tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57250445511855218272024-03-13T02:15:31.431+00:00But My Boot Straps Broke Mom...If you are reading this, you most likely have a mental illness or know someone who does. But people don't talk about it. I used to be ashamed and embarrassed of my illness. Now older and much wiser, I have learned to embrace the crazy. I don't hide who I am. I love and appreciate the little things. I'm not perfect. I stumble and fall, but I always get back up. Come on my journey as I tell my story and tear down the walls of stigma. We're all mad here. Only difference is some of us know it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-78153875713360588482016-11-12T11:09:00.001+00:002016-11-12T12:57:33.044+00:00House Cleaning - Social Media StyleI know it's been a while since I've written anything. Too long. It's been a long nasty year for me. I've been battling those nasty little demonic bugs that eat away at your soul. Started 2016 trying to have more positive attitude. Doing all the little things that are "tools" in my arsenal to fight the demons. I even managed to find it in me to get a part-time temporary maternity cover job. In an office, so nothing I liked, but kept me busy and made feel like I was at least contributing to my family. But the storm was brewing on the horizon. I saw it coming. My husband saw it coming. I did what I could to try and keep what I knew was gonna end up most likely looking like the apocalypse in our world from occurring, but to no avail.<div><br></div><div>It's a very long story involving my husband's sister and her wedding (this past October). That in itself is worthy of its own blog, so I'll keep that one in storage for now. Problem was that this storm was coming. I saw it. I fretted about it. I told my husband I was fretting. But being the typical British stick his head in the sand and pretend it will blow over style, he didn't do much until it was too late.</div><div><br></div><div>Well the fuse was lit just before the Cyprus wedding (which we ended up not attending even though I was the only bridesmaid and he was to give away his sister). And then the apocalypse exploded this past Sunday, after the UK reception. Anyway, I lost it. Big style. On Facebook. I said some pretty nasty things. None of it was untrue, but I literally through ALL the dirty laundry out there to be seen by everyone who stumbled across it. Including all of his sister/brother-in-laws friends and family that I was "friends" with in the evil entity that is Facebook.</div><div><br></div><div>Let me back up one little step first. My husband and I got into it because I found out he was still friends on FB with the shit stirrer that was the spark for much of this discourse. He didn't see the problem (even though he knew what was going on with her & what pain she was causing me) and I flew into a rage. Started screaming and threw a dining chair. I continued to destroy said chair until it was kindling. Childish, but my rage had boiled over and better than the chair than him or myself. I sat in my garden seething as I tried to get my rage under control. I finally calmed a bit. And decided to go straight to the source of what was causing this.</div><div><br></div><div>I tried contacting said sister/brother in law via text since neither of them had been willing to meet with us in person in months. I aired my issues via text (somewhat harshly) with little response other than denials and lies. I became more agitated and my texts became beyond harsh. Then they stopped responding at all. And that's when I opened up Facebook.</div><div><br></div><div>Not sure why I thought that was a good idea. Clearly I wasn't thinking at all at that point. I was simply in a feral fight or flight frenzy. And I was done running and hiding. Things only got worse when I decided to start drinking. Made one more "dirty laundry" Facebook post about how all the lovely photos of my husband and I in Cyprus was a farce. How I was just trying to keep up the happy happy illusion. I then closed it down. I retreated into my dark world.</div><div><br></div><div>My dark BPD world of self hatred. I discovered my kitchen knives are in serious need of sharpening when I couldn't even make a mark on my arm when dragged across it. So went out to my art studio and got out my trusty box cutter. My left arm was first. Dragged the blade across dozens of times. Felt good. Went outside to sit in darkness and drink my beer and smoke my cigarette. Could feel my sleeve getting wetter by the second. Went inside to look. My entire arm was smeared and dripping red. It was beautiful. I needed more. Right arm. Little drops rising to the top of my epidermis, growing then trickling down in bright red trails. I couldn't wait. Left thigh, right thigh. Bliss.</div><div><br></div><div>Most of the night is actually a blur of reality and my manic frenzy. But I remember the blood.</div><div><br></div><div>The next morning, feeling horrible, not about anything I had done, just generally, I opened up Facebook. I had dozens of friends & family from the US sending me love and concern. Dozens more private messages and several missed calls. And one lovely UK "friend" calling me a cunt.</div><div><br></div><div>The last time I had been really ill was nearly 9 years ago. I found happiness back home when I accepted who I am, that I have an illness, let go of shame and guilt, and became honest with who I was. Some people didn't understand and quickly walked away. Some didn't understand, but chose to get to know me a bit anyway so I gave them the same chance. Some applauded my courage. I essentially "came out". It was liberating. I swore I would never put myself back in the closet. But I did. When I moved to the UK.</div><div><br></div><div>I was timid about how people would respond to my illness, so I kept it tucked away. I started testing the waters here and there with the people I had gotten to know. It seemed the stereotypical British concept of not talking about things that make you uncomfortable was alive and well. So I retreated. I lost more and more of myself with each passing day. Before I even realised it, there was hardly anything left I recognised. I had pulled all my old masks out, dusted them off, and became who people wanted me to be in those moments. I disappeared.</div><div><br></div><div>Well let me just say, a good old fashion let the world know how crazy you are on Facebook will weed out the vipers. So I got to house cleaning. I wasn't sure if wanted to see tomorrow, but I sure as hell knew all the ignorant intolerants had to go if I had a chance. Gays are allowed to be openly gay if they choose to be. So why couldn't I be openly mentally ill? Well we still have a long way to go on that one. Stigma and ignorance unfortunately still are the norm. I<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> deleted and blocked at least 50 people. Probably more. Almost exclusively from everyone I met in the UK.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">While I'm still unsure about tomorrow, I know I did the right thing. A few people questioned my actions. A few people still think I'm just "a little depressed" and I just need to "be happy". Like I chose this or something? Some people like to be miserable for misery's sake. Some of those people might need help but have never sought it. Some people do just need a little pep talk. Some people do get a little depressed from time to time. I'm not any of those people. I have a serious terminal illness. I can work on it. I can use tools to help myself. I can find a better place. But my reality is, this doesn't just go away and magically get healed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I'm still here today, writing this. It's been a week. I made it a week. I'm still in shock. I'm reclusive. I'm scared. I'm tired. But I'm here. For now. Hoping for a reason for tomorrow. A reason to find the energy to put another piece of my shattered self back in place.</span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0IlEq70mP48/WCcRkZFke1I/AAAAAAAABF0/IkzA7jZ3FV4/s640/blogger-image-165671590.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0IlEq70mP48/WCcRkZFke1I/AAAAAAAABF0/IkzA7jZ3FV4/s640/blogger-image-165671590.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-6071652232170491502015-12-17T19:01:00.001+00:002015-12-17T19:13:57.003+00:00When will my nightmare end?When will my nightmare end? When will I feel good again? Happy? Joyful? Hopeful?<div><br></div><div>My illness awoke 5 months ago after being bullied by my boss at work. I had been stable for over 8 years after nearly 4 years of hell. I foolishly thought I had beaten it. But my BPD and Bipolar has erupted with a vengeance and I don't know what to do. It started with the bullying that manifested in extreme anxiety and then was triggered into full effect after being involved in a minor car accident that resulted in a severe panic attack. I have since left my job after a period of leave of absence as I was unable to return to work. The anxiety then threw me into a frenzy of mania which lasted a couple months. But now I'm in the throws of rapid cycling and splitting. I am in a severe depression with spikes of fits of rage. I am unbearable to live with and just want to disappear from the world. This all consuming bleakness has left me empty inside and completely broken. I keep trying to fill the hole in my soul with things that should bring me joy. But like water through a sieve, nothing sticks. It all is wasted on me. The joy, contentment, and appreciation I once felt for life for those 8 years is completely gone.</div><div><br></div><div>I have a wonderful husband that is doing his absolute best to support, love, and care for me, but my illness is pushing him away. Between my intense sense of doom and frantic fear of abandonment, I am unconsciously (and sometimes consciously) pushing him and all those that love me away. I have lost all hope. I feel as if I am in quicksand trying desperately to keep my head out, but the harder I try to escape, the deeper I sink. I am in so much pain all the time, every day. I try to grasp onto moments of levity, but they are fleeting, and as soon as they end I feel more empty than before. So I have pretty much just given up. The fight is too much for me to take anymore.</div><div><br></div><div>This fear abandonment and dread of hurting those around me came to an explosive head a couple nights ago. My husband took me away for a break to a city I have been wanting to visit. It should have been wonderful and would have been if weren't for how ill I am right now. I couldn't find any pleasure in the sights and sounds of the magical place we were at. I let the alcohol flow and drag me into what culminated into a hateful fit of rage directed at my husband. I verbally pushed him and pushed him until he couldn't take it anymore and said something hateful back. That was all I needed to unleash my pent up physical rage on him. I punched him in the face. In reaction he hit me back. I turned into a flurry of fists flying at him wanting to make him hurt and feel my pain. I wanted him to experience and understand where my illness has taken me. I wanted to scare him away. I wanted him give up on me so I could let go and walk away.</div><div><br></div><div>He feverishly grabbed at my flailing hands, trying to get me under control. I tried desperately to get away and when I finally broke free, I ran. I ran and I ran, trying to find somewhere where I could jump into the icy waters of the city river. I wanted the cold water to extinguish the burning pain that was eating me alive. My husband managed to chase me down and drag me away from the edge of the dock and drag me back to our hotel. He had to hold me down to keep me from escaping and I eventually drained my energy and fell asleep.</div><div><br></div><div>When we awoke the next morning, I felt an overwhelming sense of deflation. I wanted so much for him to let me go. Let me escape the world that is killing me. He said he will never let me go and never give up on me. I know that should be comforting. It's not. I feel horrible. I am a cancer devouring his beautiful soul. I hate myself for this. I hate what I am.</div><div><br></div><div>When will my nightmare end?</div><div><br></div><div>Help</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OldilB1YNsc/VnMJXvzqoxI/AAAAAAAABA0/KiufOVCmzI4/s640/blogger-image-2027546786.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OldilB1YNsc/VnMJXvzqoxI/AAAAAAAABA0/KiufOVCmzI4/s640/blogger-image-2027546786.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-72401106700165302962015-10-05T19:43:00.001+01:002015-10-06T14:16:31.187+01:00We are all merely actors here...<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">As it is October, and I have been thinking about what I shall be for Halloween, I found myself pondering what is it about Halloween that I love so much? I've always loved the excitement of choosing a character to play. My birthday happens to be one week before Halloween so I've often been able to incorporate the hallowed night into my parties. But why do I love it so much? For starters, the lack of expectation. With Christmas there is always the air of obligation to family. And as someone who has never had a stable family unit in terms of mother and father, most holidays are filled with anxiety and dread. But Halloween was always mine.</span></div><div><br></div><div>I loved figuring out what I wanted to be and how to create this character out of things I already had and using items creatively. But why have I always loved it so much? I started thinking about it in relation to my illness. It suddenly became very clear and then I wondered if other </div><div>Borderlines, as well as others with personality disorders, liked Halloween as much as I do. I realised the reason I loved becoming a character is because I didn't have to try and be something I wasn't.</div><div><br></div><div>Let me explain. Those of us with Borderline Personality Disorder create personas to fit whatever situation we are in whether it be for work, a social gathering, particular circles of friends, etc. We learn to adapt and conform. BPD's are all actors in this thing we call life. We never develop our own personality. We are the chameleons of the human world. It enables us to survive in a world we don't understand. And we are very good at it. Sadly our souls remain hollow since we never are able to develop and maintain true relationships. (Footnote: of course years of therapy and support can help us overcome our identity crisis, but even if we do, we still find it very easy and necessary to revert to our chameleon state if needed.)</div><div><br></div><div>But there's Halloween. The one day of the year we don't have to pretend to be something we aren't. We get to choose our character. I realised there is an amazing freedom in that. Not HAVING to be someone but rather CHOOSING who we are for one night. We don't have to think about the emptiness inside and struggle to be something we aren't. We get to drop the charade and easily blend in without the exhausting effort, because everyone is something they aren't. It's our one true night of freedom.</div><div><br></div><div>I then expanded this line of thinking to actual professional actors. There were times in my life when I thought how easy and fun it would be to be an actor. To get paid to do something I found so easy. Hmmm... How many actors out there are like me? How many have Borderline or similar personality disorders which make them easily slide in and out of fictional roles? I can easily think of a few off the top of my head that surely do based on things I've read about regarding their personal lives: manic episodes, drug abuse, cleptomania, sudden desire to shave one's head, etc. It does make me wonder, how many are like me? And is that the reason they chose acting? Because it comes so naturally.</div><div><br></div><div>Just my random thoughts of the day. And for those wondering about what I will be this year for Halloween, you'll just have to wait. But here's last years character... Who am I?</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ayTfI3oXtEs/VhPG5nM66wI/AAAAAAAAA-4/ZG9zfaFcoLk/s640/blogger-image-1303198139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ayTfI3oXtEs/VhPG5nM66wI/AAAAAAAAA-4/ZG9zfaFcoLk/s640/blogger-image-1303198139.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-43761252996616060292015-10-05T14:40:00.001+01:002015-10-05T16:27:52.825+01:00The Struggle Within... The Struggle AloneI have had so many thoughts and feelings flying through my head lately. Mostly dark scary things. I've been using every coping mechanism I know to keep the demons at bay, but the fight is getting so hard. My days are getting darker, my soul blacker. I'm being ripped apart from the inside and the pain is unbearable. I'm taking more meds to sedate me, but that only calms the physical symptoms, the emotional and mental anguish flourishes in my haze. I've been trying to stay positive, was going to write an upbeat post about Halloween, but I've shelved it for this post, because I feel like there is no better outlet.