BUJO Blog

So this might be so yesterday for a lot of my readers, but dear friends I have come across the concept of BULLET JOURNALING.  For those in the dark like me until the weekend – I have come to understand Bullet Journalling to be (and you are welcome to quote me):  the act of decorating / colouring in your yearly / weekly / monthly planner, shopping lists, gratitude list and lots of stuff mental healthy that are fabulous for you.  And I think that the acronym for it is BUJO – but I could be mistaken, and this could end up being a poorly (perhaps rudely) entitled blog.  Either way, nothings swinging this happy “bujo’er”:  Did I say you get to colour it in?  Did you hear that good for you bit?  That it helps you relax bit? And that there are generous doses of improvements of your mental health involved?  Win, win, win.

Over my long and delightful bullet journaling career (2.5 days and one night where I dreamt about it) has brought me to a couple of realisations:  1) People prefer pretty. planned and neat, including the creator.  BUJO’s are pretty, creative, artistic, unique.  They are also carefully planned, succinct and functional.  And I’m learning that perhaps my blog should be the same.  I can reflect on the nasties that are happening to me – but I am a horror movie / video / image WIMP – and perhaps other people are too.  So ala BUJO – I’m going to in future, use my literary pencil crayons and colour to draw my experiences, but neither you nor I will need additional therapy for reading my blog.  Promise.

2) I LOVE LISTS, especially flowery, heart arrowy, with a poignant quote penned at the bottom to motivate you for the day. I have NO need to complete all my tasks / lists everyday, but by simply emptying your mind on paper, in my experience, your “brain” can breathe a bit.  I feel like my brain can stop doing push ups, and can take a much needed rest, or in my case, probably a bite of a doughnut.  These lists help me and you can say what you like – they help me even more, when they’re colour coded, categorised, scrapbook-ised things. Pretty and planned?  Salivates…

3) Mental Health matters:  I’ve spent tons of time complaining instead of actively building up my mental health – investing in being and staying well.  So far my BUJO escapade has taught me how to draw a mandala (it’s skew and unaligned, focus here, the LESSON is the important part), has made me believe I can KINDA draw, and that I can relax.  And I’ve taken on a little BUJO “project” which is a labour of love for someone special.   What am I saying?  Anything that makes you smile a little, expand your horison, teach you a new skill, and importantly makes you have some positive mental health me time is for this Bipolar girl a BIG BUJO YES.

4)  Mood Trackers.  Any BUJO someone has a good mood tracker, ideally self conceptualised into for example, a cup with foliage growing out of it, where each leaf is coloured in with a mood for the day.  These moods are captured in the tracker key.  I got round to all the first bits, and my leafy cup looked fabulous.  Then I realised I had to capture my moods in one day – or a “mood for the day”.   I was about to pen happy-sad-fine-cross, and realised that perhaps I needed different descriptions.  The jury is still out on appropriate moods to add to the key so do, do, do – let me know.  But tracking your mood to help you grow / know / whatever, is again, a resounding yes.

Lastly – and sheepishly – I am learning the skill of being succinct (present and past blogs not included).  It is sometimes better – though more complicated – to convey complex information simply, and succinctly.  The KISS principle is key…  Keep It Simple / Short  Stupid!  I will learn and I will learn with time.  But now you’ll excuse me, Tuesday 20-03-18 can do with a flower or two, a contribution to my gratitude list, and anything else BUJO-ey.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

 

Labour of Love

20 years ago today, I became a mother.  No, I didn’t conceive my eldest son today.  But he was born.  And in my opinion, you only really become a mother when there is a living, breathing person outside of you.   When you are pregnant, it’s almost as if you have a convenient baby carrier / incubator also known as your womb, and it is recommended that you remember to eat regularly, try and rest, and avoid anything intoxicating.    Coupled with this, regular visits to health care practitioners is advised, where they niggle and scratch about your tummy and your nether regions.  Pretty.  But also easy in comparison to what comes ahead.

