Oceans of Expecations

I live my life by quotes that I read, inspiration from other writers, inspiration from other bloggers.  The one that struck me most recently was one that said: “Don’t swim oceans for people who won’t cross puddles for you”.   And I thought wow.  I thought ocean swimming for very little in return was the norm.  That a girl like me shouldn’t expect much in return.    But no, I don’t believe that in my heart.  Because in my mind I go beyond extreme to demonstrate that I love you – I would take on (and have pictured myself) gale force winds, tsunami’s and other life threatening situations to aide my declared love (with much drama and wind blowing).  I would.  And the minute I feel like I’m not getting it back, I recoil completely, and spit angrily at what I believe is injustice at me, the ever trying, ever innocent, ever mood free somebody.

My son points out that this may be a little bit off the mark, because like for example the mood free thing.  Well he rolled his eyes. DRAMATICALLY.  And whilst he noted they all appreciated the “dedication”, sometimes some of the “smothering” was a bit much.  And also the fact that they do try and show me that they love me.  But sometimes I can’t see it.  He does blame this on the fact that I have a goldfish memory, and I unfortunately have to agree.  I would very happily be walking to the kitchen for something, and by the time I got there, either remembered a reason I was cross with my chickens / support person and strike up a fight, after having say, made everybody tea.  I would leave the room and come back and forget we’d fought.  Ok erase.  That I had fought about something we’d (me) had forgotten about.

But althought I have a memory of a goldfish. I’m moody on a good day, I have ants in the pants insomnia most times, and I strike up firey conversations at the least expected times.  I also cry frequently (and sometimes I’m not sure why) and I’m prone to depression.  I have other challenges too, but I’m not about the negative life.  Because what is happening is that I am becoming demanding about what I want and deserve.  And I am prepared to match those demands with standards that are much higher which I impose on myself.  Yes, another thing to unlearn.  But you’d be surprised at what I have learnt.  I can make Peanut Butter fudge.  I have my own brand of pizza / pasta / toastie sauce (well marketed exclusively in my fridge).  Oh did I say I can make fudge?  Because I’m starting to think that I deserve being treated well.

Walking quietly with someone holding their hand.  Silent conversations.  Lively ones.  But never one that is too tired, too sighed out, too supported out.  Because that happens.  Mental illness is lifelong and this girl has been a massive, huge, challenge.  And although I would never ask anyone to do this for me – I do want the tsunami, life threatening situation kinda guy to be rooting for me.  If he can come in uniform that would be nice too.  Because this goldfish girl is worth that.  And my expectations are great.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

Implementing Change

I read somewhere that if you want to make lasting change in your life, you need to affect changes to your daily routine.  I also read that if you want to change a particular habit, you need to not do it or do something different for 21 days, and hey presto, you will have CHANGED.  Hmm.  The problem I have with both these wise suggestions is CONSISTENCY.  I have the memory of a gold fish.  I am the same person that will walk from my kitchen to the bedroom (not that far) and would completely forget WHY I was walking to the room.

I have before all well intentioned, set out to change my life with a clear bullet journal plan (and appropriate decorations / stickers / unicorns etc) and I would practice this mindful, three week long, therapeutic practice until um, an hour later when I forget or when something else grabs my attention.  It isn’t a lack of commitment, it’s just that my mind, body and being is SUCH an busy place with four children in tow, so um, yes, wait what plan??  Imagine a HUGE busy airport, with multiple runways, schedules, plans, planes taking off, baggage cars beeping, and you will perhaps understand why the bullet journal guide to my utopia is well, just getting lost.

But as I mentioned in my blog yesterday, I’ve had a kick up the hiney from those closest to me – and unforunately, it means that I will again have to don my boots to walk down the road less travelled, trying to be a single mom, with four kids needs at the top, and I will need to do it alone.  I am a lot scared of alone.  I don’t know why, since my existence is a lot informed by me talking to me (yes I do), me roasting me, me hugging me (even when I needed someone else to be there).  And regardless of what’s happened to me before, I have come out tops, well relatively.   I don’t see why this time needs to be any different.  So, I don’t know about the 21 days, I don’t know about changing the daily routine.  I do know that my chickens and I will be ok.  One step at a time.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

 

 

Mad Mother

Today I found a closed, half used litre of milk in the sink.    And I honestly wondered how it got there.  Was I mid-thought and parked it there while I did something more pressing?  Did the state of the fridge distract me (my chickens do awesome things like leave sauce smudges and juice puddles all over it) – so I needed to clean / pack before putting the milk in.  I don’t know.  But the milk was there.  In my defense, I WAS making lunch for the chickens, so there was a lot going on.  They clucked in and out of the kitchen and around me, which let’s just say, strains my ability to focus on one thing.   But secretly, this happens more than I’d care to admit to, and often, frustratedly so.