<div><br></div><div>My poor husband is at the end of his tether. He loves me so much and just wants to squeeze the love into me and push out the bad. If it were only that easy. As I've mentioned in recent posts, I am struggling with the fact I've been hiding my illness from my new UK family and friends. I am in the process of "coming out" slowly and tried to take a big step Saturday night. My husband invited his sister and her fiancé over for a session of drinks and catching up. I specifically, as he knew, and as I thought he had conveyed to his sister, thought that the idea was to talk about what they've been up to and how my illness has awakened. I wanted to try and explain my illness a bit better to them (they know about it, but don't understand and clearly haven't taken the initiative to learn) and to let them know I need their support because I feel like they have been avoiding me (whether avoidance is real or my paranoia is irrelevant). Things didn't go as I planned.</div><div><br></div><div>I was really anxious waiting for them to arrive, pacing, chain smoking, trying to sip my beer and not chug it (don't judge, you've been there). They were some 40 minutes later than expected, which isn't unusual for them, but when you are in a rapid-cycling state, time tables are important to you as I'm sure some of you know. Anyway, they arrived with typical greetings, beer sorted into the fridge, and chatting began. I started with my sister-in-law asking how her work has been. I used to work for her, so I was eager to hear the latest and hear how she has been doing in her new role as a "mini" manager. She asked how I was doing because she knew I had been struggling to say the least. I was trying to explain how I've been and what I've been doing: therapy, meds, exercise, hobbies, doctors, vicars, meditation, etc. I know she knows I have an illness. I know she doesn't understand, because unless you have spent a lot of time and watched someone go through the nightmare that is a rapidly declining psychological breakdown, you can't understand. I will admit it bothers me that I don't think she's even tried to do any research to understand at least the basics. But I started the conversation.</div><div><br></div><div>I had her come inside and I grabbed my iPad and gave her my blog to read. I specifically gave her my "Open Letter to my Mother and Father" to read to just jump in with both feet so she could feel the pain I've lived with my entire life. If you have read that blog, you know what I mean. As she sat and started reading, my husband and her fiancé had joined us at the table. I mentioned what she was reading, and her fiancé immediately started making jokes and was asking when we were going to start playing cards. I tried to steer him away by asking about what's been going on with him, because I knew he had some issues he had been dealing with and I didn't want them to think I wanted some big pity party. I honestly was hoping to have a catch up, share some thoughts and feelings about our struggles, give them a bit more understanding about what I was going through, and convey how I needed their support. He quickly glossed over his issue and once again started making jokes. Okay, he's uncomfortable. But I'm the one with the serious mental illness on the verge of collapse, so could we take a few minutes to have a serious discussion before we lightened the mood?</div><div><br></div><div>As she was finishing reading, I explained to her fiancé what it was and that it was a depiction of the severe emotional abuse I endured at my mother's hand. I whipped out my list of characteristics of emotional abusers and started reading them. My soon to be brother-in-law could not interrupt fast enough or make more jokes about the situation. I'm trying to explain what caused my illness and convey the horror that was my childhood, and he's cracking jokes! I had no intention of making the evening a completely miserable downer, but did he honestly think I just wanted them to come over and get smashed knowing what a bad place I'm in? Or did he not know? Or was he so uncomfortable he just had to end all conversation and get straight to drinking and cards? My sister-in-law did little to stop this chain of events, nor did my husband. So I did what a Borderline always does. I conformed to the situation. I buried my emotions under a flood of alcohol and smiled and laughed. But the demons inside were now in their element, feeding on the dark turmoil that was now stirring just below the surface. The rage inside begging to come out. I somehow kept it all at bay. But...</div><div><br></div><div>The next morning I woke up in a shambles. All the emotion I had to repress the night before was coming out. The anxiety and pain coursed through my veins as if a damn had broken and the flood was destroying everything in its wake. I sat shaking and sobbing. I could feel the demons just below the surface begging for release. I was clawing at my own flesh trying to release them. I desperately wanted an instrument, knife, glass, anything I could use to release the pain. I resisted. I stared helplessly at the beautiful garden I had just spent months making perfect, and I all I wanted to do was destroy it. Destroy everything. I wanted my surroundings to reflect my soul. Complete devastation. My husband found me in this state in the garden and asked what could he do? I had him get my medication, specifically my sedatives (diazepam) to dull the rage. I hate the haze, but I knew I was teetering on the edge of collapse. I told him I wasn't safe. I wasn't safe within myself. I was frantically holding onto reality. I was inches away. But I managed to hold my ground.</div><div><br></div><div>The sedation finally started kicking in and a haze lasting hours subdued the demons. I laid in and out of a semiconscious state staring blankly at the TV. I calmed but the pain and frustration weren't gone. I spoke to my husband of my upset regarding the prior evenings events. I expressed my outrage at how my illness was swept under the rug, a dirty little secret. These are supposed to be people who love me and are there to support me. Clearly that is not the case. So what to do? They aren't bad people and I do love them and I know they love me. They just don't understand. And they obviously don't want to understand. I suppose that is their choice. Unfortunately it breaks my heart. I don't have a choice about my illness. It's there. It's never going away. So now I must learn to accept that my closest family apart from my husband in this country will not be available for support. I do understand some people just aren't capable of understanding or dealing with mental illness. I know this. I was just hoping that they were. </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-DM4T2b9oYSA/VhKUZA2NIzI/AAAAAAAAA-c/COe35cG2jno/s640/blogger-image-726140602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-DM4T2b9oYSA/VhKUZA2NIzI/AAAAAAAAA-c/COe35cG2jno/s640/blogger-image-726140602.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-70200889959206211332015-09-30T19:01:00.001+01:002015-10-01T12:14:46.305+01:00It's Time to Start the ConversationThose of you who follow me know that in my past life in the US I was very open and honest about my mental illness. But since moving to the UK, I've kind of kept it under wraps except for my husband obviously and a few select people. I think I did this partially because of the general anxiety of getting to know people in a new country and my perceived belief that there is more of a stigma in the UK than in the US. Right or wrong, I kept quiet and just smiled through the pain. But it has been eating at me since day one. Getting to know new people was great, but keeping my true self hidden was hell. It didn't usually feel like a big deal. But listening to people whine about petty bullshit on Facebook (which I wouldn't even be on if weren't to keep up with friends and families lives in America), would grind my gears to a halt. <div><br></div><div>Now let me get one thing straight. I know I do not know the struggles of every single person I'm friends with on Facebook. People have shit they have to deal with: illness, death, divorce, financial difficulties, etc. And I commend the people that don't throw their dirty laundry out on the Facebook line for the world to see. However, of the 245 "friends" I have, I'm pretty sure most of the whining is just that, whining. For someone who literally has to fight through every day, because yes even good days are exhausting, it wears you down. If you have a mental illness, you understand what I'm saying. If you don't and you are reading this, then you may want to take a step back and think about your daily life and whether you are one of these people who speaks without thinking. Think about the old adage of "walking a mile in another's shoes". So in other words, don't be a whiner.</div><div><br></div><div>But enough about Facebook and all the pettiness that it entails. I'm here to talk about mental illness. Specifically my mental illness because that's what I know. I cannot speak of other's experiences with mental illness, because I haven't walked a mile in their shoes. I have, however, done quite a bit of research on my illness and read a lot of different blogs about it. We all have pretty much the same things to say: first and foremost it sucks cause it's a life sentence, getting help is a pain in the ass because frankly it's treated differently than other chronic illnesses, the stigma still exists, and the world is horribly undereducated. </div><div><br></div><div>Let me throw out an example... Robin Williams... When he committed suicide a little over a year ago, there was shock and dismay across the world. How could someone so talented and wonderful be so sad that they decided they only had one way out? While I personally was just as shocked and saddened by the news, I understood how he felt at the moment just before, because I've been there. I've been at that precipice in time. I tried three times to end my life. And for those of you who don't know statistics, men are more likely to finish the act because they choose things like guns or hanging, while women choose pills or slitting their wrists which are more likely to have life saving possibilities. I used pills every time. One time, I came frightenly close. But back to Robin, the outpouring of public sympathy led me to believe people would start the conversation about mental illness. It didn't. People simply reminisced about his films or more shockingly called him selfish. Suicide is not selfish. If you haven't lived in a hell that has led you there, don't judge. You know nothing of the pain that gets you there. But the conversation seemed to stop there. And that's where the problem lies. Communication.</div><div><br></div><div>I haven't talked about my illness openly in years because of fear. I'm not ashamed, I was just scared of how people would react. I was scared about how I would be able to get a job if I was honest. Truth be told, I have found that there are times I have needed to or should have lied about my illness but didn't to my misfortune. I was honest on a life insurance application about my illness and was denied coverage because of it. That's unacceptable. Everytime I fill out an employment application regarding medical info there is always a tick box for "do you or have you suffered from depression". I always hesitate. I mean sure depression is a part of Borderline Personality Disorder and Bipolar, but it's just the tip of the iceberg. Honestly it's a damned if you do damned if you don't thing. If I say no and get ill while working, I lied on my application. If I say yes, I might not get the job. And that's not fair.</div><div><br></div><div>I shouldn't have to hide or feel ashamed of my illness. Sadly I do sometimes. I liken it to when AIDS was first making headlines. People didn't, and still don't, want to announce it to the world because of the recoil reaction people have. You won't "catch" my mental illness anymore than you will "catch" AIDS by speaking to me. I'm not contagious. But people don't understand and people fear what they don't understand. So I want and need to educate people. If I save one person from stepping off that ledge, I've done my job.</div><div><br></div><div>If you know someone who has a mental illness, gently ask them about it. You may just find they are willing to speak if you are truly willing to listen. But heed my words, be willing to commit. Be willing to listen, understand, educate yourself, read about it, and comfort. Don't just nod and hear without listening. That is exactly the kind of reaction that will push us away. We have so much uncertainty in our lives, friends and family can not be one of them. I don't want or need sympathy. I'm okay, really. I will be okay. Just realise that my days at best are still a fight. And at worst a nightmare you never want to experience, and I pray you never do. I'm not really religious but I'm spiritual, and I pray for all my family, friends, and acquaintances daily. I pray for them to have happy lives. I pray for them to understand the things they don't understand. I pray for them to appreciate the little things that are taken for granted. Because I take nothing for granted. I've seen and lived through horrors I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy. Life is precious. We all are precious. Listen and care. Educate yourself. About all things foreign to you. If we all did... What a wonderful world it could be.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kxBwfnBQpks/Vg0VfriDl0I/AAAAAAAAA-M/OTc96C9a8G0/s640/blogger-image--651931513.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kxBwfnBQpks/Vg0VfriDl0I/AAAAAAAAA-M/OTc96C9a8G0/s640/blogger-image--651931513.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-27250538798554311832015-09-24T15:46:00.001+01:002015-09-30T14:37:58.393+01:00Open Letter to my Mother & FatherWhy? Why do I exist? This is the question that has been haunting me my entire life. You had a job as parents. You were meant to love me, nurture me, protect me, encourage me, guide me, etc. So why did you fail so miserably at this?<div><br></div><div>Where to start... Father, you were never there. You were an alcoholic. I can count on my hands how many days of my life you were sober. I don't blame you too much. Mom is a bitch and I would've stayed drunk too. You attempted to love me and care for me the best you could. Perhaps a bit too much with regards to the memories I feverishly repress. I needed you dad. I needed you to protect me from her. And when my illness started to awaken, you didn't understand, you didn't even try. I was just some rebellious teen that needed to get her shit together. You never saw that even as a small child I was withering away without the tender nurturing a young child needs and craves. I have no happy childhood memories. Fleeting glimpses of moments of levity. That's it. But let's move on to the root.</div><div><br></div><div>Mother. Should I even call you that? Do you deserve it? You may have given birth to me, but you are not a mother. No mother I will ever claim. You are the woman my siblings and I refer to as "her" or sometimes "your mother". Bet you didn't know that. Even my older brother and sister that you didn't even raise know what you are. And let's take a moment to reflect upon that. My brother and sister were from your first marriage. You were such a poor example of a parent that you lost custody of my young siblings to their father in the 60's! The 60's! What mother lost custody of her children in court in the 60's? Doesn't that say something? You failed them and you failed me. Perhaps actually they were saved. They were better off without you and thrived with their loving father. I'm sure he wasn't perfect. You spent decades telling me stories of his atrocities as a husband. But he was a good father and you will never take that away from him. I even remember the first time I met George. I was very young. I remember asking you if he was my second dad. I may not remember your words, but I clearly remember your reaction. I was young, I didn't understand. But as an an adult I now understand that you lack grace in character. He is a kind gentle man that has always treated me with a love and respect I never got from you. How does that make you feel? It makes me feel like shit that my own mother couldn't love me or respect me when a man who owed me nothing did. And here's the best part about George; while he never sang your praises to the heavens, he was always respectful with regards to you. His words were not always kind regarding his relationship with you, but he showed so much respect for me, kindness, tenderness, that even when I spoke ill of you, he turned the other cheek. How does that sit with you?