it’s like being bipolar. A chemical alters what we are feeling, and it doesn’t take much to trigger a reaction in many cases. Depending on the feeling, we can sometimes be left feeling quite vulnerable.

7. We are NOT CRAZY.
Sometimes our moods are chaotic, and in some cases people have lashed out at others in anger. But that doesn’t mean we are psychotic. The society we live in has placed all mental disorders into the category of crazy, which is detrimental (hahahaha) to the patient, the patient’s families, etc. Many of us already feel like we are broken, like we are losing our minds, we don’t need to be categorized in the same box as Charles Manson.

8. We do love, some of us just do it differently. One thing I struggled with, and still struggle with, is experiencing and showing love. Sometimes I need to be my own person, rather than so-and-so’s daughter, so-and-so’s mother, so-and-so’s girlfriend, etc. Other times I love so entirely it becomes physically painful. Manic love, in my opinion, is the gateway of obsession. Then there are days where I can’t love, because I’m too busy in my own head to worry about anyone around me. It’s hard to explain, but… One thing I’ve always wanted to say and explain to family, my friends, loved ones new and old….  My feelings are, and were, real, just some days are harder than others.

I’m sure I had many other points to make, but I can’t seem to think of them. This will be a case of I’ll remember as soon as I click publish. Ah well. If you have any thoughts, or anything you’ve just always wanted your friends/family/loved ones to know, feel free to add it in a comment below.

Through the Eyes of Jackie Spade

Hello again my faithful followers! You may have noticed my sudden disappearance again. There is a very good reason for that! A few, actually.

One: Lack of inspiration.

Two: Summer time at a hotel.

Three: Low swing.

I’ve kept the third one vague since that is the topic of today’s post. Wouldn’t make sense to spoil the ending before I’ve even started. Little teasing before we actually begin. 😉

First of all, what is up with the rude people that come out of the bottom of the barrel when it is summer time? I know it’s hot, but come on! Rudeness costs, people. Being polite will get you quite far, and pays better benefits. I want to badly to yell back at people when they act like assholes to me, but I’m paid to be nice. So I can’t. But yell at me when I’m off the clock and I will hurt you.

Nah, not really, but in my brain I’ve already killed you off in my next book. Painfully.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I can move on to the actual purpose of this blog. I want to talk about Bipolar Disorder.

What does is Bipolar Disorder? I’m glad you asked! The National Institute of Mental Health gives us this as a definition:

Bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive illness, is a brain disorder that causes unusual shifts in mood, energy, activity levels, and the ability to carry out day-to-day tasks. Symptoms of bipolar disorder are severe. They are different from the normal ups and downs that everyone goes through from time to time. Bipolar disorder symptoms can result in damaged relationships, poor job or school performance, and even suicide. But bipolar disorder can be treated, and people with this illness can lead full and productive lives.

So is it a disorder, or an illness? Is it the same as manic depressive, or is it different? The definition changes from here to there as to what exactly it is, but anyone who has it understands all too well.

But Jackie, you ask, we already know what the definition is. What does it mean to BE bipolar?
Well okay, since you twisted my arm.

I realize I’m joking a bit throughout this blog, but the fact is, bipolar “disorder” is very serious. I’ve put a lot of thought into how I wanted to write this, and even now I question it. It’s hard to put into words, and explain to others, what you live through on a daily basis. Even worse is trying to explain it to others in a way they can understand and not think you’re over-exaggerating.

Being bipolar is not an easy task to handle. There are days when I wake up, and I’m in the best mood I’ve been in in days. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the air is clear and wonderful. My daughter is well behaved, my friends and I have deep conversations, and everything is all around perfect. Then there are days where everything goes to absolute hell, and I’m still manic.

You know sometimes you see people laughing at funerals? That’s what it’s like. When a bipolar person hits their high, manic state, it doesn’t matter what is going on around us, we simply cannot react the way a “normal” person should. Well, let me rephrase. I can only speak for myself, so I can’t react in ways a “normal” person is expected to. Everything can be crashing and burning around me, and I’m still giggling over a fart joke. It really is like turning into a five year old again. Everything’s funny, and I just want to prank people and so on. Everything feels like it’s moving so fast.

Then comes the crash. The crash is an interesting one. For me, it’s located some point after my everything-is-funny-haha-dead-people stage. The low swing hits, usually about as severely as a car crash, and suddenly…. It doesn’t matter how good everything is. I’m upset. I start crying for no reason. The jokes that my friends and I were making the day before suddenly hurt my feelings and make me want to cry. I feel like I’m trapped in a prison inside my own mind, and I want nothing more than to crawl out of my own skin and get as far away from myself as possible. I feel like an exposed nerve, and I’m frightened. I’m scared, and I’m alone. That’s what it feels like. I feel totally, and completely, alone no matter who I surround myself with. I want so badly to reach out to someone, and just be held. I want someone to say something to comfort me, but no one can find the right words. “What are the right words, Jackie?” Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t know what the right words are until I hear them. Frustrating? Trying being in my head. Because just as suddenly as it comes on, it goes away. Now, this could take some time for it to go away, weeks or months even, but when it does go, it goes pretty quick.