On the 14th of March 1998, I was with my sister and we were relaxing.  I had an insatiable craving for a loaded cheese pizza, and my sister and mom arranged it, while I lay breathing and wondering about the person that seemed to be growing heavier, and more I’m going to arrive with each day.  Afterwards, I was convinced that I had cramps from the pizza, as I had wolfed too much down too quickly.  Turns out that it was the early stages of labour.  Excitedly, my sister sang to the baby to encourage his arrival – I DID stare at her with glaring eyes which could have shot daggers as the contractions increased with intensity and pain.       It seemed like forever before we headed to the hospital only to learn that I was not very dilated, but not dealing with the pain well.

I was administered an epidural, and the medical staff suggested I try and sleep.  They dimmed the light, and I pondered the irony of having a needle up my spine, being suggested that I “sleep” with a baby heading out at some point during the night.  And then panic struck:  if I was anaesthetised how would I know when the baby would come out?  And an ever bigger panic:  how on earth would I – read sixteen year old with little to no life experience – be able to be a mother?  I had not yet figured out that “taking care of yourself thing” yet for myself, how could I pro-offer it to someone else?  I felt like I was offering my baby a demo model off the car showroom floor – it’s been around the block a couple of times, but hasn’t really taken the long road, so there may be a couple of kinks that still needed to be worked out.    Gawk.

Instead of doing what I would do now *freak out much more*, I calmed myself and proceeded to talk to the baby through our shared umbilical cord – which I imagined to be the headphone cable directly to his heart and ears.    I noted that he had chosen a mother with little experience but ready to learn, that I would try and silence the thousands of emotions that cursed through my body and being each day in an effort to place his first, and to understand him better.    I also asked that he give me a sign that he was ready to arrive, and that we could then commence his / my / our journey together.  And I began to feel proud, happy, excited that somehow I had amazingly (with a teensy bit of help) had turned a me – into a very important we.

In the first few years of his life, my heart leapt everytime he would boisterously take on a new task – walking, talking, eating (usually spraying everything on him and me) etc – and he always seemed to take the road less travelled.  I loved that about him, but it also  scared me as it was far too reminiscent of what I thought were my less than recommended footsteps.    Any real mother always wants to stop her child from falling, from being unhappy, from not having what they want or need.  I know I do, have, and did.    His first steps became jumps and leaps – often into the deep end – of the stroke of life he chose to undertake.  And most times he swam, and he swam extremely well, but there were times  when he could not – pulled down by things beyond his control.  Like his first bruises on his knees, that then later migrated into his first broken heart.  I always wanted to pull him up, feel for him, and protect him from what I had known had been too cruel a world.

Instead, I became increasingly awash with my own dilemma’s, which eventually led me to being diagnosed, and hospitalised too many times per year thereafter.   He ended up looking after me, more than I looked after him.  Yes, I was well sometimes, but there were times when I was not, and he compensated more for the me then I did the he in we.    When I pointed this out to him, he said:  Mummy, I would not have chosen anyone else.  He pointed out that there were good things I did, that my children love / loved me, what I would do for their birthday’s and how I would make Christmas special each year, to the best of my ability.

Today the he in my we is 20 years old, and I imagine he has set his sights on a different female – with different responsibilities – in his we going forward.  It does not mean that he loves me less, it just means that he is free to be him.  So the biggest gift I would like to give him today is the freedom from having to look after me.  The freedom to be, grow and excel at growing the awesome young person he is and will become.  I will be happy, I will be sad, I will be a mish mash of both, but I will be ok.  And that lesson I learned from him and his life – is that you can’t be part of a we, if you don’t seriously take care of, root for and appreciate the me.  Happy birthday. I love you my boy.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

 

 

 

Alive Again

Dear Readers, fellow bloggers and those that happen upon what used to a super sad blog, I have realised that perhaps a blog about the continuing dilemmas of a maybe/never/happening divorce, depths of depression and infectious flesh eating bacteria may not be the space I’m trying to create, let alone one I’d like to live in.  Accordingly, I’m reflecting on having been in the trenches, and hope to offer some lessons for getting out of the emotional warzone life.  So I’m officially done playing dead, done diving into the proverbial depression duvet and ready to stand up and face the real, dare I say normal world.  Scratch normal.  Let’s just go with world.