</div><div><br></div><div>Let's get back to my childhood. To Mother and Father. So dad drank. A lot. We've established that. And why not? You are a miserable controlling bitch. The irony is that this relationship worked for you both. Forget me. You both got what you needed. My father needed someone to take care of him. Someone to feed him, dress him, put his passed out ass to bed, to pick up his drunk ass up from the bar. And you served his every need. You loved it. Loved the control. Craved it like a junky craves heroin. My sister cited at his funeral "we don't know if Carolyn bitched because Ole drank, or if Ole drank because Carolyn bitched." Sadly poignant. I'm not blaming you mother for his alcoholism, but you were the perfect, textbook example of an enabler. And you loved it. What is really laughable is your imagined control of him. Hiding bottles, locking liquor cabinets, watering down drinks, all in the name of control. But on the weekends, as you and I sat watching the beginning of the football games, we could here him cracking open a bottle of whatever was accessible and quietly pouring it into his freshly rinsed out coffee mug. I knew. You knew. But like all dirty little secrets, we both pretended we didn't know what was going on. And then the parties... birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve... Oh how you played the part of the shocked but understanding wife when dad was escorted stumbling to the car. They all knew. They were your best friends. And they played their parts as well. And I have a few words for them as well, but later. Such a charade.</div><div><br></div><div>Oh childhood. What an absolutely horrendous time for me. If I only knew what impending doom was coming my way, I might of appreciated those moments of fleeting happiness more, held on a little tighter hoping they stuck. Dad drank. You bitched. Actually as I recall very clearly as a small child, you fought, loudly and somewhat violently. I cried myself to sleep every night praying to a God I knew nothing of because you never introduced me to any sort of religion or spirituality. I prayed for it all to stop. I prayed for your happiness together. Then, one night, you heard me, and came to check on me. I clearly remember telling you I wanted you and dad to get a divorce so you would stop fighting and be happy. One of the quirks of my warped, twisted brain is that to protect itself it has completely blocked some memories and others replay as if they just occurred. That night I clearly recall as if yesterday. You actually consoled me to the best of your ability and promised it wouldn't ever happen again. It didn't. Not because the problem was solved, but because you chose to bury the secret deeper. But did that solve anything? Did things get better? No. I learned from you that when things were not pretty, you hid them. You buried your dirty little secrets so no one could see them. You didn't speak of them. Because if you pretend it doesn't exist, then it doesn't, right?</div><div><br></div><div>Let's move on to my teens shall we. This is where your facade, my facade, started to truly show signs of fracture. I did everything I could my entire life to please you. Impress you. I never could. I was your project. Your way of showing the world you could raise a perfect child. So I had to be perfect. I tried so very hard in every way. I always tried to impress you with my knowledge only for you to illustrate that you were smarter. Well of course you were. I was a child. But you never gave me a chance. And then there was the benchmark. My brother and sister. And what a benchmark they were. They flourished throughout school, became thriving adults starting their own families, everything I strived to be, just to make you happy. But I wasn't happy. I never learned to be happy with who I was. I played a role. I was an actor in your play and I always played second fiddle. Nothing every impressed you. You never showed pride in my accomplishments unless you could claim the praise. So I was nothing. I was a shell of a human. I never developed as a person. I only ever mimicked what I thought you wanted me to be in my never ending quest to make you happy. A fruitless effort to be sure.</div><div><br></div><div>I didn't know at the time, even with my early hospitalisation as a teen, nor did the doctors recognise what was wrong with me. I was young, only sixteen. I had a complete mental break from reality. I only remember bits then waking in the hospital in a daze how many hours or even days later. Not understanding where I was or what had happened. My first complete mental breakdown. I'm pretty sure the only reason I got help at all was because I was suicidal and in a severe depression. However the doctors didn't know what it was or what to call it. They went on your information. I was smart. I was successful in school. I played the role you created. I don't even think the doctors knew then what I was or what to call it. I was a Borderline. I subjugated every instinct I had as an individual to please you. I had no identity. I became whoever and whatever I needed to be to survive the situation. It wasn't until some twenty odd years later I was properly diagnosed.</div><div><br></div><div>I have some clear memories of this time. Us sitting in the psychiatrists office discussing my issues. Me attempting to bring up my problems with you and dad. You quickly nipped that in the bud. I was a bad seed. No child of yours would have these thoughts or feelings. The doctors didn't help. I was once again treated like a naughty teen in need of a spanking, and that was it. So I once again, I repressed and conformed. Did what I was told and what was expected. I became no better. </div><div><br></div><div>Let's speak of my relationships with men. So I was sixteen and fresh out of the psych ward that helped none whatsoever (just a waste of my time and as you always like to point out, my college tuition). Was it any surprise at this point I latched onto Jamie? He filled a void you never did and also offered the numbing substances available to ease my inner turmoil. What's interesting is that though he was the bad influence (much older and supplying me with drugs and alcohol at 16) but I was the one in control! I'm sure in some way he loved me. I played a role then, your role. I controlled him and used sex as my weapon. That's how I learned a relationship should work. You find an easy target and then use, abuse, manipulate, whatever it took to make them yours. I woke up one day and realised how boring he was and walked away. But all my boyfriends after were similar in the respect that I picked men I could manipulate. I quickly learned what kind of woman they wanted and became the character. I made men fall in love with me over night. Of course they all fell in love with fiction. Because I didn't exist. I had no soul, no identity. In reflection, I feel sorry for my actions, but they weren't really my actions. I was nothing. Nobody. I was what you created. An atrocity.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm an adult now and have been through years of therapy, on every psych med known to man it seems, abused a lot of drugs, screwed a lot of men, attempted suicide, and have studied my illnesss at length to better understand myself. To know why I am the way I am. After coming out of my "dark period" (three years of hell I barely survived), I somehow managed to crawl out of my swirling cesspool and clawed my way back to something resembling a normal life. People ask me how I did it, and I honestly have no idea. The devil himself told me I didn't have the intestinal fortitude to survive the world I had been lured into, but he was wrong. I survived. And to some extent I've thrived.</div><div><br></div><div>Here's the thing though mom, even though I seem to have a picture perfect life now, behind my smile my illness still stirs. And it has recently been awakened and is pulling me towards the darkness. I'm using every tool I know to fight it. But it's there, lurking in the shadows, haunting my nights and days. And I am now feeling something I never fully experienced before... RAGE. I have so much rage towards you it literally feels like my insides are being ripped apart. I hate what you created. And I will never be able to get rid of it. When you die, I will still live with the nightmare. And when you die, I will not care. In fact, I will be happy that I no longer have to dread the anxiety of speaking to you. People who don't understand my illness will say to just "let you go" and "get over it". But those who know, who understand, know that will never happen. I wish it were that simple. It's not.</div><div><br></div><div>Mother, you will never read this and Father is already dead. Perhaps I'll put a copy in your casket so you can rot and burn with my words for eternity. Maybe then I'll find peace.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hnIRJ115qRk/Vgvls-a92WI/AAAAAAAAA98/qA7vbcdd-Yk/s640/blogger-image-995753856.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hnIRJ115qRk/Vgvls-a92WI/AAAAAAAAA98/qA7vbcdd-Yk/s640/blogger-image-995753856.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-79142560424586606742015-09-19T23:26:00.001+01:002015-09-21T11:48:21.483+01:00SecretsSecrets. We all have them. Some we share with the closest of friends. Some we take to the grave. So what happens when you have a mental illness and have a secret you're keeping from a loved one? That's been my latest anxiety trigger.<div><br></div><div>As a Borderline/Bipolar in the midst of what can only be described as the manic of all manic phases, I have been pulling out every trick in the book to manage my mania in productive ways. Gardening, DIY, walking, etc. But I was craving a crutch. A chemical and tactile release to help calm me in between the chaos. I had no intentions. But one day I found myself at the shop and asked for a packet of cigarettes. In the grand scheme of things, not a big deal. Not drugs. Not scouring the back alleys for some crack or heroine. Just cigarettes. A habit I've never been able to fully commit to. Frankly I've picked them up and dropped them just as easily throughout my life. And now older, and much wiser, if not saner, I realise they are a knee jerk anxiety release. When I'm swimming, swimming, swimming...smoothly through this world, I have no need. Furthest thing from my mind. But a few weeks ago, mania hit me like a tidal wave. Massive turrents crashing down on my head while the rip tides swept my feet out from under me. And I needed something.</div><div><br></div><div>Now I don't sit around chain smoking everyday. Well sometimes. Depends on the day. Here's the issue: my wonderful loving husband is and always will be 100% against smoking. So what was I to do. I hid it. My dirty little secret. He'd shuffle off to work all tidy in his suit and tie, me itching and pushing him out the door, just waiting and practically drooling for that early morning fag with my coffee. I nearly chain the first two. And then, depending on the day and what state I'm in, they would come quite regularly or I wouldn't even think about it for hours into the afternoon. I would say no rhyme or reason, but let's face it, when you're in a manic state, there's usually a reason whether you see it or not.</div><div><br></div><div>But I'm not here to speak of the reasons for picking up those nasty little treats. I'm here to speak of how I went to great lengths to hide my, which I can honestly say will only be a temporary, dirty stinky nasty habit. I kept my stinky hoodie tucked away in the shed he never visits. I would wear a bandana on my head to protect my hair. I would go through bottle after bottle of body mist. Hand lotions, hand washing, teeth brushing, mouth washing, clouds of perfume... This was my camouflage. And as soon as I knew he was on his way home, quickly chaining a couple for last of the day, and then it was shower time. Feverishly scrubbing and washing away my sins. Febrezing my pile of dirty clothes of the day in a bag of "dirty laundry" waiting to be washed. He never knew. No clue. But the guilt. The shame. It slowing started eating at me. Like a rat gnawing on a carcass. The anxiety grew and grew. And the fact that I was trying to manage the anxiety of my illness made this added anxiety worse. So I did what I finally knew I had to do for my sanity. For better or worse, I had to tell him.</div><div><br></div><div>When the day came, just a few short days ago, I skipped my usual cleansing routine. I sat in my little studio waiting for his arrival. Replaying over and over again the coming conversation. He got home and instead of a hug, I made him sit down. "Honey I have something to tell you. I need you to not get mad. I need you to understand. I need you to realise it is only temporary. I have a secret I've been keeping. And I can't lie and deceive you anymore. It's eating me alive. I've started smoking."</div><div><br></div><div>What happened next I didn't expect. As my words poured out, his anxiety grew. He immediately jumped to the conclusion that I was cheating on him. I suppose I did build the suspense as he sat there. I laughed. I have never since we've been together even had the slightest inkling of cheating or desire to do so or any interaction with any man that made the idea even flit through my mind for a split second. So relief. I was relieved to have ended the secret. And he was more than relieved to be assured his worst fear was fiction.</div><div><br></div><div>It's been a few days now. My anxiety of my secret had decreased (only wish my other anxieties would do the same). I can now freely go hide in my secret garden and engage in my filthy habit. I don't enjoy it really. But for now, temporarily, I'm using this crutch. I hope to replace it with some other healthier habit soon. But for now, it is what it is. And now that I've unveiled my truth, there is a little less anxiety in my life.</div><div><br></div><div>Moral of this story... If you are keeping a secret that you feel the need to desperately hide from your loved one, you are slowly breaking down the foundation that holds you up. And that is never a good idea. Honesty. Loyalty. Trust. These things are what hold love together. Without them, the cracks will appear and the foundation will crumble. You won't even see it coming.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wK-TVQAe9P8/Vf_gakyrQEI/AAAAAAAAA7o/x2E8T5p4hr8/s640/blogger-image-393695113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wK-TVQAe9P8/Vf_gakyrQEI/AAAAAAAAA7o/x2E8T5p4hr8/s640/blogger-image-393695113.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-3059065378065107782015-08-30T19:33:00.001+01:002015-09-14T12:53:28.371+01:00Just another manic Monday...and Tuesday...and Wednesday...etc..Manic doesn't even begin to describe my state right now. Technically speaking I'm in a "hypo mania" state. Nearly all the way to the edge, but with help of some lovely medication, I haven't crossed over that great divide that would classify me as truly manic. And anyone who has read my posts understands that when I say " lovely medication", I am really saying I have fallen down the rabbit hole and my sad little mad mind has gone trotting along with Alice to the Hatter's tea party and I'm taking every tablet and drinking every potion to try and make sense of the endless tide of thoughts and emotions rushing through my mind. Nothing makes sense. Everything blurs from one fleeting thought to the next.<div><br></div><div>So how have I been managing to keep the Avalanche that is trying to bury me at bay? I've been busy. Very very busy. I am doing anything and everything I can to burn off this energy before it has a chance to take hold and consume me.</div><div><br></div><div>First of all, I'm walking. A lot. I'm blessed enough to have a lovely nature reserve literally outside my front door that leads to open fields and farm paths. I usually take two 2-4 mile walks a day. I change it up by taking harder climbing paths some days and leisurely winding paths others. It helps. Some.