I think that people with mental illness are amazing. For nothing other than opening their eyes, or deciding when not to, but for always trying. I am acutely aware that those tries vary in let’s say intensity, dependent on where you are. For example, I bought myself an awesome yoga band, designated a space in my home and mind and had a printed rather energetic exercise routine closeby. I have not mustered up the courage to do the exercises. No. I haven’t even managed to get the outfit on. That’s not true. I AM wearing the sweatband with pride, because I thought, however momentarily, about exercising. Ok. Not really. It’s just to keep my hair out my face.
I have spoken in my blog about how irritable I’ve become, and I’ve beckoned to my Treatment Team, setting appointments for private therapy and psychiatry my newly employed self can’t afford, but I know I need to go. This or the Mental Illness Gods are paying an unfortunate amount of comical attention toward me and my life. For example, and in quite a marked way recently, my children often tell me lovingly that they are very glad that they became big before I was diagnosed. My eye twitches and I ask what on earth they could mean by that? Another is a lovely attachment the toddler (who I did not birth as far as I know) who lives with us has to me. He cries during work interview skype calls (when I’m talking to pro-women pro-child NGO’s) because he loves me so much. And his mother is quite unperturbed that this takes place. And no matter how I look at her in a pointed manner, it falls on quite an un-receptive um, person. And I don’t feel at all maternal or mentally healthy or anything else other than large, heated welts of irritation on me. And my mouth, it speaks irritated welt speech which is quite graphic. I can’t help it. Once you’ve lit my vulgar verbal volcano, I can’t help the language lava that comes out.
More seriously though last night I found myself yelling at my favorite things – my chickens – for stuff that probably wasn’t so major. Ok it wasn’t major and I freaked out when I shouldn’t have. If at all I felt sorry for myself (I immediately apologised to my children), I was immediately set straight by my awfully maternal psychiatrist – you are ALWAYS irritable, how is this different? Straight face emoji. My shrink is saying that I am a serial bitch. Cough. When she asked me how bad the irritation was on a scale of 1-10, I sourly thought: I dunno, my bitch-o-mom-meter is clearly broken, but I’d give myself about a 15? I didn’t say that, but am pleased that I will see her – and my therapist. It’s about time. Until then I am putting tape on my mouth so that it’s harder to respond with my liquid language – wish me luck and tell me how YOU deal with irritation, and those you’d like to erupt on? Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t. I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.
4 M's Bipolar Mom 