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.

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

The Madness of Mental Health

Have you ever tried maintaining your mental health? Have you ever tried to take care of yourself, practice things you’ve learnt in therapy / hospital so that you, you know, stay well?  Well the reality is that it simply doesn’t work like that.  I don’t think that the world in its current form is accommodating or understanding of people with mental illness.  In real life, there is no time for adult colouring, breathing, mindfulness or hours of therapy on a daily basis *all of which I find helpful and soothing*.  There’s no-one asking you in a gentle voice: “and how does that make you feel?”.  There’s no-one holding you, helping you make sense of the world around you, when you are subject to a particularly confusing flurry of being.

In my experience, by 09h00 in the morning, I’ve experienced three days of emotion, and still have to walk into the office, smile clearly in sight, hair looking fairly brushed, and clothes snot and tear free (I generally cry out of ALL the orifices on my head if I do, so not a great idea before work…) Yes, I thought I’d share that visual.  No I’m not saying that Bipolar’s or people with mental illness are ready-to-cry-emotional someones but then again maybe I am. It’s like my favourite saying: I hate being Bipolar, it’s awesome.  Should we shy away from the fact that we are particularly sensitive beings?  That we hurt, feel, and breathe emotion all day long?  That our particular vulnerability can sometimes best be described as feeling “oysters” with our peculiarities and vulnerabilities exposed?  Is it better to hide who we really are for fear of rejection and reprisal from others?

I don’t think I’ve answered this question for myself. I don’t think I’m THAT comfortable flexing my Bipolar Biceps ’cause honestly, the rest of the world is so much bigger.  So much discriminatory.  So much hurtful – that you literally could put yourself on the line for rejection and hurt that a Bipolar’s emotional hurly burly existence just doesn’t need?  Is it safer to hide in the shadows of the world’s perceived “sanity” even when you know – have known – that you don’t belong there? I often say that if everyone could stand together who has ever been excluded or discriminated against – we would make an indomitable force.  But we can’t if we stay in silence.  If we keep quiet.  If we pretend to be something we’re not.  If we push ourselves too much. Because we – and especially this me – could become dangerously ill by trying that too much.

I can’t work late nights.  I take my medication and pretend to sleep then.  I can’t work on weekends because I need to see my children sometimes, and I’m probably catching up on sleep I haven’t had.  I don’t need unnecessary stress, and am happy to be copied  on and talked to about “the important stuff”.  ‘Cause really – this brain and body is busy.  It’s full.  I don’t need unnecessary gunk. And I am OK if this makes me – according to a shi*ty world, different, mad etc.  ‘Cause the only madness in mental health is when you pretend not to be maddeningly engaged in living with and adapting to your condition. It’s difficult, it’s unique and sometimes similar to others and each day is different. Embrace your weirdness, breathe through the anxiety, rest when you can, and grab every form of support you can get – and I remember, its ok, it’s more than ok, to be me.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.