</div><div><br></div><div>But how am I really burning off this diesel in my veins? Let's just say my husband is a very patient man. I have DIY'd and gardened to the nth degree. We have a converted garage at the back of the house that has gone through many transformations in the past: gym, art studio, shabby chic furniture project storage, camping gear dumping ground, general junk storage, etc. My manic phase started about the same time my husband got a promotion, that meant he was working from home some. As a result, our dining table turned into a make-shift office. His clutter, my clutter, the dust bunnies were taking over. He started talking about converting that back room into an office. Well my "I can't wait, I gotta do it now" brain took over. We cleared out the room in preparation, but I know my husband didn't see what was coming next.</div><div><br></div><div>I woke up one day and couldn't contain the manic energy anymore. Our discussions of paint colours and what to do went out the window. I pulled out all the old paint left over from other rooms. I mixed to part tins of shades of white and boom, ceiling done. I then mixed 6,yes 6, different paints to come up with enough to paint the room. Ended up with a quite nice taupe/beige colour. But now what? Still had that fire burning inside me. The bathroom never saw it coming! Boom! Went from a shocking bright tourquoise blue (probably a result of some manic phase a couple years ago) to a soothing misty grey.</div><div><br></div><div>In the midst of all this painting, my frustration over not being able to find the tools I needed to do these jobs, led to a complete clean out and overhaul of two sheds. I think we were close to divorce court when I insisted he sort through two old tool boxes crammed with 25 years worth of crap because I had a meltdown when I couldn't find a screw.</div><div><br></div><div>So great, I'm getting shit done, right? Problem is my little flitting dragonfly like brain kept moving on to new projects. Is the back room that is now supposed to be an organised office slash art studio done? Nope. Have I finished decorating the bathroom, the tiniest room in the house? Of course not. Those are small tedious tasks. I needed monumental challenges to quench my thirst! Bring on the landscaping!</div><div><br></div><div>Now I'm not talking planting a few things here and there. No no no. We dug up the entire front garden so I could create a landscaped rockery. A quintessential English garden complete with climbing roses and a brand spanking new trellis on the porch! And what of the sea of ugly pebbles in the back garden that previous owners felt was preferential to a beautiful lawn? I spent days raking stones up the slope to create a plateau so that we could put in a small retaining wall and plant new grass seed. Managed to convince hubs this was the time because it was autumn and it was the best time.</div><div><br></div><div>But what now? Garden is done. In fact, it's beautiful. DIY done (short of ripping out our kitchen which I know would end in divorce court). All I have left are the tedious little projects. These require focus which I am in short supply of these days. Rage & energy? Plenty. But focus is eluding me.</div><div><br></div><div>Someone told me to make a list of things to do. I did. First thing on the list: make lists. That's actually how this whole rolling stone gathering no moss of projects got started. I made lots and lots of lists. As quickly as I crossed one task off, I added three more. I'm out of control. And I'm scared. All of my big energy burning jobs are done. Autumn is here and I can smell winter just around the corner. My walks will dwindle as the cold misty British weather reduces my enthusiasm for walking.</div><div><br></div><div>So what is next? My biggest fear. Depression. Everyone who suffers the waves of mania & depression fears this most. Running myself ragged and feeding the mania is so much preferable to the lingering cloud that will smother me in the coming months. Days of not even bothering to get dressed, or even days of not getting out of bed. How do I fight that? You can feed the mania, but the depression feeds on you.</div><div><br></div><div>So here I sit. Praying for an early Spring.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-43rL9Tz3L80/VfazlUJEf0I/AAAAAAAAA3c/9U7hP5K38M8/s640/blogger-image-1897157082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-43rL9Tz3L80/VfazlUJEf0I/AAAAAAAAA3c/9U7hP5K38M8/s640/blogger-image-1897157082.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-39870564453180770092015-08-17T13:01:00.000+01:002015-08-17T13:01:13.552+01:00Hello Old FreindToday is my 3rd wedding anniversary. I should be happy. But instead I lie here crying. Not because I don't love my husband or am unhappy in my marriage. But because the demons have awoken.<br />
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A couple months ago someone started shaking the foundation of my wellbeing. Someone not worth it, but damage was done. My over 8 years of mental stability and happiness has now crumbled to the ground. My illness is awake and dragging me through hell again. Uncontrollable anxiety, fits of rage, debilitating depression, obsessive thoughts, helplessness, and ideation that's put me on the edge of sanity.</div>
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When you are "well" you sometimes forget (or try to convince yourself you're cured) of your mental illness. I am Borderline and it took me 35 years of pure hell to find an existence where I was content with who I was. I knew I wasn't cured, everyday was still a struggle, but life was manageable, balanced. I was even happy, seemingly had it all. Nothing flashy. Part time job I enjoyed, small happy home we were slowly making "ours", a handful of good friends. People were actually envious of my life. If they only knew.</div>
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That tenuous grasp I had on life has slipped away. I blinked and it was gone. I'm at ground zero. Frantically trying to get my neurones to reconnect and remember exactly how I was able to escape my nightmare the first time and become a seemingly "normal" person again. It's like a child trying to catch bubbles. They look around and spy a big juicy one, they quickly run over and POP! It's gone. And no matter how hard you try, they always disappear.</div>
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I saw it coming. Slowly creeping up on me at first like a fog rolling in. I thought I was going to outrun it for a minute, but it was there, slowly enveloping me until I no longer knew which way to run. I breathed it in and it consumed my soul in an instant. The battle was over.</div>
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It's early, only couple months in. I'm gathering reinforcements (meds, doctors, therapists, etc), people and things I hoped I would never need again. Here I am. Slowly slipping away. Fighting like hell, but it's so exhausting. Sometimes a good day is just making it out of bed to the sofa. And other days I am able to get stuff done around the house, maybe make dinner, visit my bestie who is luckily my neighbour. I'm somewhat agoraphobic at this point. Leaving our house/garden is hard, and venturing too far away is paralysing. However every thought, feeling, and action is dependent on whatever the next moment brings. Everything is perpetually flying through my head, and if something bad takes hold for more than a few seconds, I'm suddenly fighting demons in my head and I lose all control of my actions. In a split second I can go from calm to sobbing on the floor, or flying around in a rage, or panicking so much I can't breathe. I'm tired. Just so tired.</div>
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The fight is real. I hate that so many people still don't understand mental illness, don't believe in it, or put stigma on it. I hate that part of me still feels the need to hide my illness from the world in shame. I know it's difficult to understand sometimes. My husband admits he completely underestimated what it could become if things got bad, and now things are bad and he is frantically trying to make sense of it all. You can't truly appreciate what it's like until someone close to you goes through hell and you're trying desperately to hold their hand while they are desperately trying to push you away. We don't want you to leave. We are just so scared.</div>
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I will just keep fighting and praying.</div>
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Happy Anniversary honey. I do love you no matter how much I may push you away. Just hold on and I promise to come back to you. Someday.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-30399230145343880152013-08-19T13:57:00.001+01:002013-08-19T16:45:26.630+01:00Suicide & Suicidal Ideation: **WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGER****WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGER**<div><br></div><div>Today I'm going to talk about a scary subject: suicide. I'm going to start by throwing out a few statistics I found.</div><div><br></div><div>*One million people commit suicide worldwide every year. That's one every forty seconds.</div><div><br></div><div>*100,000 adolescents die from suicide every year.</div><div><br></div><div>*The second leading cause of death among teens is suicide.</div><div><br></div><div>These are just a few of the shocking statistics I found. But I'm not here to talk numbers. I'm going to talk about my experiences, my life, and almost my death. This is not an easy topic to write about because it takes me to my absolute darkest days. The days where I had lost all hope and saw no other alternative.</div><div><br></div><div>I want to first explain what suicidal ideation is and the difference between actually being suicidal. Suicidal ideation is something that is difficult for someone without a mental illness to understand, so I will do my best to describe it through my eyes.</div><div><br></div><div>I started having suicidal thoughts (ideation) in my preteen years. I was struggling with depression and as my world got darker and I slipped further into the abyss, I started thinking what the world would be like without me. I wondered if anyone would notice if I was gone. I wondered if anyone would come to my funeral. I wondered if anyone would cry. I wondered what kids at school would think and what gossip would be spread about my untimely demise. I also thought about random other things like who would get my stuff. I couldn't understand my thoughts. I knew they weren't normal and so I kept them to myself. The thoughts continued through my teens and into adulthood.</div><div><br></div><div>Fast forward to my dark years more than ten years ago now. Through circumstances in my life I fell into severe depression once again. The thoughts returned. I eventually became semi-comatose. I would spend hours staring blankly out the window willing my existence to end. I would see my death through the eyes of an onlooker. I became completely detached from the concept. I didn't want to kill myself. I just wanted to stop existing. I told my husband who of course became very worried and got me into see a therapist immediately. The first of numerous hospilisations during that period came about.</div><div><br></div><div>Unfortunately for me the suicidal ideation, like the rest of mental health issues, doesn't go away. Whenever I fall into a depression, the thoughts creep back up in the back of my mind. I once again see my demise from a disconnected viewpoint. Even today in my happiness, the dark ideations pop into my brain and I have to physically shake them out of my psyche. Suicidal ideation doesn't mean a person is going to attempt suicide but if someone is having these thoughts, take it very seriously and seek help. If someone close to you tells you about these thoughts, they don't necessarily want to die but they do want help and want the thoughts to go away.</div><div><br></div><div>My suicide attempts came out of seemingly nowhere looking from a different perspective now. They came during times when there had been a glimmer of hope followed by snuffing out of that glimmer. I tried three times. Each time it was snap decision. I didn't tell anyone what I was going to do, but I left an out each time. Like most women, I used pills each time. The first time the empty bottle was found next to me shortly after taking the pills and I was rushed to the hospital immediately. The second time, I took several bottles of pills and washed them down with vodka, but I knew someone would be home soon. However I wasn't discovered til the next morning. I woke up a couple days later in the hospital with mild nerve damage. And the third time, I wandered off in the night and took two boxes of OTC sleeping pills and washed them down with a bottle of NyQuil. I called the bane of my existence who was a thousand miles away. He managed to contact the person I was staying with and police dogs found me a few hours later.</div><div><br></div><div>It's scary to think how close I was to not surviving, especially the second time. I haven't actually been suicidal since my last attempt. The ideations still creep into the corners of my brain when I get depressed, but no actual thoughts of doing it. Suicical ideation is common among people with mental illness. It's a symptom of many mental illnesses.</div><div><br></div><div>Sadly someone who is actually going to attempt suicide may not even exhibit indicators. Sometimes the contrary. They may actually appear to be on an upswing in their depression like I was. While all threats to commit suicide should be taken seriously, it's the quiet ones that usually succeed. The person who has committed to proceeding with an attempt is unlikely to tell anyone.</div><div><br></div><div>If you or someone you love is exhibiting suicidal tendencies, seek help immediately. Not everyone gets a second chance like I did.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-J4L5SD7XMlc/UhI87I_q5pI/AAAAAAAAAc0/7THiNn_4Q8E/s640/blogger-image-180812208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-J4L5SD7XMlc/UhI87I_q5pI/AAAAAAAAAc0/7THiNn_4Q8E/s640/blogger-image-180812208.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-44006315164264970992013-07-26T10:51:00.001+01:002013-08-03T13:48:53.245+01:00Emotional ScaleEveryone experiences emotions. Happy, sad, anger, fear, joy, excitement, sorrow, etc... However, for those of us with a mental illness the scale on which we feel these emotions is vastly different than a normal person's scale. If the normal person's range runs from 1 to 100, ours runs more like 1 to 1,000,000. I'm not exaggerating. So imagine the saddest event you've ever experienced and multiply by a thousand, you will get close to understanding how devastating and paralysing that same event can be for someone with mental illness. I'm not just talking about people who have severe depression or are bipolar. The emotional scale for all mental illnesses seems to be skewed. Of course everyone is different so everyone's scale is different, so I will only speak to mine.<div><br></div><div>Going back as far as I can remember in my life, I think I subconsciously knew my emotions were "off". I can remember certain times when I would have an emotion that actually caused me physical pain. As a child growing and learning, just like with all things, you learn what is normal and acceptable and what is not. I knew my emotions weren't normal and acceptable, so I had to outwardly fake things to appear normal. I buried the pain, sorrow, anger, hatred, etc. deep inside. Happiness and excitement were no better. Largely because once I hit a "high" with something, the next time had to be vastly "higher" or it just didn't have the same impact. It would become flat. For example, if I got a great birthday present, the next year the gift had to be bigger and better.</div><div><br></div><div>So as the years went by, my highs got higher and my lows got lower. To some extent this happens naturally with everyone I think. I've tried to describe it before like this: a toddler gets a new toy and they are ecstatic, but take that toy away for even a minute and their entire world crashes. Why the extremes? They don't have much life experience at the point to gauge their highs and lows on. Comparatively a normal adult gets a DVD they wanted and they are happy. The DVD gets lost or broken, the adult isn't happy, but their world doesn't crash around them like the toddler with the toy. The adult has had more life experiences to put things into context. An adult has experienced things like marriage, child birth, death, graduations, promotions, etc. that has developed their emotional range.