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.

 

Home is where the pudding is

I have been home since Saturday.  And because I generally tend to over think well pretty much everything, I overthought coming home.  Coming home for me means that I have to take the bull by the horns of my fledgingling business so that it becomes the kind of business that will sustain myself, my chickens, my husband, my family.  From anywhere and in the way that promotes my well-being.  For once, putting my mental health first.  And never ever being prepared to sell that.

But I have not returned to be business busy.  I’ve been Mommy busy.  Wife busy.  Daughter busy.  Me loving it.  I’ve been baking, and our house is aromatic with aromas of Father’s Day lunches, flopped brownies and lamingtons, and a just right goey pudding with custard.  My eldest chicken has come home and clucks loudly around his fellow chickens.  They look at him startled, he has not clucked this loudly at home in while, and my heart sings a mother’s melody of my chickens being in the coop.  I woke up this morning singing auld lang syne loudly.  I don’t really know the meaning of the words, but I AM feeling festive.  Holiday like.  If I could snow spray I’m happy on my windows, with a couple of snowflakes I would.

But as is the way I would prefer it, I acknowledge that it’s not all picturesque.  In real family’s there are goey things that are not as enjoyable as a pudding with granny;s custard.  There are goey things that sometimes need to be aired and dealt with, so they can be replaced with more heartwarming less emotionally sticky versions.   And a family that can deal with those things, love each other through mistakes and continue to be each others biggest cheerleaders, hug each other afterwards, chart the way forward are the ones who actually survive.  And I would say that we’re surviving.  More actually.  And the other bonus, is my house, you get to eat loads and loads more puddings. Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar MOm.

 

The Dirtiness of Discrimination

I am the kind of person that veers away from confrontation.  As a person with mental illness, I know that confrontation can open up a can of worms.  You could burst into tears with frustration (usually happens to me), you could speak in profanities desperately trying to express how you feel or simply not respond at all.  And you never quite know which one you are going to get.  People who have been reading my blog will know that I have been particularly festive – and enjoying the mood brought about by trial Christmas lunches, long naps, TV marathons with the whole family crowded around eating snacks… And yes, that’s how I’ve been feeling – festive.  That’s until the proverbial emotional carpet was pulled out from underneath my feet.

Last week, while at work, I went to work in a scarf, covering my growing, unruly mop of curls.  When I think I whip the scarf off and scratch my head, pull my hair (gently) and end up looking like the nutty professor.  Think Albert Einstein kind of do.  This has nothing to do with the fact that I have mental illness.   My eldest son says he does it too.  However, while at work where the fact that I have CHRONIC Bipolar Mood Disorder has been revealed – perhaps enacting the ‘madness’ of mental illness is not a good idea.    Well, I didn’t think I was acting particularly strangely – that’s until my husband messaged me and said that our HR Manager had messaged him and suggested that I looked “stressed” and perhaps he should consider fetching me.  Fetching me.  According to the context of the message, escort me safely home.  Scream.

When I was young – a little girl even – there were many, many times that I wanted someone to speak on my behalf.  There were too many times that I wanted an “adult” to intervene, and call an authority to intervene in some of the terrible things that ensued.    Some of these situations I think I brought on myself – and other times there were predators who took advantage of my soft, innocent under-flesh.  I wasn’t diagnosed then.  I didn’t have the support of medication.  A tablet to assist with the overwhelming waves of anxiety and depression that have dominated my emotional life for a very very long time.

Almost 30 years later, and many traumatic events that I had to solider through on my own, I have someone who on the basis that I am mentally ill, suggested that I need a what – a less crazy someone to take care of me?  Someone to take me away from the office, lest I fall apart on account of being too stressed.  I’ve encountered much crazy in my lifetime – much painful crazy – but it wasn’t me.  What did I say back to this person?  That by questioning my “capacity” you are not only insulting my intelligence, you are also being discriminatory and that I just won’t have it?  I did contemplate fetching a knife and threaten to stab her as a crazy person would do.  Because I wanted to retaliate.  I wanted to give back to that person the skin ripped off your face emotion I felt.

Because no-one knows what people with mental illness go through everyday.  The pain of getting up when you haven’t slept, surfing the emotional waves that become higher and more frequent every day, getting used to medication cocktails that can sometimes put you to sleep for weeks.  For adjusting to understanding that you are different.  For accepting that you are not like others.  And that’s ok.  But it can be lonely – and laden with too many stigma’s you attribute to yourself.   And for this reason, every time a person meters out discrimination – they are essentially attacking (again for me) a very innocent under-flesh that well, just doesn’t need to be poked.

Today instead of retaliating to the ignorant fool that hurt me – I am dusting myself off and re-festiving myself.  I will don my flashing light santa hat, sing christmas carols and be merry with my children.  And I remind myself that I am both with and without my mental illness – an amazing person, and also, an amazing survivor.  I will clean off the dirt of discrimination that was imposed.  But that’s not all I am going to do.  I am making a call to each and every person with mental illness to join hands and stand together.  To say enough.  To say stop.  To put an end to discrimination.  I plan to help an organisation in South Africa to strengthen its mental health advocacy efforts – and would appreciate and accept help from anyone and everyone to stop and put an end to discrimination.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.