In order to move ahead, I am documenting a few things I have learnt over the past few months:

You are your own safe place:   Whilst it’s awesome to have someone / many ones to support you, you have to be your own safe place.  It is dangerous to locate your sense of self outside you – your emotions outside you – because when that outside changes unexpectedly, you will literally be thrown for a six, and may not be able to respond or should I say be response-able in time to avoid severe emotional disarray.  It’s a pitiful place coloured with washes of tears and sadness in the darkest of blue that no person with mental illness should frequent.  Ever.

DON’T listen to depressive soundtracks:    Contrary to a “board” I saw on Pinterest which gleefully suggested “listen to depressive music” – I would loudly, colourfully and in any way possible suggest that you remove the sad music from your playlist. With. Immediate. Effect.  You do not need the soundtrack to hate me more.  Nope.  The sway and lilt of depressive music is particularly encapsulating for someone already feeling sorry for themselves.  I have often sang many a Whitney Houston song with feeling, and depth, to myself, tears running.  I’ve almost even done this in front of the mirror for dramatic effect, but it was too far from the bed.  Pretty picture? No.  Let’s not and say we did.

Do shower, do get up:  This is possibly one of the harder lessons.  Without going back to bad blog depressive vibes, the truth is that when you feel like diving in the duvet forever, you may actually smell, need to shower, and well, do something other than sleep.  I have often been the irate person awoken from blissful emotionless sleep and insisted loudly, and colourfully why I needed to sleep.  And sometimes you do.  But when it’s repeated for like a couple of days (say five like me) then you need to do something and your treatment team / supporters need to know, and work with you to intervene.    My suggestion though?  Shower before you talk to them – they’ll be more receptive, if not appreciative, and will help.  If they don’t, they’re the wrong people.  Keep asking – whatever it takes – for you to be ok to get up.  However, to add to this, what I’m saying is that anything with a “minty fresh” smell is awesome, and generally preferred for people to people engagement.

You are enough:  Perhaps this is linked to some of the lessons above, but maybe not.   It is one thing locating your feelings / sense of self outside you, but with this one, I am saying that hurly burly super churning inside of a chest which experiences multiple emotions per day is OK.  The I can cry easily you, is OK.  The I speak my mind you is Ok.  All, all, all of you is OK and no-one has a thermometer on how enough or OK you can or should be.  So be.  Be for you.  And be alive.  I am.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

 

Under my skin

Let me start off today’s post by saying this blog-a-day will keep the fog away (read depression) vibe is not working for me, cause well, when you are wading those deep dark waters of depression, ain’t no trying to be chirpy life jacket gonna help.  Instead, I have decided to try and explain where I am, and in so doing, perhaps understand it for myself.    I entitled this post under my skin – because that’s literally how I’ve felt for the past few weeks – not the pleasant Frank Sinatra croon, I love you under my skin, but more like a horrible flesh eating disease that is well, having a good chomp of my well-being everyday.  Lovely thought.  But it’s true – there is something there – something going on – that is plunging me deeper and deeper into I just want to stay asleepness everyday.

The first mite would have to be my job – who like real bed bug troopers – change what they are and aren’t doing everyday.   Their most recent response is that they are no longer retrenching me.  Say what?  I have been bitten, have felt the continuous “biting” of my mental health and now you want me to stay?  Imagine me – body fully rash covered post biting – expected to turn up at work and function, when they (by unretrenching me) have fully proved that they are targeting me – and that it has a lot to do with the fact that I live with Bipolar.  How do you trust – or continue to want to be employed by an organisation who discriminate on the basis of your mental illness?