</div><div><br></div><div>Because of my mental illnesses, my range of emotions got perverted as I grew. For me personally, there are many different factors that affected my scale. For example, emotional abuse, alcoholism in my family, sexual abuse, trauma, chemical imbalances and such. By my teens, my range was so vast that a good event in my life barely pulled me up past the half way mark. Life became darker and more pointless. I was fifteen when the depression finally took over and I succumbed and had a complete emotional collapse. Everyday was worse than the day before. When nothing can make you feel happiness anymore, that very fact makes every moment of your self slide further and further down the emotional scale. You eventually realise their is no bottom. It's a bottomless pit and the walls are greased. No climbing back up.</div><div><br></div><div>It took me literally decades of therapy, medications, hospitalisations, and self reflection to rework my emotional scale. It's by no means "normal" compared to the average, but it's nowhere near as vast. That's not to say I've magically erased all the bad from my past. It's still there and so are the low points on my scale. But I've learned to live in a narrower range. I've even managed to up the high side which not even seven years ago I thought would be impossible.</div><div><br></div><div>I try live in what I refer to as the "content" range. It's still a lot wider than most. Just ask my husband, he deals with my wack-a-doodle ass everyday. But I've gotten much better at realising when an emotion is an overreaction. Sometimes it's not exactly in the moment and I have to back track and make apologies for ridiculous responses (once again, talk to my hubby), but the fact that I can recognise my irrationality at all is amazing to me. So I forgive myself when I'm overly emotional and say or do things that hurt others. And I make apologies when necessary. I allow myself to have bad days, but have my depression combat kit at the ready with all the tools that help me stay in my "content" range. I've also surrounded myself with loving and supportive family and friends. Those closest to me know my story so are able to help me regulate when necessary.</div><div><br></div><div>Living with a skewed emotional scale isn't easy. But with support and effort, it is manageable I've discovered. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-qxakk_rhq4E/Ufz8IJ2LZ1I/AAAAAAAAAYs/V9v1Te94ajI/s640/blogger-image--1054647058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-qxakk_rhq4E/Ufz8IJ2LZ1I/AAAAAAAAAYs/V9v1Te94ajI/s640/blogger-image--1054647058.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-50468755404360309392013-07-23T16:16:00.001+01:002013-08-05T14:55:44.900+01:00Unexpected Benefits<div>I've been writing about living with mental illness for a few months now. Quite the accomplishment for me. Us creative bipolars fall into two categories I think: those with a never ending source of ideas that flood out easily and those that are gripped by fear of failure. I'm the latter. I'm getting better at embracing my creativity and actually producing things, but it's definitely a process that is taking me time.</div><div><br></div>So how then have I managed to consistently keep up this blogging thing I wonder? Let's see... <div><br></div><div>I have been told by many people who have heard my story that I should write a book. Apparently surviving the hell I've been through and coming out the other side happier and healthier is impressive to some people. Even my mother, who could barely acknowledge my mental illness for most of my life, now brags about what I've overcome. It's all very strange to me. I certainly didn't choose this course of events. Who would?<div><br></div><div>I started this blog for one reason. After years of relative contentment, I started to get severely depressed after moving to the UK from the US to be with my new husband. I was confused by my conflicting emotions of pure joy to be with my love and the uncertainty and upheaval of leaving all I knew behind. I was starting to spiral and I needed to get the thoughts out of my head. I was suddenly realising that even though my illness was fairly well under control it wasn't gone. I became very scared. Scared I could lose everything I had worked so hard for once again. What if I woke up again in the hospital heavily sedated with little memory of the events that put me there? Could I survive it all again? I was gripped in fear!</div><div><br></div><div>I made myself do all the things I taught myself to do when I felt the depression creeping in. I tried to paint, went for walks, played games, watched movies, etc. but I was still struggling. I thought about that book everyone told me to write. Too much. Too big. Too scary. Then I started thinking about blogging. I did a little research, signed myself up on Google+, downloaded a blogging app, and wrote an intro. I scrutinised it for a couple days before finally publishing it out into the great unknown. I was so proud that I actually put something out there. I never anticipated what would happen next. People responded to my story.</div><div><br></div><div>I couldn't believe it. People actually read my blog! And better yet, they liked it! Amazing! This response encouraged me to write again and again. I got involved in the online support communities and started developing a repoir with lots of people. I find myself reading other blogs and researching topics almost daily. I thought I would run out of ideas quickly, but actually I find myself getting sparks of inspiration at nearly every turn. My biggest hurdle currently is focusing on one topic at a time. Suppose that's a good problem to have creatively speaking.</div><div><br></div><div>I have started to relax a bit. I work on projects. I explore my area. I smile and enjoy my surroundings. It has all started to fall into place. I am making friends and starting a new part time job. My new home is becoming a home! My blogging experience has actually given me a lot more insight into my illness and its manifestations. I think I'm actually getting better at recognising aspects of my illness I just chalked up to character flaws previously. I thought my blog would just be an electronic journal essentially, but it has become much more. It's a learning tool for me and those who read it. It's a cathartic and creative outlet. It gives me social interaction of sorts. And perhaps someday the foundation for that book? We shall see.</div><div><br></div><div>I tell my story with the hope that my experiences can help and inspire others with mental illness. Who knew I would help and inspire myself!</div></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-54mgCdTPdP4/Uf-u0whSPxI/AAAAAAAAAaM/0vz1WMv7D_c/s640/blogger-image--20614611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-54mgCdTPdP4/Uf-u0whSPxI/AAAAAAAAAaM/0vz1WMv7D_c/s640/blogger-image--20614611.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-3127646783417622952013-07-11T21:06:00.001+01:002013-07-13T00:25:58.152+01:00Did I Trade in Cutting for Tattoos?I started writing this blog as a way to help get some thoughts out of my head and hopefully help someone else along the way. I knew I was going to tell my stories but I didn't realise how much I was going to learn about myself along the way. The latest thing that has piqued my interest is why I get tattoos.<div><br></div><div>I started getting tattoos as soon as I was old enough to legally do so much to my mothers dismay. I've gotten tattooed six times now. Truth be told, if I hadn't tried so hard to conform to society norms in early adulthood, I would have a lot more. Six may seem like a lot to some and not much to others. All of them are easily hidden, but if I had my way I would have sleeves. I love every one of them, even my first one which is not the best, but it's part of me now and I wouldn't change a thing. I'm forty now and still want more. People try to tell me I'm too old to still be getting tattoos. They say I will regret them when I'm old. I think they will be fun to talk about when I'm in the old folks home getting a sponge bath from some young whipper snapper. Or I will end up with dementia and won't care what anyone thinks. So I'm gonna keep 'em coming!</div><div><br></div><div>The question I am asking myself is why do I like getting tattoos? I don't just like the self expression of having art on my body, I also enjoy the actual act of being tattooed. It's hilarious to those close to me because I have a deep seeded fear of needles and blood. But I love getting tattooed! I pass out nearly every time I get my blood drawn. Go ahead and laugh. I do at this point. So why do I love those little needles tap tap tapping away at my flesh? I wonder...</div><div><br></div><div>I was in my early teens when the depression, anxiety, and severe emotional pain started to grow. I would have such extreme inner turmoil that I would feel like I was dying. I would then slump into a period of complete numbness. Sometimes the antidepressants I started to take helped, but sometimes they made things worse. At some point the cycling pain and numbness became too much. I don't remember exactly how it started but I remember sitting in the dark crying and shaking. For some reason I had gotten a hold of an old hunting knife of my fathers. I was just pressing it against my skin. I soon pressed so hard that I cut myself and started bleeding. I didn't notice this immediately, but when I finally saw the blood I just stared as it trickled down my leg. I was mesmerised. I dragged the blade across my skin again. Another little line beaded up and started to stream down parallel to the other. I found some relief.</div><div><br></div><div>If cutting or self harm in general is alien to you, be glad. It's not a pretty place to be. So why do people do it? I can only say why I did, but the story is fairly similar across the board. Two basic premises: first, you have so much emotional pain inside that the infliction of physical pain actually eases the emotional and second, if complete numbness sets in feeling anything at all is actually a relief, letting you know you are still alive. I fell into both categories. The girl who hates needles and blood found solace in cutting herself. And I didn't care what I used. Knives, broken glass, pins, etc., didn't matter as long as I got my relief. The deeper my pain, the deeper the cuts. If this is still unfamiliar to you let me point out that cutting is not about suicide. Cuts are superficial. They may or may not scar, but are not done in an attempt to end life. It's all about the relief and release of pain.</div><div><br></div><div>I cut on and off through the worst parts of my illness. I pray that the worst is behind me and I can maintain my semblance of normalcy (whatever that is). I do have scars on my arms and legs leftover from those days, but thankfully they are not too bad. Visible, but not grotesque.</div><div><br></div><div>Now my tattoos... That's a different story. I love them! Every last one. And wish I had gotten more throughout my life to memorialise moments and milestones. I love the symbolism they represent. And the pain. Is that wrong? Is that sick? Am I still beyond help? In a group discussion regarding tattoos it was mentioned that a model had written a memoir regarding her journey through self harm and depression. She traded in cutting for tattoos. This made me wonder if I had done the same thing. So I started thinking about the similarities and differences.</div><div><br></div><div>First of all, my cutting and tattooing overlapped. Okay fine. Whatever. I'm crazy. Enough said. But are tattoos a healthier alternative to cutting? I read several articles and other posts to see what other people said before I wrote this. It was clear that people who have dealt with mental illness think tattoos can be a better alternative to straight up self harm. That's not to say that all people that love tattoos are mentally ill. Or that mentally ill people with tattoos use to self harm. As with most mental illness scenarios, there is no hard fast rule. I'm no expert so I can't speak for the masses. I do my best to inform myself before forming opinions and always keep an open mind.</div><div><br></div><div>So what about me personally? I do think tattooing is a release for me similar to cutting. I got two of my tattoos after the last time I cut. Neither time made me want to cut, but I was in a much healthier place mentally. Could it create the urge in an unstable person? Possibly. Now having thought about the tattoo process and the pain involved, I definitely think there is a correlation. The girl who hates blood and pain loves tattooing. I have a psychological desire for controlled pain which I see in other areas of my life as well. Not completely sure if that's considered good or bad. Just is what it is.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm sure a lot of people find it strange that I love the pain involved in tattooing, but to each his own. Would I recommend tattooing as an alternative to self harm? No. Is it a good alternative? Yes. But if I went back in time and got a tattoo instead of cutting every time, I'm sure I would have the most ridiculous collection of doodles on my body. The root cause of cutting needs to be addressed and stabilised before any alternative therapy is suggested, including tattooing. I absolutely see now that I use the tattooing process as a release because the illness never really goes away. I've just learned to deal with it better and channel my energy in somewhat more productive arenas.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm feeling the itch...</div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-OgTH53ymOzM/UeCQKO8gmaI/AAAAAAAAAVE/ZZguRPAa1D4/s640/blogger-image--1062416212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-OgTH53ymOzM/UeCQKO8gmaI/AAAAAAAAAVE/ZZguRPAa1D4/s640/blogger-image--1062416212.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-47412945321890898312013-07-10T12:04:00.001+01:002013-07-10T13:03:25.581+01:00But Really... I Could Fly!I know it's not unusual for children to have imaginary friends or create a fantasy world, but I've often wondered if there is a correlation between these things and mental illness. I had imaginary friends and a very active fantasy world. But there is one specific element I want to talk about today. When I was a little, I could fly.<div><br></div><div>Really I could fly. As an adult I rationalise that it's not possible, but I have such intense memories of flying like a bird when I was little that when I close my eyes and think about it I can still feel the freeing sensation. What's ironic to me is that I'm petrified of heights as an adult. But when I was a kid, I used to love swooping around the neighbourhood, diving and doing loop-de-loops, skimming the tree tops. Even as I write this I get this tingly happy feeling as I remember those days.</div><div><br></div><div>My best friend "Diana" loves for me to tell this story about my life to her and new people. She thinks it's hilarious that I am so insistent about my super special childhood abilities. She will say to someone "Kay thinks she could fly when she was a kid" which of course enrages my defences and I am immediately compelled to retort back "I don't THINK I could fly... I COULD fly!" And I will say the same thing to you if you ask me. I could fly when I was a kid.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm not sure when I stopped being able to fly. Think I was nine or ten. And I'm not sure why I stopped flying. It was such a freeing, empowering activity for me as a child. I sure could've used that kind of release as a teen. But all good things must come to an end as the saying goes.</div><div><br></div><div>So now as I sit here blogging my little heart out I wonder how common this is among people. I can't be the only person to have created such an intense escape fantasy. And as I reflect I realise that maybe I just swapped flying for other fantasies. As far back as I can remember I created worlds and personalities to escape my reality. I've never been diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder but I definitely have some of the characteristics.</div><div><br></div><div>My fantasies have always been so all encompassing. There have been times when I can sit and literally watch an alternate reality play out in front of me. The images are so vivid that the reality and fantasy blur together. It can definitely be frightening to have that kind of power because sometimes I lose control of the fantasy and it takes over. I eventually come back to the reality and can reflect back on the fact that the fantasy was just that, a fantasy. But not always. Especially when other aspects of my illness take over.</div><div><br></div><div>Normal people can't understand this. They can't understand how and why I would create these alternate worlds. They haven't suffered the mental and emotional pain I have. Everyone has fantasies, but most people don't get lost in them. They don't lose control. I do. It's scary. Even the nice fantasies I have to work really hard to keep them on the surface. If I get too close to that blurring line, something clicks and the fantasy takes over, maybe just for a few moments but sometimes way longer. Like flying.