Waving the White Flag

Dear Friends and Fellow Bloggers – I hope you are as well as possible. My recent blog and writing have been somewhat fraught – a small demonstration of what I have been feeling and experiencing. It has been a lot to go through. Going through. But I stopped and experienced something important for the first time today. I waved a white flag and conceded defeat. I allowed myself to let go – where I am usually the smallest detail stickler and instead said that’s ok, let’s go the other way. It was uplifting. Freeing. A white flag that allowed me to win in so many ways.

In my recent experience, I responded with aggression, being defensive, and resisting anything I could in an attempt to try to control the unwieldy cycle my life had become. I thought hanging onto the completely unnecessary was necessary to take control of the helm. Then today. Then that one taste of you and me don’t have to do that or tolerate it or feel it. I don’t know about you but I epxerience enough everyday, I need not add dealing with difficult people or situations I couldn’t control with a stringest fist. No. I can wave a white flag and save myself significant energy and emotion that I too don’t really have that much of.

I have learned that letting go and figuring out what is the most important to hang onto, is more important. Let’s be honest – there’s just so much one person can deal with. So much one person can process and understand and I’m not going to use unrealistic standards to judge me. Ok, maybe I’ve started just by saying that. I do now that me is worth more, deserves to be beaten less, and can walk away from conflict and situations that don’t promote my wellness. Maybe you too.

The Strength of Me

Yesterday I was told I am not Bipolar.  That I am not mentally ill and that I “hid behind” my illness and my personal fav:  that I loved the Hollywoodness of that.  That I loved the celebrityness of that.  I was also told that I could not be helped because I was weak, even though it may have cost my life.  I was left alone when it could have cost my life.  And all of these statements and actions were from people close to me.   So yes, I come to the conclusion that I should seriously change my circle of support.  With friends like these – who needs enemies right?

Now my blog can get preachy, but I have vowed to make this a space and platform to help me, others (and hopefully with a smile or two) and perhaps most importantly, my children will be able to read my blogs one day and understand the madness of their mother.  I frequently tell my children that they made bad choices as sperm (I wouldn’t have rushed out to swim into MY egg) and that they needed to improve their decision making for future life changing situations.   This blog is not to whinge about nasty people in my life.  But I have learnt important lessons from this experience, and perhaps you will too.

Anyone who actually has mental illness,  will know the relentlessness of it. The doesn’t leave you aloneness of it.  The tears that roll out unexpectedly, the sadness that seeps through each pore.  The dark depressions that always loom, the obsessive thought patterns, the insomnia, the visual replay (on a loop) of traumatic moments in your mind. And I don’t need ANYONE telling me whether it’s there or not. And that’s WITH medication.  The blissful nightmare of Bipolar is well, exhausting, roller coaster riding stuff.  And just when you think you’re past the stomach churning part of the ride, you will go through a double turn, and have to come out standing up, not wanting to vomit.    Every day, all the time.  And if this is Hollywood, um, no thanks.

The lessons I have learnt from this week is that I am strong, and I have four beautiful wonderous beings that have always chosen me, even in their early swimming days.  And that’s freaking awesome, with or without a mental illness.  I have not felt strong, didn’t think I was, and certainly don’t think so now.  But the reality is with many, many mistakes, a “condition” (since I don’t have Bipolar as suggested by the non-Psychiatrist person), I have managed to come this far, raise four kids who are ok, and a treatment team that goes beyond the call of duty.

I have not known strength in myself – I do not see it or believe it.  But I HAVE been there for me.  Sometimes too quietly.   Sometimes not in the right way.  Sometimes not disciplined enough.  But the point was I was there.  And I hugged myself (though not tightly enough) through many difficult situations.  I need to learn to be strong for me in a different way.  I need to be louder, more definitive in what I say and do.  And I will get there.  But right now – I am beginning to think that me is enough. And anyone who thinks I live a glam life, shouldn’t support me, or be there when it matters most, doesn’t need to be there for this mature mentally ill mother.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

Mentally Ill Tapestry

I like to think about my blog posts. To weave and darn the words in my mind during the day until I can write about my trials and tribulations, hopefully readers will have a smile,  and I could possibly learn from it.  Today I wanted to write about how I need to migrate from being a housewife to a home executive, i.e. undertake income generating activities.  Read: from pie to proposal, cookie to concept note.  That was until I came across an article written by another person living with Bipolar Disorder, offering um, advice to the Spouses of people with mental illness.  In particular Bipolar Disorder.  And being the helpful housewife soon to be executive I am, I sent the article to my husband. And then I read the whole article and ripped my proverbial writing wool off the loom.

This Bipolar um, writer, suggests that the person you love is buried deep inside.  The person you used to love.  Other suggested techniques include taking “you time”, hot baths, and reminding / measuring whether your spouse is taking their meds. A couple of my other personal favourite yarns included only talking to your spouse honestly when they’re stable, if you can’t visit them at the hospital – get a ward pass and take them to the park.  And the one I love the most:  don’t take personally what is wrong with your spouse (although previous bullet said see the illness as “ours” and not “theirs”).   At this point, I lost my sense of humour, and tried to recall the message as swiftly as possible.