Why is this so significant, and why do I continue to write about it?  Well, when you start your career at sixteen, with a baby to boot, you need the money.    I remember having started my first job and being paid peanuts – but those peanuts paid for me and my munchkin at the time.  Also, after having practised in my field for over 20 years, I am an expert, and when people don’t know I am mentally ill, they treat me like one.  Is it contractadictory that I am a mental health advocate but am scared of reprisal if I disclose my own illness. Yes it is.  But I have four kids dependent on me – as well as needing to pay for my own mental healthcare – and because most of all, I DO. NOT. WANT. TO. BE DEPENDENT.  So all of this creates “itchy” cognitive dissonance.  Yes much. So taking away my job, threatening me, looking down on me, makes me aggressive.  Makes me itchy. And it gets under my skin ALOT.

The other biggest reason why I am so itchy is because I feel I no longer have a balm to apply to my irritated parts / a safe place to escape to.  My readers know that this safe place was my husband.  He’s still around, and trying to be supportive, but I don’t know if he can anymore, or if I can ever trust him to again.  For example, we laid on the couch on Saturday but the more he enclosed his arms, the less comforted I felt, which resulted in me fidgeting, and equally fidgety sleep thereafter.  In fact, it felt like he was applying heat to an already irritated body of skin, feeling and emotion.  And that’s hard – and that’s what’s tough – the fact that there is no *strong word* end to this assault on my mental and physical senses and I’m tired and I need a break.  Because I’m itchy, I’m unsafe, and there is something awful under my skin.   In the meantime, while I contend with life’s rash, I will desperately and earnestly be looking for some much needed mental health calamine lotion.  Let me know if you find any.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

Oh what a tangled web we weave…

There is a fabulous Disney movie called Tangled.  If you haven’t seen it – it’s worth a watch, and I look forward to our repeat watches every now and then with my chickens.  We all pretend we’re not excited to see it, but we are, and is spurred on by my youngest’s excitement.  The story is a modern day Rapunzel if you like, except that Rapunzel has awesome healing hair, that fixes any ailment – cut hands, keeps you young etc.  Handy.    Fast forward a bit and a handsome young man climbs into her tower by accident, and she wants him to take her to explore the outside of the tower she’s been imprisoned in, and he needs her for the crown she’s hidden from him.  Cut a long story short, they head off together, with a promise of the hidden crown for a quick trip to the “city of lights”.

The minute they have descended the tower, Rapunzel is awfully conflicted.  I would NEVER say that she looked a bit Bipolary, but honestly I could identify.    At first she was running around, whooping for joy, jumping up and down, singing loudly.  Then she sat on the grass rocking herself back and forth, doing a verbal pros and cons list, with the cons taking the lead.  Then she was swinging off branches.  And a repeat of the rocking, or lying face first in the grass.  And well, I’m not slight, blonde or even magical, but I have been there.   I almost asked she wanted one of my coveted Alzam’s that well, helps the anxiety be a bit quieter. And all this was about – was whether to leave the tower or not.

The reality was that she was being kept prisoner in her tower.  The wicked witch that kept her there made her believe it was for her own safety.    For her own good.  That the world was filled with ruffians and thugs and that she just could not face them on her own.  That she wasn’t strong enough.  And for a very long time, she believed her.  And the confines of the tower were enough.   So perhaps when convenient gentleman offered his services to escort her, it must’ve been a compelling offer.  She had been taught for so long that she wasn’t enough – that the assistance seemed just what she needed.