</div><div><br></div><div>Now any "normal" person who just read all of this will think I'm batshit crazy. I am but that's besides the point. Mental illness can include necessary coping mechanisms that we create to survive. Unfortunately severely mentally ill people can let these aspects take over without us even knowing it. It's imperative that I have a very close circle of family and friends who can recognise when detrimental thought processes take over. I need these people to keep me in reality when I start to wander off too far. Luckily my husband is willing and quickly learning to recognise these things. I will never stop fantasising. I need it and to some extent like it, as long as I control the fantasy and not the over way around.</div><div><br></div><div>... Now if I could just remember how to fly...</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BRocN06xIhI/Ud1NeMbhx-I/AAAAAAAAANc/ZH4IQ4K3u4g/s640/blogger-image--165466332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BRocN06xIhI/Ud1NeMbhx-I/AAAAAAAAANc/ZH4IQ4K3u4g/s640/blogger-image--165466332.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-13891882076178982272013-07-02T14:31:00.001+01:002013-07-02T18:54:31.682+01:00Addiction & Mental Illness: Part Three...So I was back in my childhood home. I was nearly thirty-five years old and I had literally crawled back to my mother, tail between my legs, begging for help. I quit everything. Drugs, alcohol, and the myriad of psychiatric meds I had been abusing as well.<div><br></div><div>I had no idea how I was going to get my life back, but since I had already lost everything, I somehow managed to realise I no longer had anything to lose. It was the guilt and shame that had kept me using drugs so I had to somehow figure out how to leave it all behind me. So I put some blinders on and just kept clawing my way forward, inching my way out of the darkness, the emptiness. I found a job at a restaurant within walking distance doing whatever they asked. I still hadn't won back friends and frankly everyone acted weird around me, so I just spent time alone. I worked, I walked, and I meditated. My head was starting to clear.</div><div><br></div><div>As the fog slowly faded away from my existence, I realised I didn't know who I was. But for some reason this actually made me happy. I realised all the bad things I had done in the past weren't actually me. I had created many different fractured personalities to deal with what I couldn't. I wasn't a bad person. I was at the mercy of my illness back then. I was neutral. I had no idea who I was, but that was good because it meant I wasn't bad. I could choose who I wanted to be. And I chose to be happy and good.</div><div><br></div><div>It wasn't always easy. Some days were straight up impossible. I would have to literally will myself through every second of the day just to get through it. It was exhausting. But everyday got a little easier. And something amazing started to happen, I started to like myself. I had come to appreciate the little things in life. I appreciated my mother for helping me, my boss for giving me a job, my friends for giving me another chance yet again, and God for getting me through the darkness.</div><div><br></div><div>Now did the idea of using drugs again float through my head? On bad days, yes. I would think about how that first high would make the bad feelings go away. And then I would make myself think about all the bad things that followed and ask myself if that's what I really wanted. The answer was no. I had started to see a glimpse of myself and I realised I wasn't so bad after all. In fact, I was pretty freaking awesome!</div><div><br></div><div>I had been through hell. A hell I wouldn't wish upon anyone. Somehow I made it through. I had a chance to start over. A chance to discover who I really was deep inside. I made some decisions about what kind of person I wanted to be and have stuck to it ever since.</div><div><br></div><div>First, no guilt or shame. There was no room for that in my future so I left it in the past. I wasn't going to let my past define me. </div><div><br></div><div>Second, be open and honest. This goes hand in hand with not being ashamed. If I'm honest with people about who I am, I don't have to keep secrets about my past. Not everyone will accept my past, but I have and that's all that matters.</div><div><br></div><div>Third, be generous. If I am able to give to someone in need, I do. Simple.</div><div><br></div><div>Fourth, be kind. Even if someone isn't kind to me, I try to be mindful of what they might be going through that I don't know about. Maybe they need a little kindness.</div><div><br></div><div>Fifth, appreciate what I have. I lost all my possessions at one point. I learned what is important. When I have more than I need, I appreciate every bit of it.</div><div><br></div><div>Sixth, ask for help. Guess what? I can't do it all, so if I need help, I ask.</div><div><br></div><div>I hope my story helps others get through their nightmare. I hope that it helps knowing it is possible to not only get through hell, but to end up immensely happy on the other side. And I have no regrets. If I hadn't been through my hell, I wouldn't have found myself. It was part of my journey. It wasn't pretty, but it was part of who I am.</div><div><br></div><div>I am Kay and I'm pretty awesome! Just sayin...</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vwzF3Yhb2vk/UdLWmEdAeSI/AAAAAAAAALc/-QrEn9nJ8Q4/s640/blogger-image-396929045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vwzF3Yhb2vk/UdLWmEdAeSI/AAAAAAAAALc/-QrEn9nJ8Q4/s640/blogger-image-396929045.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-75149617705680917762013-07-01T22:32:00.001+01:002013-07-02T13:18:07.748+01:00Addiction & Mental Illness: Part Two<div>*Warning: contains graphic descriptions and triggers*</div><div><br></div>...After spending years trying to pin all my happiness on my husband and stepsons, I was coming to the realisation that I was a shell of a human being. To keep myself from having time to think about the void in my soul, I kept busy. Really really busy. I worked a forty hours plus a week job. I had decided to go back to college and attended classes four nights a week. I had loads of homework. And I was raising two teenage boys. All the while my husband was working eighty hours a week and was having to go on business trips more and more frequently. To top it all off, we had taken in my father-in-law who had complicated medical issues.<div><br></div><div>I begged my husband for months into years to cut back at work. I needed more of him. Our marriage was crumbling. The love and caring was there, but the marriage suffered greatly. Looking back, I realise now spending more time with me wasn't going to solve my problems. He had married a character I created and I no longer knew how to play that part. It wasn't his fault or mine. It was the illness inside me that was taking over.</div><div><br></div><div>As the emptiness grew, so did the depression. Sleep cycles became erratic. Mood swings ran rampant. Food lost its taste. Everything was dull and grey. I would spend hours staring out a window contemplating how to end it all. My work suffered. My marriage suffered. And I suffered. I eventually had a breakdown at work and was found near catatonic on the bathroom floor crying hysterically. Next thing I knew, I was being checked into an institution. Again. After a couple weeks, I was back home but I still couldn't function and a few months later, I was back in the hospital.</div><div><br></div><div>I was so afraid of everything. The questions and thoughts blazing through my head dizzied me. I was cycling through manic episodes at lightning speed. In my haze, I found myself charmed by a fellow patient. I didn't know it, but I was about to delve into a world you can only imagine in your worst nightmares.</div><div><br></div><div>This patient, lets call him Daniel, related to me, wooed me, brainwashed me. Next thing I knew, my husband and I were separated and I was following Daniel halfway across the country. I convinced myself he loved me and on some level I think he did. But Daniel was an addict. Not an occasional drug user, but a full fledged addict. He would disappear in the middle of the night with my car and money and wouldn't come back for hours and sometimes days. In my warped state of mind, I decided that if I did the drugs with him, I could control when and how much we did. We were smoking crack, lots of it. It didn't take long before the drug took over my life, along with my cocktail of prescription psychiatric meds. My reality was askew. I couldn't quit and didn't want to quit. When I wasn't high, the pain, guilt, and shame was overwhelming, so I stayed high at all costs. I would beg on street corners for money to feed my habit, and in some cases, even worse. We bounced from place to place, taking what we could from whoever would help us, running from dealers we ripped off, sleeping in back alleys and abandoned buildings, hitch hiking all over the southeast US.</div><div><br></div><div>All the while my family and friends were slowly giving up on me. The help I was given I didn't appreciate. The only thing that mattered was killing the enormous pain inside me. I couldn't stand what I had become, I had to stay high or thoughts of suicide took over. I engaged in self harm to punish myself, to bleed the pain out, to see if I was still alive. I was in and out of hospitals with several suicide attempts. No one answered the phone when I called. I had nothing. I was nothing. Even Daniel had abandoned me. Over the course of three years, I went from being a wife, stepmom, daughter, sister, etcetera to a homeless drug addict.</div><div><br></div><div>Daniel was attempting to get his life together and I was dragging him down. I begged him to help me, but he was angry with me. Somehow he blamed me for everything bad in his life. He finally agreed to help me, but there was a price to pay. I somehow convinced my estranged husband to buy me a bus ticket to where Daniel was living in New Orleans. Daniel said he was going to help me get a job and place to live. What he actually had in mind was unthinkable. He spent three days beating me, raping me, torturing me. Breaking me. And he did. I was broken. I was at rock bottom.</div><div><br></div><div>I decided my only option was to beg my mother for help one last time. She begrudgingly agreed and so I was on a bus back home to Ohio. This was it. This was my last chance at help. My last chance to live...</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-jQ8SyJRZKW0/UdH1zc0q9VI/AAAAAAAAALM/Fqguf2H1yjQ/s640/blogger-image--256531971.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-jQ8SyJRZKW0/UdH1zc0q9VI/AAAAAAAAALM/Fqguf2H1yjQ/s640/blogger-image--256531971.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-528636962572885402013-06-17T09:29:00.001+01:002013-06-19T11:54:53.190+01:00Embrace the CrazyThrough my journey with mental illness, I think one of the hardest parts has been accepting who I am. When you are young, you want to fit in, especially as a teenager. Conversely, you want to stand out and get noticed so that your peer group accepts you. Teens are miserable human beings. So few truly know themselves because so many will sacrifice who they are for who they want be friends with. It's an incredibly hard time. Looking back on my teens, and having raised a couple boys through theirs, it amazes me that any of us survive this time. It's shocking how judgmental and unaccepting teens can be.<div><br></div><div>When you mix in mental illness, something that is difficult to understand as an adult today let alone as a teen twenty plus years ago, I wonder how I made it through. Well actually I do know. I completely suppressed anything that was natural to me in an attempt to be normal. Yea, that didn't work. Just made it worse.</div><div><br></div><div>It wasn't until about six years ago that I decided to "embrace the crazy", as I like to say, and accept who I am. It took twenty years, but I finally am happy with who I am. I've accepted my mental illness. Like many other illnesses, I can't just wish it away. I've had to learn how to live with it. Part of embracing the crazy for me has been to be open and honest with others about who I am. I now refuse to hide who I am. </div><div><br></div><div>That doesn't mean I walk up to strangers and say "Hello my name is Kay and I'm batshit crazy. Wanna do lunch?" There still is stigma. I can't wish that away either. However, I do have the power to educate people. After I've gotten to know someone a bit, I casually drop little pieces of info about myself to test the waters. Generally it's greeted with a bit of intrigue which then is my opening to start and fill in the blanks and tell my story. I've found most people will actually ask questions to better understand me rather than run screaming from the room. Who knew being honest with yourself and others could be so beneficial for all of us?</div><div><br></div><div>I never used to have acquaintance friends because I had such extreme trust issues regarding my crazy head. Not anymore. I have learned to stretch my friendship circle further than I could ever imagine. Now I don't tell every dark deep secret to every single person. I have my set of boundaries, but they have been pushed even further than most non crazy people. That's because of my honesty. I choose to not lie or hide my past from others. I can honestly say (pun intended) that I'm 99% honest. "Of course I love those plaid polyester trousers you sent me mom! They're awesome!" I think you can see where that one percent is necessary.</div><div><br></div><div>I know some people are gonna read this and try to call bullshit, but it's true. Don't believe me? Call my former coworkers of five years at the restaurant I worked at before I moved out of the country. Restaurants are gossip monging cess pools, but I was immune because my life was flopping in the wind for all to see. And you know what happened? They all learned to accept me just the way I was and actually looked up to me, although part of that might have been because I was twice their age.</div><div><br></div><div>So what about the people who didn't receive my hints about my past and my crazy so well? Guess what? I have the power to not hang out with them. I can just walk away. There's billions of people on this planet and the close minded are not on my list of friends. However, I have always kept in mind that perhaps they themselves have circumstances that make them reserved and untrusting. Maybe they have problems I know nothing of so rather that judge them, I simply let them be. We all have our skeletons now don't we?</div><div><br></div><div>I know a lot of people are going to read this and can't imagine living as openly as I choose. Hell, if you had told me way back when that I would be so open, I would have laughed in your face. And maybe living this openly isn't for everyone. But learning to accept yourself the way you are is and always will be the best way to survive this life. Like they say, you've only got one life, so you might as well embrace your crazy and enjoy it! Happy trails!</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-51TEFOkA46k/UcGN9b39rjI/AAAAAAAAAJE/x17KbZw7wLw/s640/blogger-image--879504761.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-51TEFOkA46k/UcGN9b39rjI/AAAAAAAAAJE/x17KbZw7wLw/s640/blogger-image--879504761.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-33392248222011073902013-06-12T17:19:00.001+01:002013-06-12T17:37:51.037+01:00Oops... Busted!So a funny thing happened to me today...<div><br></div><div>Quick background for reference: My husband and I live in a town in the middle of England. Our neighbourhood is fairly average. Rows and rows of detached and semi-detached terrace homes. So your neighbours are very very close. We are friendly enough with the couple next door, "Dan & Marta", but other than small talk in our front gardens on a nice day, we don't interact. They have a baby and have been doing extensive remodelling the last few months.</div><div><br></div><div>... So I was coming back from a late morning wander in the woods. And as I was going past, I decided to peek in Dan and Marta's front window to see how the work has been coming along. And as I started to press my face to the glass, Marta opens the window! Oh so mortifying. I quickly play it off like I had seen her and was trying to get her attention, which I did. I started making up small talk. Turns out Marta only works weekends while Dan works weekdays. So like me, Marta is home alone most of the time staring blankly at the TV in between chores (though she's a little busier with a baby). The other commonality is that neither of us drive, so we are both limited on where we can go.