Tantrum Tutu

When I was a little girl something happened that changed me forever.  I’m not sure whether it was a good or a bad thing.  It certainly didn’t feel like a good thing.  But in honesty it did two things: 1) drove me to work harder and want to change the world so that it didn’t happen to other girls and 2) provided me in my heart, mind and actions a VIP pass to an ongoing self pity party that is good for no-one, especially not me.  After the event had occured, I approached someone I thought should care for me the most as a child and was told to go back to sleep and not be a bother.    Feeling like that was a secondary trauma to what happened, my little girl mind locked the memory, feeling and rejection into my pandora’s emotional box.  Perhaps that was best.  It was a  lot to deal with, and little me did not know what else to do.

Unfortunately for me and anyone else who does Pandora Box shoving, it leaks out, affects you in your thoughts and actions until you actually address what happened.   What it brought me to do was to constantly be in search of feeling better, of feeling worthied (if there’s such a word), to be loved, to be rejected and not hurt.  And in my pursuit of feeling betterness, I scalded myself, my children and those around me.  Because hey, the goal was to get out of my body and mind, and I didn’t care the cost.  I didn’t care who I hurt.  Because I had been hurt first, right?  I had that VIP pass right?  Wrong.  Just because something bad happens to you does not give you the key to the city kid.  It doesn’t matter that it was traumatic, that I lived with it, that I have a mental illness.  None of these reasons give me the right to behave badly.

In all honesty, I still feel like I have the right to be that kid at the party, having had too much sugar, throwing a tantrum on the floor, based on what happened.  But I realise that a) I’ve been throwing a tantrum for a WHILE and b) it’s not helping anyone, especially not me.   I need to get up again, be clear about what happened (and take action if that’s what I want to do) and most of all try and be a better me, for me.   That way I can be a better Mummy too, and those are my primary reasons for being – me and my chickens.  They didn’t do anything wrong and don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of a tantrum throwing too big to do this big kid Mom.   So I’m discarding my tantrum tutu and all the drama that goes with that.  Because what happened, happened.  I can’t change that, but I can change how I respond to it.  And I’m ready.  I’m ready to move forward, tantrum tutu free.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’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.