Festive Fear

Last year, I started the holidays early.  I donned my festive gear, complete with jingly reinder bells, baked biscuits, sang songs, watched Christmas movies.  The start of the festive season also meant that my birthday was closeby, so I was doubly happy.  And then a series of awful things happened, and the end of my year went from triumphant to tearful.   Happy to hateful. And instead of ploughing my face into food, as is one of my most favourite pastimes, I cried the season away.  FESTIVE.  And if that wasn’t enough, because I was um, emotionally extreme, I made a public spectacle of myself crying endlessly as if I was dying, of which I have frequent, fun snot filled flashbacks.  Hashtag glamour.

Seriously though, if one looks though statistically at what happens in December, the truth is that too many people end up alone.  Too many people are fearful, scared, alone.   People with mental illness a lot know what it’s like to be alone.  I hate it.  And with the dawning of the festive season in my country,  the amazing non-existent mental health service disappears even further, just like Santa up a chimney, after you hear the sound of bells.  The best you can do for yourself is ask the police if you can drive around with them in the back of one of their vans so you can feel paranoid / sedated / captive / like someone’s listening over the cop radio, they might even be open to attaching a few bells, or bleeping their siren to a well known Christmas ditty.   Because frankly you’re unlikely to receive much of anything else and that there frightful option, would seem like fun.  At least you’d have company.

If you’re lucky enough to have private medical insurance, you could be admitted to a hospital, where relatives won’t visit as they’re away on holiday or busy being festive, and you’d be serviced by the “skeleton” staff on duty.  Wow.  My last experience of skeleton staff saw me being so heavily sedated that I didn’t know who or where I was, by a psychiatrist and psychologist who had NO clue of my history – some may find this merry mistake as a lovely way to do the festive – but that’s not my kind of um, cup of pills. My long-standing therapist is also going on holiday.  Tomorrow will be my second last session for the year, and I am almost outraged that I won’t be able to talk to him until next year, when my mental health has so very clearly started to melt.  The flashbacks of my blue christmas are becoming oh so more pronounced so I’m irritated that my therapist wants to do something like REST.  Like spend time with his family.  Ok not true.  I don’t begrudge him that.  But I do think that people with mental illness need more help over the festive season as opposed to less.

I’m trying the most to be reassured.  To not worry.  To look forward to a few weeks where I may even be able to spend the day on the beach.  To see someone lovely and beautiful get married.  To make new merry memories.  To see my spirit mother (living person note).  But my heart and mind are wiggly at the moment, and I most feel like climbing under my bed until the unnesscary fake snow, santa and glitter leave.  I especially feel like staying under there if it means that my soft undershell will be protected.  I can’t be upbeat today.  Or end with some happy thought.  Happy hellish holidays, or at least let’s hope for the opposite.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

Bipolar Universe

I’ve put many things out into the universe.  Like please can I win an absorbitant amount of money, not for anything lavish, but in order to stave off the adulting that comes with making money.  No.  I just begged and regularly wished the universe that I would win the lottery in a number of countries to educate, clothe and feed my self-made army of chickens. I’ve wished for a few other things – cake / cookies / candy that doesn’t make you fat, to be thin and less repeats on my favourite cooking channel.  Let’s just I’m still waiting.  My “universe” does however deliver, and deliver greatly, anything I DO NOT WANT.  Like as in anything I’ve expressly NOT asked for.  One such example is work.  I said ok universe, I am ok with not working, let’s just bake biscuits, and what happened?  I landed enough consultancy work to be baking a proposal for Christmas as opposed to the pies and puddings my family may want.

So you’ll forgive me when I say that my universe is a lot Bipolar.  It delivers what I don’t want when I least expect it, and it does and feel the exact opposite of what I like require the most.  My universe, like me and my Bipolar,  will throw a tantrum on a good day, and may melt for no reason whatsoever and is prone to moodiness.  Yes, this is much consistent with the experience of my life.  One comical episode me and my Bipolar Universe has brought about is a cute um, fascination with learning.  This started with an innocent downloading of coursera, and then the me prompt selection of the most courses I was allowed to register at one time, because well, Bipolar.    So there I was ready to unravel the mysteries of Global Public Health, to understand machine learning, a little bit of Social Psychology with a little dash of how to up my game on social media on the side.  And my universe.  Well she smiled.  A slow, far too all knowing smile.

You want to learn?  Game on she declared and decided to literally bombard me with more life course material than what I’d care to um, download at any time. Course 1 was what you needed to do when your chicken’s safety is threatened, Course 2 how to avoid the monstrous moves of a tenacious tooth torturer, Course 3 how to loose half your body weight through illness, and finally, my graduating course: recovering from all of the above with four needy, I mean darling, additional children in addition to the three I already have, while my husband was FAST asleep.   Not only did my universe Bipolar me, she had an episode or two, and smiled while she did it.  For real.

Unfortunately – she also needed to open my eyes.  And she taught me about me.  About me being a universe to others.  About me being a mother with mental illness.  I saw another mother with mental illness dealing with her chickens.  I saw her get violently angry, slam doors, throw belongings.  All of the things that make your tiny stomach feel like it’s wringing itself inside out, like you’re the one who made and are the reason why Mummy is mad.  I know.  I’ve been a child of someone who was mentally ill too.  And the roles were reversed, and again I felt sick to my stomach but because of what I may unwittingly, do to my chickens.  To the people I love.  I want to believe that they know me well enough to know that I’m having a brain or mood fart – but for anyone, so, so, so especially my chickens, if I hurt you, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to.  In the meantime “NOT” Bipolar Universe, I hate money and don’t want any, think fat people rock, and I ADORE work.  THE MOST.   Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’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.