</div><div><br></div><div>To make a long story short (too late!), we ended up walking up to the grocery store together this afternoon. Marta also invited my husband and I over for Dan's birthday next Saturday for a couple drinks. We also agreed we needed start hanging out, whether walking to the shop or just sipping a glass of wine in the garden.</div><div><br></div><div>I made a friend! Completely by accident. I was just being nosy. But I made a friend! Yea me!</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HS1V4cY2MlI/UbijyvWohMI/AAAAAAAAAHs/ZAr6wm5ThUk/s640/blogger-image-513571872.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HS1V4cY2MlI/UbijyvWohMI/AAAAAAAAAHs/ZAr6wm5ThUk/s640/blogger-image-513571872.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-25225416105308171382013-06-10T17:26:00.001+01:002013-06-10T18:52:02.598+01:00Pet PeevesPet peeves. Everyone has them. Everyone is annoyed by them. Some common ones that annoy me personally are using the incorrect form of "there, their, they're", people who squeeze toothpaste from the middle and leave the cap messy, and people who litter right next to a trash bin. Really? You couldn't take an extra step?<div><br></div><div>However, not everyone reacts to them in the same way. Those of us with a mental illness can take what would be a little annoyance to the average person and turn that molehill into a huge mountain. Someone with OCD regarding cleanliness will find it nearly impossible to visit someone else's home. I mention this example because frankly it's probably the most well known overreaction to a pet peeve. We even have reality shows dedicated to OCD'ers helping hoarders declutter and clean. We can see how dramatically it affects someone with a mental illness to be thrown into their own nightmare. I'm not a fan of these shows because I fear that most people who watch will see the OCDer as a freak, further stigmatising them. Watching someone have a panic attack is not entertainment to me. However, if the message gets across of what a challenge it is for someone with mental illness to face their fears and overcome them, then maybe it's helping our community.</div><div><br></div><div>I've always just chalked up my overreactions to pet peeves as a huge character flaw of mine. I'm now coming to realise I don't really have much control over my emotional responses to certain triggers. I can do my best to control my outward reaction, but often that just makes the internal reaction that much more painful. My journey of self discovery regarding my illness has just now made me realise this about myself. One of my biggest peeves is when things aren't put away in their place. I am by no means a clean freak, I just want things where they are supposed to be. And taking like items and placing them several different places, absolutely drives me nuts. All bakeware should be together, gardening tools together, pots and pans neatly nested. If you don't have time to put it away in the appropriate place, then leave it out. Unfortunately, my husband is a "I hate clutter but don't care where he stuffs things" kind of guy. It's maddening to me!</div><div><br></div><div>Since I'm just now realising these reactions are part of my illness (not the average normal person's reaction), I've been doing quite a bit of reflection. My poor husband is the recipient of my undiluted knee jerk reactions since he is the one who hates clutter and is perpetually tucking things away in odd places. As I started really analysing my behaviour, I started reflecting back on past situations. One time, while living with a girlfriend, I went into a complete tailspin trying to marry up a plastic ware bowl with its coordinating lid. You know the ones. All the companies make them slightly different so you have to use their matching lid. I'm sure most homes now have a ridiculous amount of these ever so handy items. Perfect for leftovers, crafts, etc., we cram them in every nook and cranny of our kitchens. On this particular day, my crazy head had had enough so I pulled all of the bowls and lids out of every cabinet (and yes they were scattered all over the place) and spread them out on the kitchen floor and proceeded to marry up like pieces. My roommate was howling as I cussed and threw lids without bowls and bowls without lids across the room.</div><div><br></div><div>Looking back on this day, and other similar instances, I now understand my illness causes these ridiculous, sometimes hilarious reactions. I just wish I could laugh about it all the time. My husband and I got into it regarding our garden sheds a couple weeks ago. I came completely unglued throwing things and eventually stomping off like a child. I went off to the woods and watched the ducks swim for a while to calm down. When I returned I apologised to my husband for my behaviour, but explained that I can't completely control my reactions. A normal person would rant for a moment then move on with their lives. I can't. I stew over why he keeps putting things away in the wrong places. Is he trying to mess with my head? Doesn't he realise how crazy in makes me? We talked about the situation. I explained that the clutter that bothers him pales in comparison to my emotional response to things being out of place. He promised to try and put things away properly for me.</div><div><br></div><div>I suppose it's somewhat good to now know these emotional responses are part of my illness, but it's also deflating. Just another thing that I have to be aware of and deal with. Is it any wonder so many of us our exhausted all the time and have so many limitations on what we can do? </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gPdS-KZHUvQ/UbYSK7E1fgI/AAAAAAAAAHc/I9LvFVnaX-w/s640/blogger-image--721766263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gPdS-KZHUvQ/UbYSK7E1fgI/AAAAAAAAAHc/I9LvFVnaX-w/s640/blogger-image--721766263.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-12116179187540092452013-06-07T11:01:00.001+01:002013-06-07T13:21:29.669+01:00Have I Got Hobbies?!?!Even though I have been dealing with this illness for over 25 years, I find I still learn new things everyday about how it affects me. These things are generally disguised as normal things that most people deal with, but since I'm not exactly normal, they all affect me differently. For example, my never ending rotating list of hobbies. Even though I recently wrote about how I have trouble focusing on one hobby at a time, I didn't completely see how that has affected me my whole life.<div><br></div><div>Yesterday, I had a consultation with a nurse at my new family doctor's office. Since medical records aren't shared across international lines, it fell on my shoulders to provide as much history as possible. When the nurse hit the multiple entries regarding my mental health, the inquiries began. I choose to manage my illness without medication with the exception of the occasional anti-anxiety as needed. She was a little surprised by this considering my lengthy history. She asked me if I had any hobbies. Actually, it was more of a statement. My husband and I looked at each other and kind of laughed and simultaneously answered "billions". </div><div><br></div><div>Suddenly it occurred to me that I'm not just a flighty person who bounces from hobby to hobby. It's all part of my illness. I suppose it's possible that "flightiness" is actually directly related to mental illness.</div><div><br></div><div>I've always been embarrassed and ashamed of this part of my personality. I've laughed it off, but deep inside it has always hurt. I've always just tried to will myself into having one activity going on at a time, but that actually causes me more stress. I always have doubts about my talent regarding my numerous creative outlets, so I tend to start then stop projects half way through. If I never complete a project, I can't fail at creating something great. Right?</div><div><br></div><div>Now don't get me wrong, I have completed projects, and when I do I feel epic. Sometimes inspiration hits me and I paint (or whatever) until I'm done. I actually become so immersed at these times that ten hours can pass and it will seem like ten minutes. But more likely I will have dozens of projects going on at once. I've never thought about it much, but I actually like it. One day I may paint, then go on a drawing spree, then switch to writing. It helps to have a little guidance, but I like that I have my little area of the house dedicated to my many projects (thanks hubby for that). So when inspiration strikes, I'm ready to go!</div><div><br></div><div>Thinking back, it's probably this part of me that allowed me to multi-task so efficiently back in my corporate robot days. My brain could bounce so easily from task to task and remember exactly where I left off. So strange to reflect on this and realise what I used to be able to do. But I had totally suppressed all emotion back then. Today my memory is such an unreliable thing. I can remember song lyrics, movie lines, worthless trivia, etc. but I have huge gaping holes in other frankly more important areas.</div><div><br></div><div>However, since "embracing the crazy", multi-tasking is not my strong suit. Oh I do it all the time. I just don't actually get anything done! But that's okay. My husband is learning how to gently nudge me in directions so I complete small tasks one at a time. I will probably always bounce around, but with his love and support maybe I can keep my billions of hobbies and occasionally complete a project and be proud of my accomplishment.</div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-V2Rk0aCSuD8/UbHQOdl-_gI/AAAAAAAAAHA/B6muOs1DDAw/s640/blogger-image--774791786.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-V2Rk0aCSuD8/UbHQOdl-_gI/AAAAAAAAAHA/B6muOs1DDAw/s640/blogger-image--774791786.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-3024602386585837402013-05-17T11:36:00.001+01:002013-05-17T13:20:42.865+01:00Is it okay to have a bad day?Seriously, is it okay? And not only is it okay, is it sometimes good to let yourself have a bad day?<div><br></div><div>Let me give you a synopsis of my life changes. I'm an American. I married an Englishman last August and moved to the UK to be with him in November. Though I've become very close to his family, all of my family and friends are 4,000 miles away. I'm not working, but I am looking for a part time job (that's all my illness will allow me). I'm fairly isolated, but not really by choice. I need a certain amount of social interaction, not a lot, but some. I had learned to cope pretty well with my illness the last several years. I had a part time job which got me out and gave me a sense of accomplishment and belonging. And my close friends and family were there for support and the occasional lunch date. But now...</div><div><br></div><div>...I feel lonely. Very lonely. I am able to talk to my sister and mother on a somewhat regular basis and email and write friends. But it's not the same. My husband is amazingly supportive, but he can't do it all and frankly I think he is just now coming to realise how bad my illness really is. I had explained it to him at length, told him my stories, and gave him things to read to help him understand, but it's different when you see it live in living colour.</div><div><br></div><div>The last few months the distance and isolation have worn me down. I've been slowly slipping into a depression. I'm treading water, and I'm exhausted. While my husband is wonderful and supportive, he can't play all the roles. He can't be my sole source of interaction. He does get me out some for a lunch or card night at his sister's house. Little trips into town so I can peruse the charity shops, a type of shopping trip I actually enjoy. But over the last few months, I've started to feel guilty about all this. He's out working for ten hours then has to come home and entertain me. I can see the fatigue in his face. I can tell he just wants to come home, sit on the sofa, and sip a glass of wine and let the stress of his work day fade. And so I feel guilty.</div><div><br></div><div>I have learned a lot of natural techniques for handling my illness. I don't take medication with the exception of an occasional anti-anxiety pill. (I know the topic of meds is a hot button, so let me state that I neither support or admonish the use of meds, it's simply my choice.) I engage in short activities that distract me and give me small senses of accomplishment. I paint, bake, hike, and play video games (don't laugh, it's a great distraction). Most of the time, I enjoy these activities and look forward to doing them. However, when my illness creeps up on me, it takes a ton of energy to do these things. I have days when washing the dishes exhausts me and I'm ruined for the rest of the day.</div><div><br></div><div>So my guilt for making my husband feel like he needs to entertain me all the time has made me try to hide my growing depression. The depression makes me not want to do anything and I'm fatigued. To fight the depression, I make myself do my activities which exhausts me more and the joy they usually give me is tainted. I keep struggling to stay "up" but the spiral down has begun. Crying spells, anxiety attacks, catatonic time loss, hysterical outbursts, appetite changes, and erratic sleep patterns are taking over.</div><div><br></div><div>I've done what I consider to be the cardinal sin of mental illness. I hid my feelings. I stuffed down the growing anxiety and pain. I didn't allow myself to have a bad day and now I'm paying for it. I also have been keeping my feelings from my family back home because I don't want them to worry, so they don't even know what's happening now. And now it's getting so bad I feel guilty I haven't told them. It's just a big vicious cycle isn't it?</div><div><br></div><div>My husband clearly knows that I'm not well now since the last couple weeks have been a nightmare. We are struggling but working to get through it. In my lucid moments, I remind myself that it will get better. That I have found joy and contentment. That I have a wonderful loving husband. That it's spring and the world is beautiful. We are spending a week in a cottage in Wales next week and I'm hoping the time together and majestic landscape will help bring enough balance back into my life that I can get back on track.</div><div><br></div><div>Living with my illness is better than drowning in it.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JmMc42jl9nE/UZYgdQ-nTsI/AAAAAAAAAF4/EM5AJrwdSqU/s640/blogger-image-1047803705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JmMc42jl9nE/UZYgdQ-nTsI/AAAAAAAAAF4/EM5AJrwdSqU/s640/blogger-image-1047803705.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-45407379638480633512013-05-14T21:13:00.003+01:002013-05-30T17:04:08.261+01:00Limitations: How I Climbed a MountainIf you have a mental illness, one of the hardest things to accept is limitations. Old adages like "you can do anything you put your mind to" frequently doesn't apply to us. We have limitations.<div><br></div><div>I've struggled my entire life with this concept. There have been so many times when I know I can't do something but the society norm (or my mom) has made me feel inadequate if I can't. Work is probably the most prominent example. I'm not opposed to working hard, in fact, I tend to work harder than my immediate peers in an effort to convince myself that I am normal, even above average. Up until nine years ago, I held jobs that required many hours, a lot of responsibility, and loads of stress. Well in actuality, I sought out the responsibility and worked more hours than required. And looking back, I am sure much of my stress was self induced. My point is that for about seventeen years, my work life was peppered with everything from minor breakdowns to complete nuclear mental collapses. All because I hadn't accepted my limitations.</div><div><br></div><div>I have numerous limitations that I have tried to overcome throughout my life by simply forcing my way through the situation. Sometimes this works, but frequently it doesn't. I've accepted I can't work a full time stressful job. Part time with flexible hours is best for me. I can't run. I broke both my feet as a teen, that coupled with a less than stellar cardiovascular system and minimal coordination, limit me from most athletics. So now I enjoy walking/hiking in the woods a few times a week.