Bipolar Synonyms that Hurt

I don’t know why but two things have been happening a lot lately:  I’ve been feeling increasingly irritated, and I’ve been reading up on what it means to be Bipolar.  What the symptoms are.  How people with Bipolar decimate their families, especially when they don’t read this awesomely enlightening information which basically paints “survivors” out as being promiscuous, prone to substance abuse, with wildly waving moods, a suicidal streak and a penchant for shopping.  All this sounds a lot exhausting and if not, something to be very very ashamed about.  And I, not having a credit card to my name, cannot console myself with retail or any other kind of therapy for now, so reading this information has left me feeling crumpled, on the verge of breaking down, and a lot tearful.

Ok, maybe it wasn’t the information.  But rather the advent of work (which I am thoroughly enjoying) and the thought that the people who are contracting me would find out that I have this shameful thing – which either makes me horny, high, or not to be found at my desk, but rather at the local mall – or all of that together.  Right now, they see me as an expert, they respect my opinion, they defer to my decision.  And I am afraid that I will be found to be an impostor, with a broken (and many other things) brain (and quite a used body by the list of symptoms I saw listed).  And because I just adore ripping myself off, I start wondering well that is kinda true… And so it carries on until I’m in a full scale roast.

I’ve read a lot about how you shouldn’t allow your past to determine your future, that you shouldn’t label yourself or self-stigmatise, but sorry, I have not had treatment to the contrary.  I have already proclaimed that I am also an expert in roasting myself, but the funny thing is that I have never been proved wrong.  And this little big Bipolar heart and brain so so so want to be wrong.  Most of all that I won’t be proved right again.  Want to believe that I am ok, that I can stand my ground in any professional discussion / setting – but then my lower lip wobbles and I immediately start to sprout water in the oddest of places.    Given the beating Bipolar people purportedly give to their bodies, it’s not surprising that we – well me – can be leaky at times.

The truth is that I’m not like everyone else and I don’t want to be.  But let’s just say I haven’t exactly found myself in situations regularly where I am accepted quirks and all – any day in this Bipolar Gal’s life.  I have serial foot in mouth disease, say the wrong things, gush too much, get emotional and want to hug everybody.  Or I want to smoke in my sleep, eat chocolate in bed and watch Food Network obsessively sometimes.    Sometimes I just want to cry.  That’s in between the many things Bipolar people seem to shockingly be kept engaged with.  What I’m saying is that the Bipolar picture ain’t pretty, and certainly has not been typecast as a synonym for calm, collected can deliver consultant.  So I’m feeling itchy,  I’m feeling irritated, and feel sad that I may be found out.  I want to end on a happy note – I always try to – but I can’t today.  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.