Diagnosis Dinghy

Since yesterday, I slept most of the day, ate my body weight in sugar, and was with my children.   With them I try my best to pretend I’m ok, and to keep the tears at bay.  You might ask why I don’t show my children the truth or be real with them.   The answer to this is that they have been through and have seen enough.  They have carried me enough, seen too many tears, and I don’t want to be that for them.   They deserve a Mom that tries even when she really, really, really doesn’t want to.  And believe it or not, I find that there’s nothing more refreshing than a quick cry in the closet.   Am I a traitor?Should I show them my wet weepyness?  AGAIN.

Before now… (now being the most recent past, current and imminent future), I did not understand my moods / cycles and basically handled my diagnosis and it’s er, amazeball symptoms by climbing in a dinghy and “surfing” the ups and downs of a tsunami sized tidal wave.  And because they live with me, my children  were in the dinghy too and let’s just say we all DID NOT enjoy the ride which lasted for a way too long time.  So it’s not that I lie to them… But more that I go to the ends of the earth even when I feel awful to avoid making them feel like we’re going surfing again.  They deserve better.  They deserve “quiet”.  And because they are well versed in caring for others (i.e. me), empathy and compassion, perhaps its time for them to do them.

One of the signs that this is happening is that they are cheeky with me (there are other signs too) which confirms that they’ve managed to throw their sea legs away, and for the most part this makes me happy.  They deserve this and so, so, so much more I pray and hope for each day.   The part that doesn’t make me happy is that I am at sea.  Whilst I was asleep something pushed my dinghy from the bay and I am in awfully painful turbulent water. If I’m honest, I no longer want to row back, but instead sit quietly as too much water covers my mind, heart and body.  I am tired of fighting back.  And as any diagnosis dinghy rider worth their sea salt will tell you, because you are so insignificant relative to the depression tsunami, sometimes it’s best to lay back, and hope for the best.  Right now, that’s all I can do.  What would you do? Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

Family Easter Feelings

I haven’t been writing of late because our home is full. And fun. And full, did I say that?   All of our children are here plus extras and I am loving it.  At night, dinner time has stretched itself to ten plates.  Sometimes I wonder how they will be filled, but funnily enough, there is always enough and even a bit for a second helping.  And everyone loves it,  and we laugh and we eat, and all that really matters is that we are together.  My youngest daughter and I also use this opportunity to abuse board game my eldest son who is visiting for the Easter period.  We have NO shame in manipulating him into playing a game, and you’d not be sure of who the youngest is based on the firm footedness of retorts, raucous laughter and squeals when winning *mostly describes me*.

We love any opportunity to be together and as my son said well, he was happy to be home, and that we are a clan and this Mother Hen, at that point, could have clucked around them a thousand times more than she already had been. The Easter weekend promises more of this, and we are excited about chilling away slightly away from day-to-day pressures.  Don’t worry, as a mental illness aficionado, I’ll keep my worry level on light to panic, if the cookies are finished before the time.  I said relax not lose my mind, tosses hair.  But if I’m honest, the worry level has been boiling for some time.  For example when my son arrived over a week ago, I crushed cried hugged him when he arrived but immediately felt the sadness of meeting him at the airport. It meant that he didn’t live at home, that he was going back at some point, and being the girl scout mom that I am, I prepare. Particularly emotions.  I pre-cry.  It does NOT impact on the eventual cry (like when he leaves) but at least I would have diminished the tear stock slightly.

Also, as if on cue, I generally start to feel terrible ahead of key times / dates / holidays.  It’s almost as if I’ve been trained to be this way.  When I was little holidays, however short, including weekends it became, were always celebrated with far too liquid diets and accordant drama…. So ahead of anything family related, my stomach cramped, my head ached, and I just wanted to sleep.   And I feel the same way now, my training suggesting that something terrible is about to happen and that I needed to be prepared for that something too.   That’s a very hard thing when you don’t know what the something is, and the appropriate level at which to cry.  Being the mother I am and ready to share with everyone, I instead cry profusely so every possible something is covered in wet prayer.

So while I am trying, today I have decided that I am going to stay in my pj’s, leave the dishes in the kitchen and the washing in the machine.  Every other day I am consumed in cleaning up and being efficient when I think right now what is important, is being kind to myself and savouring time with my children. I think I also need to think about what is REALLY important and what is unrealistic and not to push myself.  I don’t know. I’m feeling a lot muddled and a lot like I need a pre-cry.  What do you do when you feel like this?  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

Criminalise Stigma

This morning, while I was busy trying to be busy, read staring at my laptop screen, my eldest son and two of his friends walked into my home office. I was in my PJ’s, alarmed that I hadn’t had time to put something in for lunch (I’m THAT Mom now), or cookies for them later that afternoon.  I should mention that said son will be 21 years old next year, and that perhaps he didn’t need milk and cookies for his afternoon snack.  But I digress. The point is, son and friends sat and had coffee with me, told me a bit about their lives, girls who could be one of the guys because they were so much fun, and dreams of a Europe Tour if they could all save up enough for it in the following year.  And then it dawned on me:  I knew one of the friends.  And he knew me.  We couldn’t believe that we’d been reunited after such a long time.  How?  We had both been hospitalised for a serious Bipolar relapse, at the same time, same hospital / jail for six weeks.