</div><div><br></div><div>A major phobia that has grown over the years is that of heights. I don't ever remember being scared of heights until about six years ago. I went to an amusement park with a friend and we went up in one of those giant swings (300 feet up). As soon as we started getting above the tree tops, I felt my chest constrict and I couldn't breathe. The anxiety was paralysing. I closed my eyes tight, white knuckled the handlebars, and tried to go to my "happy place" in my head. I do my best to keep my feet on the ground now.</div><div><br></div><div>However, as someone with mental illness, it's all too easy to let our fears and anxieties keep us from experiencing life. I think sometimes the trick is to find a way to outsmart our fears. If you would've told me I would climb a mountain someday, I would've laughed in your face. Mountain climbing brings to mind steep cliff faces high above the ground with muscular people rigged up in special harnesses, with ropes and pulleys and such. Hell no! I have neither the strength, endurance, or mental stamina for such an endeavor. But a little over a week ago, I outwitted my fears in the mountainous North Wales.</div><div><br></div><div>My husband and I were on holiday staying in a quaint cottage across from a pair of mountains. We planned going on some nature walks and the visitors guide in our cottage recommended numerous ones including one leading up between the two mountains to a hidden lake. So our first morning, we got dressed, slipped on our hiking shoes, packed lunch in a rucksack, and started our way up the rolling pastures leading to the lake. I tried not to pay too much attention to how far and long we had gone, because I knew I would start thinking we needed to turn back. We took short breaks when I got a little tired and took in the beautiful scenery. My husband would scamper up rocky outcroppings while I rested. Before I knew it, we had come to the lake. There was a sheep path gently meandering up the side of the larger mountain and my husband suggested we walk up a bit and find a nice place to eat our lunch. So up we went. </div><div><br></div><div>As we ate our sandwiches, I looked around at my surroundings and realised we were actually quite high up, but it didn't scare me since I wasn't staring over a cliff edge. When I looked up the side of the mountain, I noticed we really weren't that far from the top. I could tell the climb the rest of the way would be a lot more challenging for me, but I knew I could do it. I started making my way up slow but steady. My legs were trembling and heart pounding as I reached the top. I did it! I climbed a mountain!</div><div><br></div><div>I'll never run a marathon or go sky diving, but this chick found a way to outwit my limitations. I didn't eliminate them, but I learned that sometimes you have to find back doors so that you don't miss out on the things that make life worth living.</div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RfLtR1gzeTQ/Uad4QJiPD_I/AAAAAAAAAGw/9yLBod7w0a0/s640/blogger-image-1893188387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RfLtR1gzeTQ/Uad4QJiPD_I/AAAAAAAAAGw/9yLBod7w0a0/s640/blogger-image-1893188387.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-48983087748048227342013-05-14T21:07:00.003+01:002013-07-01T17:06:51.662+01:00Addiction & Mental Illness: Part OneAs if being crazy isn't enough, people who have mental illness often find themselves abusing drugs. In fact, mental illness and drug abuse tend to go hand in hand. The crazies use drugs to escape their heads and drug addicts will alter their reality so much they start to go crazy. It's a vicious cycle that once embarked upon in either direction, becomes exponentially harder to control than either problem is individually. I'm stating this as fact based on my personal experience. When I had a complete mental breakdown in my early thirties, I delved into an unseemly world I didn't know existed.<div><br></div><div>Let me back up a bit first. The cracks in my psyche started at a very young age. I had bouts with anxiety and depression as far back as childhood, though I didn't know what was going on, I just knew something wasn't right. In my mid teens, the stress of peer pressure and wanting to fit in caused me to spiral into a couple years of quickly cycling hyper manic episodes and severe depression. At the age of sixteen, I snapped one night and next thing I knew I was waking up in an institution under heavy sedation. I had no memory of how I got there or how much time had passed. It was horrifying. I ended up spending six months at an inpatient psychiatric facility. But it wasn't enough.</div><div><br></div><div>The next school year, I was greeted with whispers and rumours and gossip about what had happened to me. The shame was too much and knowing I didn't want to go back to the psych hospital, I started self medicating to kill the increasing pain inside me. I would sneak liquor from my parents stash and cigarettes. I would stay up all night drinking and smoking. Eventually I started getting to know the potheads at school. Marijuana was a great escape. It numbed me, but it made me feel stupid which I didn't like. I started dating a guy in his twenties and he introduced me to cocaine. Now that was exactly what I was looking for. It numbed the pain and at the same time made me feel energetic and confident. I suddenly felt powerful. It was an incredible aphrodisiac for my warped brain. I could be everything I wanted to be when high on coke.</div><div><br></div><div>The problem with drugs, especially if you are already mentally ill, is that it makes your "highs" even higher than normal and your "lows" unbearable. To fight the lows, you do everything you can to stay high. So you do more drugs, harder drugs. You'll do anything to keep from feeling low. And many of these drugs not only leave you mentally drained when you come down, but you develop physical withdrawals that can leave you violently ill if the growing addiction isn't fed. Like I said, vicious cycle.</div><div><br></div><div>Surprisingly, after only a year, I actually managed to break away from the guy who got me into the drugs and bounced back a little mentally. However, to do it I basically just stopped having feelings at all. If I didn't have ups I couldn't have downs. So I just stayed in the middle, numb. I created a facade so I could function in society. Meanwhile, my emptiness grew and grew.</div><div><br></div><div>In my early twenties, I started to do the bar scene. I eventually started doing coke again on occasion with the crowd I hung out with. Now none of these people would I ever consider friends. We did drugs together and partied. That's it. I could let my flamboyant wild facade run wild with these people, because I didn't care what they really thought. I let this fragmented part of my personality take over. And I took great care to keep it hidden away from my real friends and family. I never was high around them, but as I more and more needed to be high, the less and less time I spent with people who actually cared about me. I didn't want them to see this character I created that I secretly hated.</div><div><br></div><div>At some point I completely lost all that was me. I had been faking who I was, creating different personalities to show different segments of my world, for so long I no longer knew what was real. I didn't know who I was and I had no idea how to find me. I was tired. Very very tired. Then I met a man. A good man. A man worth attempting to find myself again for. We fell in love and got married. I had quit all my bad habits and replaced them with him and his boys. They were my world. But that was a problem. I basically traded one addiction for another. They were my new drug, my high. And as with all drugs, the high is only great for a while, but then you need more. I needed me. But I didn't know who I was and I had no idea where to find me. The void that was in me once again took over and depression set in...</div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/--8BRPsfSCYI/UdGpCC6XDGI/AAAAAAAAAK0/CN9Snw1s_oc/s640/blogger-image-1577644512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/--8BRPsfSCYI/UdGpCC6XDGI/AAAAAAAAAK0/CN9Snw1s_oc/s640/blogger-image-1577644512.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-20719168764055969712013-05-14T21:07:00.001+01:002013-05-15T21:58:23.187+01:00Focus: That Elusive BitchWell here I am writing my second blog entry. Pretty proud of this small achievement. This may seem silly to some, but to those of you like me, you can relate. I have millions of ideas zipping around my brain all the time. I'm fairly intelligent and somewhat creative, but harnessing these abilities is a daunting task for me. I want to try everything. Painting, writing, baking, drawing, hiking, knitting, weight lifting, golf, tennis, yoga, cooking, etc. But I have a deep seeded fear of failure. Even if I know I'm good at something and everyone around me affirms this, I am still scared I will somehow fail. Couple this with my mania and a dash of OCD... Well I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this.<div><br></div><div>I have at least narrowed my interests to the world of creativity. Art and writing have always been the best outlets for me and where my talents lie (if I truly have any - that's my self doubt creeping in). My brother is the musician and my sister is the athlete. I love music but have zero aptitude. Think Steve Martin in "The Jerk" and that's me. However that doesn't stop me from dancing my little heart out or singing at the top of my lungs, much to the dismay of all that witness these occurrences. And sports? Well I lack a certain coordination that is required. I actually have the ability to trip over my own feet while standing still. Don't believe me? Come on over and I'll sing you a song.</div><div><br></div><div>So what do i enjoy doing then? I love to paint! I totally get lost in the colours. When I get an idea in my head and sit down to put it on canvas, hours will pass like minutes. However, I struggle to keep focus on one idea. And I am perpetually fearful that what I create will be total crap. So I get stuck. I have probably only attempted 10% of what has floated through my head. And sadly when the "crazy" creeps up on me, that's when I need to paint most. Since I have so much self doubt and can't nail down ideas all the time, I tend to copy a lot of other works that I like. This at least keeps me painting, and hey that's how all the masters learned, so I am okay with that.</div><div><br></div><div>So what's my point you ask? Of course not. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Focus or rather lack thereof. This has always been so incredibly frustrating to me. And another reason why I hesitate to try new things. I have the tendency to start new activities or projects but then get distracted and abandon them. I am notorious for not completing things, even things I love to do. I hate it. I hate that my illness gets in the way of me completing tasks so simple for others. I hate that it prevents me from fully enjoying the hobbies i love. And it's so embarrassing. People will see the partially completed activities lying around my house and they can't understand why I don't just pick one up and finish it, then the next, and so on. Or why I attend a Zumba class twice with gusto never to be seen again. I wish I knew how to explain to people that I am not a total flake.</div><div><br></div><div>Now I have accomplished goals, some lofty ones at that. I have three college degrees of which I'm extremely proud. However, the price to reach such arduous goals was high. I had to sacrifice my "self" and put all my energy into my studies and harness the mania I created. This was always followed by a severe depression. It's sad because I'm so proud I somehow managed to finish these degrees with honours, but I have now accepted my limitations and cannot work to utilise these degrees.</div><div><br></div><div>I know this is a large part of the reason I don't emerse myself in many activities. The fear of letting the activity take over and losing my "self" again is horrifying. Obviously the down side is that I don't really accomplish many long term goals. And that is why this blog is a big deal to me. If I can actually keep it going for a little while, that would truly be impressive for me.</div><div><br></div><div>So wish me luck, say a prayer, stroke a rabbits foot, whatever your thing is and maybe just maybe I will be able to keep on writing this blog for awhile. Only time will tell.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xDMN2Kt1I84/UZPxsd2OzKI/AAAAAAAAAFM/6Qgr25ZafPs/s640/blogger-image-1212853538.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xDMN2Kt1I84/UZPxsd2OzKI/AAAAAAAAAFM/6Qgr25ZafPs/s640/blogger-image-1212853538.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725044551185521827.post-29777727370660824452013-05-14T10:25:00.001+01:002013-05-14T11:24:17.658+01:00Hi. My name is Kay. This is my story...Greetings and salutations! Welcome to my first ever blog about living with mental illness. As anyone who suffers this affliction will tell you, the stigma can be unbearable. Most people attempt to hide their illness (which only makes it worse usually), because the general population doesn't understand it. Even in today's day and age of Internet, people don't get it. And frankly the fact that everyone and their brother is taking Zoloft, Paxil, or the like for what is essentially a temporary case of mild depression, is actually making the situation worse if you ask me.<div><br></div><div>If I had a penny for everyone I know who has taken an antidepressant for a short period of time, well let's just say I would have a pretty big jar of pennies. These normal, average, healthy people are not mentally ill. They do not have an illness that will be with them forever. They will not be learning coping mechanisms, defining boundaries, and accepting limitations. They will take their low dose of whatever for a little while and keep on going. They will realise one day they hadn't taken the drug for a week and still felt great and will forget why they took it to begin with. I am not one of those people.</div><div><br></div><div>I can remember not feeling "normal" all the way back to early childhood. And as I got older, it only got worse. By my early teens, mood swings, severe depression, and anxiety were becoming the standard. I had no idea what was going on and I knew it wasn't normal. My friends weren't like this. When it got really bad I isolated myself. The rest of the time I created a facade for friends, family, and strangers. The character I created was very self-assured and charismatic. Everything I wasn't. Most people had no idea what was going on behind the scenes. But playing this part was exhausting and in retrospect probably exasperated my mental deterioration. The cracks started to appear to close family and keeping up the facade became more difficult so I went back to isolating myself. It wasn't long before I had my first complete breakdown at age sixteen and was subsequently hospitalised for five months.</div><div><br></div><div>Prior to my first institutionalisation and even for years after, whenever I was in a depression, my mom who clearly had no idea how to deal with me, would just say "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" and keep going. It took her some 20 odd years to realise it wasn't that easy. And frankly, if you are like me, someone trying to simplify the situation like that just makes things worse. If it were so simple to just "be happy", don't you think I would? Who would choose to be mentally ill? I didn't choose this anymore than someone with diabetes chose their disease. If they could just wake up and will themselves into having normal insulin levels, I'm pretty sure they would.</div><div><br></div><div>Well mom, my bootstraps are broken. But I'm still alive and kicking!</div><div><br></div><div>This is my story, my life. I am bipolar with borderline personality disorder. I have panic attacks and I get depressed. But I've learned to live with my illness. Most of the time now, I'm very content (I say content because to me that's a state of being, not just a raw emotion like happy). I still have bad days or even weeks, but I'm surviving and thriving. I have embraced my "crazy". I'm not a psychiatrist or psychologist, but I have spent the last 25 years learning to live with my illness, educating myself, making every day better than the day before. I'm not an expert. I'm just a woman with a story to tell. And I hope it helps someone get through another day.</div><div><br></div><div>Let's begin...</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-KtuycTjucd0/UZIQnclxSLI/AAAAAAAAACg/DC3UzAQ3-S0/s640/blogger-image-1494561239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-KtuycTjucd0/UZIQnclxSLI/AAAAAAAAACg/DC3UzAQ3-S0/s640/blogger-image-1494561239.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15201601759449854523noreply@blogger.com2