There are a number of mistakes she made which I – and perhaps you – have made and can identify with.    The first thing is, if you are going to take the risk and climb out of the tower, know that you are enough, no matter how long you have been told and taught you are less.  Climb, sing, and choose to get out of your prison, whatever it may be.  Secondly, never ever believe you need someone else to take you to explore outside your tower.  Never believe that you need someone to unlock your door.  You are the only person that can set your limitations, and if you’re bold enough, and have awesome hair, girlfriend, you can go anywhere.  I’m blue, I’m hurting, and my particular gentleman has deceived me for a very long time.    To be more accurate, he escorted himself to the city of lights and left me behind.  To add to that – my wicked witch of a job – has offered me the opportunity to climb out the tower, and I’m too scared to go alone.  I’m not used to doing ALONE.  But I believe in what I’m saying – and what something as basic as a Tangled movie has taught me:  ships are safe in harbour, but that’s not what they’re built for.   So come climb with me, sail with me, on our own, knowing that we, me is enough. Always.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to

Hello fellow bloggers and the lovely people that read my blog.  I have not been a consistent bloggee of late, choosing not to write while my most recent series of temper tantrums have ensued.  I’ve been grumpy – too grumpy – to properly engage with ANYONE, let alone those who are dearest to me.  And if I’m honest, I’ve pushed them away more than anything of late.  I do that when I’m scared, because the fear of losing another support person WHILE I am going through a difficult period, would literally push me over the edge.  I am feeling extremely vulnerable – the threat and stress of losing my job, of having the husband that was walk out again (i.e. when the going gets tough, the wimp gets going), of trying to secure additional work has not made me the happiest around, and has pushed my mood into a dark place.  I don’t do “I don’t know’s” well, and have already said on my blog how I plan the plan.  And no matter how I try, I cannot do that now.

It has been – since December – an awful period for me, and I am left feeling tired and overwhelmed by all the things that are happening.  I didn’t start out “feeling blue”.  I tried everything else – I put up a vision board, I’ve been journalling, I tried to keep up with the housework with my children’s support, I danced, I tried a range of things – but I just can’t anymore.  I feel like the little girl dressed in the fluffiest, tutu-iest, pinkest dress at a party carefully planned by her parents, with balloons, cake, too much sugar and too many friends – and when expected to perform or react, she stands in the middle of the crowd, throws a temper tantrum, spinning on the floor, and just cries.  Think cartoon character like crying, with pools of tears flooding next to her.  Because I cannot be what other people want me to be, how they expect me to react, when they want it.    And admittedly, I cannot handle extended periods of stress – no matter where the stressor is coming from.  And it has been coming, from all angles.

My sleep has been affected, my diet has been affected, I’m fatter and my head and heart are lonelier and more fragile than they have been in a long time.  I crave my safe place – the curl of the husband that was’ arm – the cradle of his safety, his smell of serenity, his kisses of kindness.    Well that and about a truckload of chocolate.    Neither of the latter options are good for me – I don’t trust the husband that was – and I don’t need any more excess kilograms – so I’m at sea on how to cope with this war that is being waged on me.  I feel like going to sleep and not waking up for the longest time.  Maybe ever.  And I know that’s not a good thing.

After seven years of being diagnosed – I know what this means.  I am entering a depressive episode, and it’s time to give my shrink a shout.  She needs to know what’s going on, that it’s not getting better, and that I’m sinking deeper and deeper into my depressive abyss.  And using the party girl analogy – right now – you could give me as many presents and pieces of cake as you want – none of these things are going to make me stop crying.  Because I feel those tears – those I will never end tears – that threaten to take over your existence completely.  They’ve been leaking all day at work today, and I’ve been making desperate attempts to keep them at bay – been mumbling about my awful hayfever – although there isn’t a grain of pollen / irritants nearby.

