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 Exposed

Today I have been exposed.  My Bipolar armour has been stripped and my mental illness is shining through.  I am tearful, I am tired, don’t want to eat and sleep intermittently.  And my employer now knows that I suffer, as elegantly scrawled by my psychiatrist on my sick note, from chronic bipolar mood disorder, and that I am currently experiencing  a depressive episode.   This brings me to question whether I am afraid of declaring that I have Bipolar, and indeed the reasons why I would be afraid.   There is obvious stigma, but there is much much more than that.

About three months ago I was hospitalised with a severe episode and the medications I was taking were changed, added to and then decreased.  I have said in other blogs how sensitive one is when in hospital, but perhaps not emphasised as much how terribly unprotected you are when having to confront the real world.  You can’t cry when you feel like it, scream at people who scream at you, or show any signs of ‘weakness’.  Philosophically, I am opposed to this.  I oppose that we – I – have to live in a world where mental illness is not accepted and that we be treated like we’ve grown another head – the lepers of modern day society.  But we are and do experience this, and every jibe at our oh-so-tender under-flesh eventually takes its toll.

Over the last two weeks – year even – I have worked tirelessly to achieve the aims set forth by my superiors even though they have not been clear, and have constantly shifted the goal posts.  I have accommodated an ever increasing workload, hours and treatment from some of my superiors and even been called ineffective and incompetent.  Initially, I smiled through the complaints, I explained through the challenges, I negotiated relationships which had been dubbed as being at an impasse.  But I can’t anymore, and whilst I now feel “exposed”, I have to stop.  I have to put me first.  I have to rest.  I have to take my medication and give myself a chance to heal from the constant attacks that have left me emotionally fragile.

Most importantly I need to give myself a chance to more clearly accept that I have Bipolar, that I need to be treated in a certain way, and by golly, that I deserve not to be treated as a lesser being merely on account of my diagnosis.  Because really, it’s hard enough living every day with a mental illness.  It’s hard enough constantly swimming against the tide, with washes of fear, depression and anxiety. It’s hard enough feeling alone and being drowned by tsunami’s of emotion whose tides recede leaving me – a person with mental illness – washed out.  Those who wish to cast me away – or any other person with mental illness – should be held to account.  We should name and shame those who cast us out.  Because whilst I may be emotionally at sea, I am still me.  I am still a person, a feeling, seeing, touching human being and I don’t deserve to be treated as anything less.

Often people who do not have mental illness do not understand this.  They don’t understand the burn of stigma, the pokes at your under-flesh, the constant attempts to tip you off your podium of well-being.  Without undermining the challenges experienced by others, I wonder how physically disabled people would feel if they were simply told to walk – run even – how the blind would feel being told to simply see – and the deaf simply to hear the beautiful sound their minds only imagine each day.  Because its the same.  The feeling is the same.  Sometimes I can’t walk, sometimes I can’t see, and sometimes I can’t hear.  For me, sometimes I feel too much.  That doesn’t make us lesser people – in fact, it makes us the very people who should be protected by that not understanding we.

I do not have the energy to fight now.  And my most important priority is to protect me.  To protect my under-flesh which has been badly scalded.   But again I will get up.  Again I will try.  And no matter how hard they try to knock me down, I have always, always gotten back up.  This time will be no different.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.