For example, I could confidently, with purpose and a song to match, walk down the passage to my bedroom to say, fetch my medication, get my bag, fetch my phone etc.  My passage really isn’t that long, but by the time I’ve reached the bedroom, my thought, my memory, the reason, hell the walking into the room song, is GONE.  I don’t know why I’ve come to the room, and have to back track in order to jerk the fetching reason from my mind.  This has happened for a really long time and I’ve tried to disguise it as best I could.  I overcame this at work by listing any and everything, taking detailed notes, and a series of colour coded, alphabetised post it notes, in you need to remember, don’t p*ss your boss off order.   And for the most part this worked.  Unless someone messed with the system.  And this, unfortunately, tear jerkedly, irritatedly, happens too.

One such example was the over zealous cleaning lady at the office that I had become friends with.  I would bring her a spare yoghurt, give her non-repayable loans, and window shop with her during lunchtime.  We didn’t speak the same language, but we didn’t need to.  We understood friendship.  We understood support.  And we didn’t need words to express that.  Which is why – she and pretty much everyone that is intimately close to me – should know, breathe and understand that you shouldn’t mess with the system.  Don’t mess with the jog the memory triggers.  Don’t mess with how your day is emotionally going to go, in arrow and heart shaped post it notes in order to POLISH.  But polish she did.  And my chickens, husband and those around me do the same thing:  they mess with my system regularly.  And thus, I believe that they bring out my inner medusa and even I would say gees, that lady’s lost it, she’s really mad.  Mad mother.

No, I’m not into labels and have repeatedly spoken about the damage stigma and discrimination can and do make.  But if you mess with my system, mess with my POST IT’S – I’m gonna loose it.  Because very practically, I would not know what I am scheduled to do or feel if I don’t have a list, something to highlight, or a post it to move to done.  So yes, my response is likely to be um, colourful, graphic, and may end with expletives that will not cross my mouth, as my mother’s well raised daughter.

Problem is that life is not a list, emotions don’t happen according to colour, and other people affect you in a number of ways.  I think lists, journalling and other sorts of outlets are good and important for anyone, particularly those minds that seem to be chucking important pieces of information out at important times.  But you can’t be ruled by them.  You should not melt if you favourite pen is not in the same place, if someone proverbially moved your cheese.  I haven’t figured it out yet, don’t know if I will.  But until then, I’m not telling anyone about the milk.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

Emotional Train Stations

A few nights ago my youngest daughter asked me (while I was taking my night meds) – “Mom, does your medication have to set?”.    In my house – we usually wait for pudding to set, not people even when we take our medication, so our family laughed uproariously.  I did feel like I’d swallowed a little bit of giggly gelatine.  Like this comment, my kids point out EVERY little thing I do which seems to suggest that let’s just say I’m different, but they do so endearingly, laugh loudly and tickle or hug me, when I pretend to be hacked.  A few of the little quirks that have come to light recently is my increasing memory loss (I don’t know why) and losing my train of thought (again, I don’t know why).  And yes I do think that there is a difference between the two.

Very practically, if you had to live in my brain, my body and life – you would understand that following through on your train of thought is like going to a major subway station, internationally, when we don’t HAVE subway stations where I live, and having to find the right train and platform, when you speak a different language.  What does this mean?  You gonna ask the people on the wrong trains where the right trains are, you are gonna buy crisp and sweets on  the one platform, and after a snack and an anxiety pill (I would need both at this point), you would either give up on going or very confidently stride onto the right train with crisp remnants strewn on your chest.  This does sound like I’ve done this before, coughs, but the point is the analogy.

Re losing my memory – I simply think that this is the practical matter of SPACE.  Like I have not needed my “nailed it” origami folding skills ever.  Never. Eject I think.  But because I’m a self confessed extremist, I chuck the proverbial baby out with the bathwater,  so I chuck important information which then re-visits me when I least require it.   Yes this does happen.  So I am known for switching the topic, going off on a tangent, and then being like oh yeah, we were talking about something else.  This blog is another demonstration of just that.