I never want my blog to be simply about unhappiness, and I hope that my writing and reflections in some way help and assist others, so I choose to end this post by taking away the one good thing about what is happening right now:  I am learning that being strong isn’t about keeping a straight face, isn’t about not crying, and isn’t about not mourning what you’ve gone through.  It isn’t about keeping up pretenses to the rest of the world that you’re fine (ok I did that today, but don’t interrupt lesson flow).    Instead it’s about saying that I don’t have to be what the WORLD wants me to be.  I can be me.  I can be Bipolar me.  And that me needs to take care of herself now.  So I’ll finish my tantrum, pick myself up and dust myself off, and march myself into my psychiatrist’s office.   I’m sure she’d smile to see this grown aff chunky woman in a tutu, and it’s likely to bring a smile to me, and the other friends at the psychiatric hospital where she works (and where I’ve regularly stayed).  Cause it’s my party, and I will cry if I want to.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

 

 

Bipolar Blog Bust

Dear Friends and Bloggers, this morning I went to an interview.  Excited and bubbly was me and in response to “what do you enjoy doing in your free time?”, I quickly blurted out that I have a blog, and love writing.  That I tried to reflect on my experience of being – and advocating for the rights of a vulnerable group.  What is the address they asked? What is the blog about they asked?   Brakes screeching halt sound.    I didn’t think through telling them about my blog.  It came from a place where I am proud of my blog – and my growing *read like 10* following base.  I am proud that I have somewhere I can talk and write about my experience of living with Bipolar.  That some people like what I write, that some people don’t.  That some people respond to me, that some people won’t.  The point is that I am actively having a conversation about, without and within Bipolar, my life, my “me” and I’ve never done that before.

No, I am not a saintly writer doing my bit for the cause.  I write this blog anonymously.  Why? I don’t live in a country where people are encouraged to be loud and proud about the fact that they have a mental illness.  It’s quite the opposite, and no matter how much I wish it were different, no matter how much I individually advocate,  people with mental illness are not accepted.  So much so that there are horrible examples of what happens to people with mental illness in my country:  we are stigmatised and harassed when doing something as simple but important as collecting our medication, we are chained to trees in remote areas as a method to cure / contain us, we are pushed away from our families and many times are relegated to being homeless – far from the care – and hopefully cushion we really deserve.  And I know there are too many other examples of how this happens around the world.

I plan to actively work to make this different –  to advocate, to raise funds to support people with mental illness that need it most, to ensure that psychiatric hospitals really provide the services people with mental illness need, to change many of the practices in our country – in homes, in offices, in schools about how people with mental illness are perceived.  But this morning, in telling them about my blog – I also needed to tell them that I was Bipolar – and I didn’t want to.  And because I didn’t want to, I felt like I was selling ‘us’ out, and most of all, selling me out.  I just thought that if I provided the url for my blog (it’s pretty self explanatory) that they would associate me with crazy, unreliable, gets sick all the time, HR nightmare about to explode stigmatising labels that are probably amongst the prettier categories actually, of mental illness here.  And I just left the discussion with an un-awesome feeling about me.

I didn’t need to tell them that I was Bipolar to gain “activist” points.  I didn’t need to tell them I was Bipolar so I could watch and feel them recoil in horror, get it over with, and quieten my beating heart that I wouldn’t get the job.   Rather stop in its tracks the emotional storm that would ensue, where my Bipolar Brain would relive each moment of the interview, wondering WHERE I had gone wrong. I needed to tell them because it IS something I live with, it does contribute and equally detract from who I am – and frankly,  because each day, I fight the battle (and dance happy dances) in making more and more sense of what it means to live with and through Bipolar.  It’s hard – and I try my best everyday to be a bit better.  Not their better, but ours, that ours that means there is a little bit more sunshine than dark, a little more hope than usual and a whole lot more “dealing with” life.

I needed to tell them because if they are the kind of people that do not want to work with me because I have Bipolar, then in truth, I would want to work with them even less.    If they do not respect – and dare I say admire – the journey I and we affected by mental illness go through,   I don’t even want to be considered by them.  Because I’m not just sick, I’m not just broken, and I – we – should never be relegated to sub-citizen status just because we live with something – a very big something – we never asked for.  My favourite saying is: I hate being Bipolar, it’s awesome – and that’s what I conclude today.  I am proud of me, I am proud of being Bipolar – and anybody who isn’t – won’t be part of my life.  Period.  Wanna hire me?  Be a participant in my mental health.  BE an avid supporter.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.