 

 

 

Heroine

I have come to learn that as a person with mental illness, the people who support you, who can empathize a little, who can help pave the way for you to have a better day, these people to us, to me, are important.  So I am dedicating today’s post to a heroine, who has and continues to support me.  She is not my only support and actually, my support network has of recent times been getting much much stronger, but lately, she has been the most significant.

My Heroine has her own story, and it is hers to tell.  What I can and need to mention, is that her story and experience far outstrips anything I’ve been through, probably ten times over.  Ok, it’s not useful to compare life stories to each other – or even to look at yourself through the lens of anyone else’s life – because our experiences, our happinesses, our sadnesses, are unique, are their own, and affect each person in their own way.  Cut us in our own ways.  What I find though in learning more and more about her life, is that there are a number of similarities, tears to be shared, laughter to be laughed,  and importantly lessons to be learned.    These, through my own trying times, are the lessons I’ve learnt from her so far (NOTE they are all important, so don’t mind the order):

The greatest love comes from yourself – She has learned through blood, sweat and tears that it is not possible to love anyone else, if you don’t love yourself first, even if you don’t really believe it in the beginning.    Love is an emotion that can be best described as a verb, and well, you have to practice it on yourself first.  If you’re not sure who you are, what you can and cannot allow, what you like and don’t like, baby, you’re headed for trouble – ’cause – she and I have both learned that you teach people how to treat you.  Be careful which lessons you choose to impart.  This applies in any love relationship – so, start with you, and the rest will follow.

Don’t allow your past to define you –  She taught me that it doesn’t matter what happened in the past.   That it doesn’t define you.  You CAN be a constantly evolving being, hopefully learning from your past mistakes but not allowing them to become a huge mound that you’ve kicked under the carpet, which will keep on tripping you up.  Nope.  Travel lightly friends, and leave that past baggage behind you. Because anyways, it’s just slowing you down and making you feel worse.  If you’re a real Bipolar / mental illness anything someone – you will know that you do not need any MORE stuff to carry, to obsess about.  Yes thanks, I’ll be travelling with carry-on sized luggage at a maximum, from here on out.

Don’t be bitter – laugh loudly, live freely and speak your mind –  Ok, maybe these are separate lesson categories on their own – but my Heroine implements them with simultaneous flair (and a terribly potty mouth – I have learnt new ways to curse from her which are quite um, clear in their description and purpose).  And I love her for practicing this in a way I could tangibly see and feel.  She has good, heck EXCELLENT, reason to hate, be hurtful, push away, reject.  And she does the exact opposite.  Well, she does um, “articulately” talk about how someone made her feel, how they affected her, how she affected them, but she doesn’t allow it to temper her current way of being.  She is one of the kindest, most generous people I know.  She gives without expecting, and does so out of love.  And only asks for love in return for those who are close to her.  *Breathes in deeply*.   I’m not there.  I’m angry – and when I’m angry let’s just say I’m prone to violence.   Ok, not really – but I do think loudly about hurting the person that hurt me.  Striking out as I was struck.  This is the opposite to the practice which I still need to learn.  Alot of how I have behaved was because I was bitter, I considered myself a victim, and I thought anything I did was permissible because of that.  Wrong.  Don’t do that to you – or the people that are important to you.   Because there is never a good enough reason to hate and be bitter – it’s like swallowing poison and expecting the other person to die.  Quite ineffective.

You can always redefine / refresh yourself – My Heroine literally did a wardrobe overhaul for me.  She gave me perfume, clothes and jewelry.  And it wasn’t these material items that mattered.  What mattered was that she was glamming up my self esteem.  She wanted me to feel better about the way I looked – and what follows – how I felt.  She put earrings on my sorrow, eyeshadow on my tears, and mascara on my broken heart.    No she was not dressing up or hiding my emotions.  What she did was to turn me emotionally toward the mirror to look at someone who is beautiful not broken, who does not deserve to be left, who actually, could be picky about the people she allowed into her life.  She demonstrated that I mattered, if not to anyone else, then to her.  And with her being a helluva Heroine in my estimation, well, while I’m building I’m my self esteem, I must be pretty darn important to matter to her and that made my heart shine.  As if that wasn’t enough, what she didn’t realise she did for me, was that she allowed me to look in the mirror again.  I haven’t wanted to do that for the longest time, believing that there was only someone broken to see.  She has changed that in me.   Ok not completely.  But everyday I am seeing more and more of me.

You are stronger than you think – this is a particularly hard lesson – and my Heroine teacher started this lesson by cuddling me whilst I cried hysterically into her bosom.    And she held me.  And she allowed me to cry.  The beginning of the lesson – especially for someone like me – is knowing when to acknowledge that you are not ok, that you need to stop, that you need a snotty, gluey cry (or a few) before you can move onto the next phase of how you feel.  As a person with mental illness I would not articulate these phases as being ones of strength.  But she has shown me that they are – and by understanding that these phases are transient forms of strength, you will find that you can move on.  That you will be ready for the next step, just as soon as you are able.  And that there are no deadlines, there is no judgement on how long or what you experience in these times.  But you do need to move on.

Once you are well versed in these phases – you will be able to understand that quietly, underneath, a river of strength flows through you, gives you the ability to migrate through these phases and sometimes trickle back and forth between them.  Because as someone with mental illness we’re not sure where we’re gonna end up sometimes.  And that’s ok.  Because strength is not in my or her book – the absence of crying or showing your emotion – but rather addressing what is there, feeling it through – and getting the support you need.  Doing positive things, dressing up, looking up, feeling the next phase.   Choosing carefully who you allow in your life.  Thank you Heroine for your lessons.  Thank you for your love.  Thank you for being you.  I am honored to know you.  And you can be guaranteed that I love you back a thousand times over.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.