A Festive Guide to Coping with the Holidays

As we ready ourselves for the silly season, I am thinking of guidelines that will get this Bipolar Mom through the festive.   This period can be difficult for people with mental illness who may either be alone, be affected by seasonal affective disorder – or because their depression does not make much of them other than feeling and behaving like the Christmas Grinch.  This is not a religious specific blog – but rather a guide to the holidays which the world celebrates. In the spirit of the season, I thought I’d provide advice in the form of christmas carols – so let’s give it a go:

Tis’ the season to be jolly – if you are like me, music affects you emotionally.  You feel the words, the meaning, the sway of the notes and it affects your mood. Alot.  Get rid of the blues cd, or the playlist you created when depression was your best friend.  I live my life in soundtracks, and well, I am suggesting that you and I not play the Stephen King It version for the holidays.  Not pleasureable, anxiety inducing, and in my experience makes going to the toilet difficult at night.

Jingle Bells (as my daughter would sing), Batman smells, keep the alcohol a thousand miles away – Christmas and the holidays are sold hand in hand with a glass of champagne, gluhwein for the colder countries and general intoxification.  Even Santa is depicted with glowing cheeks and a red nose from engaging in slightly too much naughty egg nog.   In my experience alcoholic anything just messes with our medicine and wellbeing – so nothing toxic allowed.  I’ll have a virgin thanks.

Feliz Navidad – you might ask what is this.  It’s essentially merry christmas or something like that in Portuguese.  The principle here is that you don’t know what the hell they’re singing, but it sounds fun and festive.  Apply this principle to people who irritate you, work on your last nerve – or who are not sympathetic to people who live with mental illness.  How this works in practice:  they talk, you pretend they’re speaking in a foreign language (feels like that anyway) and you pretend it sounds fun and festive.  Nod occasionally, smile broadly and flip to the next christmas carol. Yes, you Feliz Navidad their as*ses.

12 Days of Christmas – so this song goes: on the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me etc.  Everyday give yourself a gift.  This doesn’t have to be anything really expensive, or even a material gift.  But celebrate something, and celebrate it everyday.  I’ve spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself, being depressed and being alone.  It’s horrible – and leaves your soul spent.  Go as far as creating an advent calendar of gratefulness – opening the doors of good experiences in the build up to and after the festive season.

Silent Night – try and boot camp yourself into better sleep patterns over the festive period.  I’ve found that already my husband and I are going to bed later, I’m taking my medication later, and accordingly, the next morning becomes a significant challenge.  I’m a mom and my kids have deep sleep which leaves them refreshed and ready for the next day.   When you begrudgingly (with loads of colourful language) get up in the morning – your irritability levels are on high, you’re likely to be in a bad mood (which can go south) and you’re less able to cope with the festive tidal waves coming your way.  Rather don’t.

And lastly: Deck the Halls with Bells of Holly – decorate your house or a small place you can retreat to.  Fill this space with things that you love and that cheer you up.  For me, it will be filled with pretty stationery, a christmas decoration or two, pictures of my children and husband.  When things become too much – go to this place, and picture the lovely warmth of the festive season filling you up.   Take a break from the nightmarish anxiety that can overwhelm you, the depression that leaves you lonely.  Easier said then done, I know. But if you really think about it – you – and I have had enough of that throughout the year.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

Jingle Bells and all things Festive…

Today I am feeling a little better. The sun rays have started to slowly streak through and I’ve been able to get out of bed without violently cursing.  Ok that’s a lie.  I never like getting out of bed with my usual psychiatric pill hangover… But this morning I was ok.  I got up, and suggested to my daughters that we do something different.  Get out of the house.  Go to the festive lights of the Mall, and indulge ourselves in too many Santa’s, too much tinsel, and oh so many jingle bells.

You see the start of the festive season will mean a number of things: 1) work will come to an end and I will fully be at home with my children, at least for a little bit 2) my son who lives in a another city will return home for at least a month 3) I get to eat everything festive (and indeed have begun stocking up) and 4) It’s better than doing the opposite:  not being able to get out of bed, crying at any opportunity, popping too many anxiety pills.  And I HAVE been doing that. I have been lying in a pool of pity and not wanted to get up.  I even stopped writing on my blog because I felt so bleugh – that’s blue with a big wet teary sneeze.  And the next step from that pool of pity is the depths of hospitalisation and well, this Bipolar Mom is NOT going there.  Not now.

When this Bipolar Mom is blue – her children feel it most.  They see a mother creased into overwhelming gushes of tears.  She disappears from family activity, opting instead for the safe confines of sleep and her bed.  The sleep I say always encompasses me in a safe cacoon, away from the emotion that promises to overtake me.   What I don’t realise is how this pool of pity impacts on my children – who don’t deserve this decidedly depressed someone as their mother.  I know I can’t always control it.   I do try to stay “upbeat”.  But my children should not have to live as soldiers in the war pit dodging the shrapnel of my illness.

So off we went to the mall.  And instead of firing more mental illness dodge balls in my children’s direction, I went on a festive shopping spree, satisfying that inner thriftless Bipolar me.  I bought myself pretty stationery.  I might never write in it because I love the perfectness of paper and pretty stationery.  I simply like to look at it. And notebooks with pastel coloured pens always make me happy.  A pretty pink bottle for untold amounts of refreshing ice tea, water etc.  A santa spatula and cookie cutter for cookies that will make the house smell like cinnamon and ginger in anticipation of Santa’s arrival (if only I can now muster the courage to bake).  And each of these activities, the trip to the mall, the little trinkets I have stashed have cheered me up.  And not because of the material items.

My joy was in the excitement of my children’s eyes – my youngest daughter’s eyes – as we passed aisles and aisles of candy canes, christmas trees, jingly bells, and snow spray.  Let’s pause and reflect here: snowspray in a country where it doesn’t snow?? Really?  I digress.  I am feeling better.  I am feeling more festive.  I am feeling relieved that a time in the year that is known to be terrible for people with mental illness is decidedly going to be better for me.  I’ve even asked for a therapist appointment.  This is the new, festivey me.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.