My swings are typically unpredictable, so it’ll go one of two ways. One will be anger. Everything is personal, everything is out to get me. Everything is trying to hurt me, and damn it I’ll hurt it first. I hate everyone, and everything, and I just want it all to explode around me in a fiery blaze. I want to see destruction, I want to tear at the fabric of reality if it means I can rip this anger and hatred from my chest. All the while I feel as though I am drowning, in a lake of fire, and nothing I can do can stop it.

If I don’t go to anger, then I go to apathy. This is where I simply cannot feel anything. Now, those who know me know I can at times be very detached from my own emotions, sometimes without meaning to, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I have an entire moodswing dedicated to just that. When I am in this state, I just don’t care. I can’t even begin to understand why someone would care about it in the first place. Nothing makes sense to me, I don’t understand why people are happy, or sad. I don’t understand these little things that bring joy to people’s lives. I’m cruel, the things I would normally put a filter on (i.e. “Oh you got a hair cut? It looks…..nice….”), I let out in a cruel and harsh fashion (i.e. “Did you get in a fight with a lawnmower? That hairstyle is horrible. And while we’re at it, you’re not as pretty as you think you are.”)

When all of this is happening, I feel like a different person has taken control of my body. Someone will make a joke during one of the swings and I’m fine with it. Make the same joke during a different swing, and I’ll react differently. My points of view change, depending on my mood. Everything.

The other aspect that no one tells you is what happens during the swings that also cannot be predicted. According to the NIMH:

  • Talking very fast, jumping from one idea to another, having racing thoughts

  • Being easily distracted

  • Increasing activities, such as taking on new projects

  • Being overly restless

  • Sleeping little or not being tired

  • Having an unrealistic belief in one’s abilities

  • Behaving impulsively and engaging in pleasurable, high-risk behaviors

Just to name a few for you. The worst one for me is having unrealistic beliefs in my own abilities. I hold myself to a higher standard than everyone else around me. If someone else makes a mistake, it’s okay. But if I mess up, it’s the end of my own little world. Everyone is going to hate me or laugh at me, everyone’s going to mock me. How could I be so stupid for not doing this correctly, or how the hell did I not see that the first time? I hate making mistakes. “Normal” people brush off mistakes in a few hours, maybe a few days. I hold on to, and remember them, for years. They cripple me with fear sometimes to the point that I will just freeze. Everything freezes and shuts down. All because I made a mistake. Sometimes when I make mistakes, I want to just sit down and sob. Or I get angry. Or…you get the point.

Jackie, that sounds awful, you might say. Why don’t you go get medicated for it?
That’s a good question. One I debated answering for quite some time.

When I was younger I was on medication. And jeeeeeez I hated it. Remember that apathetic stage I was just telling you about? Mix in some paranoia and you have me on medication. I felt like a zombie, floating from one place to the next. I cut so I could feel something. Sometimes it was comforting. The more apathetic I got, the worse the cuts became. Soon I was cutting entire pieces of skin off with scissors. I knew if I kept going, I was going to die. So I tried to kill myself.
Then, suddenly, I was off the medication… and I felt better. I realized I never wanted to go back to that place, ever again. I never wanted my emotions to be dictated by some “magic pill”. I wanted to do this on my own. Yes, it is hard. It is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life. But I do it.

How do you function in society, though? Warn everyone about your disorder?

No, I’ve perfected multiple persona’s. Does that mean you’re lying? No, not at all. Well, sort of I guess. It’s like putting on new clothes every day for me. I’ve got my “Professional Skin” (think business suit), my “Hey-I’m-The-Life-Of-The-Party!” skin, my “I’m here to comfort you” skin. And many others.

Why?

The honest answer is I want to give people what they want to see, rather than what is happening under the surface. My problems are frustrating and complex, and most of the time I cannot put them into words to make myself understand, let alone include anyone else on the ride. The other answer is… I don’t want to be crippled by my problems.

Why?

I don’t see being bipolar as a disorder. Being bipolar has opened my eyes, and made me see the world differently than “normal” people. Yes, there are many days that I absolutely hate it. Would I change myself? No. No, I really wouldn’t.

What I would change is the way society sees people like me. Thanks to the media spreading fear and lies (surprise, surprise), and people lying to get out of severe punishments, society is afraid of people with mental illnesses. We often fear what we don’t understand, and the fact is the definitions for most mental problems are constantly changing and evolving. It’s taboo to speak of. Getting mental help is difficult, and often expensive, and unless deemed “necessary”, most insurance companies won’t cover certain things. Being bipolar has made me a little afraid to talk about my “disorder” to others, because I don’t want any of them to think I’m going to go off the deep end and hurt my daughter, or shoot up a school, or yada yada.

No, listen here people. When I get into the absolute worst of the worst lows, where I am picking up razorblades or picking up pills, and wondering how much time I have to kill myself before I get caught, the only person I am trying to hurt/kill is ME. Let me repeat that. ME. Not my child, not my parents, not my friends, etc. ME. If a person does commit some horrible act, they might be bipolar, but there is something else mixed in with that. That’s right, people, these problems can be mix and match too!

The simple fact is we as a society need to stop being so afraid of it, and maybe, just maybe, encourage people to seek help.

I am not saying people shouldn’t take medication. I’m not saying you should. I can only speak for myself in these circumstances, or what my circle have friends have told me. These “disorders” are different for each and every one of us. That’s how it’s always been, and always will be.

As I stated earlier, it is incredibly difficult for me to truly put into words what it is I experience every day. But I hope this helps shed even just a little bit of insight into what it is like inside my brain.