But away from busy trains of thought, and the dumping of much not and needed information,  I now am very pleased to find myself in a space of love and happiness (except for my children who hurt my feelings by taking my yoghurt).  I am, mostly sans yoghurt, in a place where I am surrounded by my favourite people and they know that I am the way I am, and they don’t want to hurt me, and they don’t want to make me feel less.  They are my family, who don’t just know I live with a mental illness, but they love me more because of it.   They are even prepared to go camping with me.

I haven’t been in that kind of environment for a long time.  In effect, I have moved from an environment where they talk about me, not to me, where they think someone else is more capable of thinking what’s best for me ALL THE TIME, when I’ve through blood, sweat and tears, proven that I am more than enough.  From a place where they used me to where they love me, from where I’ve had to “hide” how I really feel and how things affect me to not.   I have moved into a place where I can dwell on a train station platform, have snacks, whatever I need to do.   Most importantly, all of this has made me realise that people who do the hurtful stuff, are the kinds of people you should stand up against, shout loudly if and when they do hurt you and don’t stop until you move into a place that’s better for you.  After that, get on the right train, and move swiftly along.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I m 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

 

BUJO Blog

So this might be so yesterday for a lot of my readers, but dear friends I have come across the concept of BULLET JOURNALING.  For those in the dark like me until the weekend – I have come to understand Bullet Journalling to be (and you are welcome to quote me):  the act of decorating / colouring in your yearly / weekly / monthly planner, shopping lists, gratitude list and lots of stuff mental healthy that are fabulous for you.  And I think that the acronym for it is BUJO – but I could be mistaken, and this could end up being a poorly (perhaps rudely) entitled blog.  Either way, nothings swinging this happy “bujo’er”:  Did I say you get to colour it in?  Did you hear that good for you bit?  That it helps you relax bit? And that there are generous doses of improvements of your mental health involved?  Win, win, win.

Over my long and delightful bullet journaling career (2.5 days and one night where I dreamt about it) has brought me to a couple of realisations:  1) People prefer pretty. planned and neat, including the creator.  BUJO’s are pretty, creative, artistic, unique.  They are also carefully planned, succinct and functional.  And I’m learning that perhaps my blog should be the same.  I can reflect on the nasties that are happening to me – but I am a horror movie / video / image WIMP – and perhaps other people are too.  So ala BUJO – I’m going to in future, use my literary pencil crayons and colour to draw my experiences, but neither you nor I will need additional therapy for reading my blog.  Promise.

2) I LOVE LISTS, especially flowery, heart arrowy, with a poignant quote penned at the bottom to motivate you for the day. I have NO need to complete all my tasks / lists everyday, but by simply emptying your mind on paper, in my experience, your “brain” can breathe a bit.  I feel like my brain can stop doing push ups, and can take a much needed rest, or in my case, probably a bite of a doughnut.  These lists help me and you can say what you like – they help me even more, when they’re colour coded, categorised, scrapbook-ised things. Pretty and planned?  Salivates…

3) Mental Health matters:  I’ve spent tons of time complaining instead of actively building up my mental health – investing in being and staying well.  So far my BUJO escapade has taught me how to draw a mandala (it’s skew and unaligned, focus here, the LESSON is the important part), has made me believe I can KINDA draw, and that I can relax.  And I’ve taken on a little BUJO “project” which is a labour of love for someone special.   What am I saying?  Anything that makes you smile a little, expand your horison, teach you a new skill, and importantly makes you have some positive mental health me time is for this Bipolar girl a BIG BUJO YES.

4)  Mood Trackers.  Any BUJO someone has a good mood tracker, ideally self conceptualised into for example, a cup with foliage growing out of it, where each leaf is coloured in with a mood for the day.  These moods are captured in the tracker key.  I got round to all the first bits, and my leafy cup looked fabulous.  Then I realised I had to capture my moods in one day – or a “mood for the day”.   I was about to pen happy-sad-fine-cross, and realised that perhaps I needed different descriptions.  The jury is still out on appropriate moods to add to the key so do, do, do – let me know.  But tracking your mood to help you grow / know / whatever, is again, a resounding yes.

Lastly – and sheepishly – I am learning the skill of being succinct (present and past blogs not included).  It is sometimes better – though more complicated – to convey complex information simply, and succinctly.  The KISS principle is key…  Keep It Simple / Short  Stupid!  I will learn and I will learn with time.  But now you’ll excuse me, Tuesday 20-03-18 can do with a flower or two, a contribution to my gratitude list, and anything else BUJO-ey.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.