Just 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

So here I sit. Praying for an early Spring.

Hello Old Freind

Today 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I will just keep fighting and praying.

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.

Suicide & Suicidal Ideation: **WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGER**

**WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGER**

Today I'm going to talk about a scary subject: suicide. I'm going to start by throwing out a few statistics I found.

*One million people commit suicide worldwide every year. That's one every forty seconds.

*100,000 adolescents die from suicide every year.

*The second leading cause of death among teens is suicide.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

If you or someone you love is exhibiting suicidal tendencies, seek help immediately. Not everyone gets a second chance like I did.

Emotional Scale

Everyone 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Living with a skewed emotional scale isn't easy. But with support and effort, it is manageable I've discovered. 

Unexpected Benefits

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.

So how then have I managed to consistently keep up this blogging thing I wonder? Let's see... 

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?

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

Did 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.

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!

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I'm feeling the itch...

But 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

... Now if I could just remember how to fly...