We had shared philosophical cigarettes, mood management talks and braved the lectures on how not to be Bipolar, when most of us wanted to have a nap.  We laughed that he had run a little tuck shop out of his room, selling sweets and chocolates to keep his cigarette stock up, and smiled that he had often given me one or two for free.    And then laughed even louder at the perils of dating people you meet in psychiatric hospitals.   Never done this myself as I’m a lot hitched, but from his experience, a very large DON’T as opposed to a DO.  When I went to make them coffee and cookies, I heard him describe me to my son.  He said that I had helped him cry.   That I held his hand when he cried. That I had the ability to cry with him.  That I was always eloquent in my writing and speech.  And my son said I know.  He said I know I have the best, coolest mom ever, and my heart literally almost exploded on the spot.  And all for very, very good reasons.

In my day to day existence, I am not told that.  That it’s good to cry.  That you have to rest properly after having even gastro, because it could wipe out the psychiatric meds in your system, and will lead to a serious mood dip.  And that’s life threatening.  That you have to watch what and when you eat, gees, it’s like having Mind Diabetes, and you are in short supply of happiness sugar.  So today I have a message for the people that judge people with mental illness, that tell us to be less, that shove us away. That stigmatise. Enough.  I won’t be quiet, I won’t feel like I need to cry even more than I “naturally” feel like doing.  You won’t make me feel like I have a broken brain, or that my lithium infused clumsiness is my fault.  That I belong behind locked doors.  It’s not and I don’t.  And if someone as perfect as my beautiful son (he grew himself after I sprouted him) thinks I’m even a little bit cool, that his friend thinks he is safe enough to cry with me – I don’t care what anyone else thinks or says.  CRIMINALISE STIGMA.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

Mental Health Starts with ME

There is a lot of material and advice on what we as people with mental illness should or shouldn’t do.  Maintain sleep hygiene, meditate when you can, take your meds regularly, exercise, visit your treatment team, and not be extra.  This evokes an image of me cross legged in the lotus position. in the middle of an office, probably during the Management Team meeting that I don’t want to attend, because well work is hard, and I wish I didn’t have to do it.  I’m generally busy with not wanting to get up / containing cry’s / trying not to knock over everything in my path and not being sleepy, that this other life stuff usually in my life, feels a lot extra.

I also get LOADS of um, well meaning advice, like don’t take everything personally, don’t absorb everything, pray etc.  Now as a self-confessed Spongebob Girl Emotional Squarepants, I am baffled by these suggestions.  Would I prefer not to melt when people move the items in my office that I lovingly arranged in will bring about productivity order?  Do I enjoy the awesome, increasing jolts of irritation, that feel like the inflamed chickenpox of the spirit?  Would I prefer not to cry because I don’t know why, at inconvenient times?  Not sure.  Let’s let the well meaning must have experienced mental illness and recovered people tell me.  Because living through and weathering the storms of Bipolar over the last DECADE could not have been instructive.

I may not do it well, I may not know how, but I am trying to live positively in the best way I know.  That differs from day to day, has varying levels of success.  Some days just don’t day and I have to write them off.  But those days aren’t weeks anymore, I wash on occasion, and haven’t been to hospital in the longest time.  I do like hospital, but the bars on the windows are kind of restrictive… I don’t even know if those are factors of success – but it means that I can kind of be a mom, work, and muddle through it fairly well.  And that’s how you manage your mental health my friends.  You put the important person first, and in my case, your chickens close by.   That important person – regardless of what anyone says or does – I’ve learnt is you.  After all, mental health starts with ME.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

How to Contain a Cry

So as much as I’ve admitted that I’ve no ability to mask my madness anymore, I have in defiance, dutifully been practising how to tuck my madness in.  How to keep that character drops spilling from every orifice cry in that people strangely don’t like.  In practice, this feels a little bit like inflating a life jacket that’s tight around your ribcage, continously, which becomes tighter and tighter until it bursts and deflates and does that balloon scream (or perhaps that’s me) and everybody will know.  And I, regardless of where I am, will veer towards the first available pair of arms, or the sofest spot, and deflate in ways that aren’t pretty. Nice.  Adds to my public speaking ability.  Speech, screech, soppiness.  YEAH!

So after repeating days of this lifejacket approach – I’ve decided that perhaps I may be doing things wrong.  Perhaps we are not supposed to contain a cry.  Contain anything. Because containing anything for someone like me – anybody I suppose – is a bad idea. The prettier example I would use is that it’s like shaking or stuffing anything into a champagne bottle – unless you are Lewis Hamilton –  don’t do it. No,  it will end with um, foamy emotional results.  But I don’t think we don’t live in an environment that allows us to feel, to be.  It’s almost like no-one experiences intense emotion and people with mental illness are just theatric and make it up.  How I wish I could live in a world where not all crises are of Romeo and Juliet last moment proportions.  That my heart, mind and body didn’t literally feel like I was being swallowed by the ground, whilst having to participate in a conversation, being nice to my children, baking, cooking, containing a cry all at the same time.

I don’t actually enjoy being that person that everyone looks at.  That everyone raises their eyebrows at.  That people air quote at.  Because whilst I may be blinded by tears and emotion, I still see.  I still feel the horrible things you are gesticulating about me.  I am fighting a battle everyday, do not make it worse.   Some days are good, some days are bad.  I never know what I’m going to get.  But I can guarentee that there is nothing made up about what you see.   It’s an actually fragile me.  And because most of my life I haven’t been, I want to be handled with care.  I deserve it.  Please don’t deflate me. Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.

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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.