I felt as amused about this article as I did when I was two weeks late with our third baby, was as big as a whale and didn’t fit into any clothes, couldn’t drink / eat because the baby took up the space and had two other children under ten I took care of who weren’t waddling around, particularly in a park where it is hard to catch them.  Yes.  Whenever my husband said “we” were pregnant, I felt my baby and I both pull a f*ing Hunger Games Girl on him, as in shoot fatal arrows.  Because I’m not prone to violence, and generally “mentally stable” as is required for a conversation with me, I got even with my husband quite innocently one day.  He was fast asleep but close to the edge of the bed.  Because I was too uncomfortable I couldn’t sleep.  So I nudged him a bit, and he fell off the bed.  Not life threateningly but enough to bring about a satisfied slumber.  Well, for me.

And I am here to do the same thing to that writer:  I don’t really know if you have Bipolar, but if you’re anything like me, there’s a couple of things I’d like to point out: I didn’t ask for it, I don’t want it and I don’t wish it on my worst enemy.  There are lovely days, and lovely things, and lovely experiences, but in comparison to the darkness, I’d rather have lovely “lite” than Bipolar.  Because my current lovely, is always tempered with don’t forget that the darkness can come back.  And it does, even when you are vigilantly compliant to your treatment.  As for the person you loved being buried:  I’m not buried nor have I ever been.  That’s what is wrong with the world and how they treat the mentally ill:  we don’t need to be buried, we need to be discovered and respected for the fight we fight everyday.   Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t – but I am still trying.  And someone who tries every moment, every second, every hour, every day is noble.  And no-one just no-one, is going to be a measure of my trying.  And you know what?  A Spouse / partner who reads this kind of advice, takes it seriously and acts on it, should be unravelled from the beautiful tapestry you are.   They don’t deserve you.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

Mental Illness Mothering

My chickens have descended on the roost with many dishes, dust and noise.  And my heart and mind are in happy anxious receipt.  When they left for the weekend, I was initially filled with a “yeah, no chickens, no chores” vibe which lasted oh about 10 minutes.  I literally ran up my passage ululating, and then I realised that I was bored.  I was lonely.  My four not so little pillars of support were gone.  And I didn’t like the sound or feeling their absence left one little bit. And as much as my mind and heart are generally a noisy place, their noise, quietens mine which is mostly unnecessary.  Don’t get me wrong – my husband was around – but he’s not a chicken.  He’s not as fun as they are.  As perfect as they are.  As funny, and sometimes considerate they are.

They DO leave the house a mess.  The DO throw tantrums, point out frequently how I treat the one better than the other.  They think that unlimited wifi, cable, and good schools are a given.  That the fridge should always be full.  That cleaning up their rooms is optional.  And we get into a tousle or two because of this.    Often.  The most recent was that I felt unappreciated by all and sundry at home, and lashed out at my chickens before they left.  I felt justifiably angry – I have been trawling through the murky depths of depression for a while – and no-one, just no-one “knew” how awfully difficult that is.  How muddy that is.  Except for me.  Me.  Muddy, murky me.  And today, the lesson I’ve learnt, is that I was and am not.

My chickens have witnessed happy me, professional me, can-get-up me, sleep all day me, cry all day me, never know what you’re going to get me.  Too many times.  They have wiped tears, carried food, and held me.  Especially when I couldn’t. They have visited me in psychiatric hospitals, possibly one too many times.  Brought me letters and cards that I would look at in my ward.  Did I want this for my perfect chickens that I so wanted to cuddle and cradle in their safe, bubble coop?  No never.  I’d rather die a million times than have anything hurt their hearts or beings.  But the truth is, that I never chose mental illness either.  And goodness knows I would contain it as best I could, when I could, lest the shrapnel hit them.

Today they told me that they know how I “am”.  They know what affects me.  They know when I need a hand.  And most significantly, that they didn’t mind doing it, that they would do it again, and did so out of choice, not duty.    I underline that I would never willingly have put them through what they’ve seen and felt – but from today, I think they know and understand that sometimes I was not myself.  Sometimes I could not take care of myself.

As their mother, I want to care for them.  I want to be the maternal one.  And I want to do all the caring that needs to be done.  But if I am chalking up anything in my mental health experience, it’s that I can’t always.  And rather being honest about that and asking for help, is better than pushing myself and ending up feeling resentful and angry.  Or more importantly the kind of mood that will need intervention.  They are not my treatment team.  They are not my psychiatrist, psychologist or any kind of medication.  They are the reasons why I always want to try again, the move in my motivation, the inspire in my inspiration.  I wish they never had to live with mental illness – and I quietly wish that alot for me too.  But today they told me – they didn’t mind.  Just so long as I’m ok.  And there are at least four awesome people who think that.  I am their mentally ill mum.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.