`This is kind of an open - reply to a great blogger buddy who left an incredible comment on my last post. And then it goes into rambling. I always hesitate to post things on here because I feel like it's bad if I only post 1x a month. "I should blog everyday, writing is good for me," I tell myself - it's the same kind of all-or-nothing thinking that gets me into trouble in other aspects of my life. It's just too much pressure - I end up not doing anything instead of just doing a little bit.
I probably should just take it one day at a time, like they do in AA. If I feel like writing/blogging for one post, that should be enough. I have no obligation to myself or anyone to ever write another blog post. It can be a one-time thing, if that's what I want or need. I have to give myself permission to be irregular, to write when I can, and don't worry when I don't. Common sense? Not for me.
Emily - Thank you so much for sharing your story. Advice certainly helps, especially when given with the kindness you expressed. It hurts me to think that I was on the "giving" end of the types of abusive/mean behaviors that your ex put you through. I admire your strength and loyalty in trying to help him, but it sounds like you made the right choice in disentangling. It's terrible that you had to experience his suicide attempt along with him. That sort of thing leaves bad images for everyone involved.
In answer to your question about a holistic approach to treatment - that is exactly what I need to do. I do my best, but I'm only about 50% of the way there with diet, exercise, and sleep habits. The only semi-positive bipolar information/blog/story I have found is here. There's a really interesting post about coping with symptoms through basic habits and scheduling here. If I wanted to be positive about those suggestions, I could say that "With several months' time I may be able to create a semblance of that kind of lifestyle." If I wanted to be negative about the suggestions I would say that "Making a lifestyle like the regimented daily schedule of a baby is not realistic for working adults who don't live in isolation."
In the meantime, I really appreciate your thoughts. I don't really pray either, but I think that sharing with someone that you're thinking about them is important.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Surprise! Warning - major triggering post
Two doctors have told me that I have bipolar. In the five weeks since then I've been on medication, and everything is pretty much exactly the same level of horribleness and ups and downs. Had a good week, had a crappy week, had an absolutely horrendous week. My husband-like boyfriend and I are 'taking a break' AKA breaking up and my job is going to shit. He doesn't want me to come to his college graduation dinner or even his graduation (been looking forward to it for 4 years of our relationship). I'm devastated. He says he loves me and wants to be friends. Fuck that. I believe he's rejecting me because I'm bipolar and he is sick of dealing with how horribly I'm treating him. I don't deserve anyone, and I will never be with anyone ever again. I will certainly never tell anyone. It was a mistake telling the few people that I have told.
I have been trying to look up "bipolar success stories." Guess what? There are none. There's only stories of 5, 10, 15 years of different combinations of medications up to 30 or 35 different meds, years of ups and downs, nearly every person has lost their job, lost their marriage and/or their kids, been hospitalized multiple times.
I have found a few stories of people who are in their 50s, and have "finally" found a good combination of meds and have a somewhat stable life with bipolar. Guess what again? If it takes a person that long to get to a point where they can begin to "tolerate" their existence, then IT'S NOT WORTH IT. Kind of sounds like anyone wiht I've already alienated most of the people who have been closest to me, including the most important person in my life. What will another 25 years to do to the things i have accomplished.
I am thinking about rejecting my diagnosis. It has already caused me so much damage, I'll never be able to have a great job or a great lover or a great life if I accept that I'm inherently fucked up. I'm going to think about it until Monday, when I have therapy with my doctor. If I still feel the same way, I'm going to cancel my appt. and go about my life as it was before. Yeah, it was tough, but at least there was hope then that I could get better instead of now, when I basically have a life sentence.
I have been trying to look up "bipolar success stories." Guess what? There are none. There's only stories of 5, 10, 15 years of different combinations of medications up to 30 or 35 different meds, years of ups and downs, nearly every person has lost their job, lost their marriage and/or their kids, been hospitalized multiple times.
I have found a few stories of people who are in their 50s, and have "finally" found a good combination of meds and have a somewhat stable life with bipolar. Guess what again? If it takes a person that long to get to a point where they can begin to "tolerate" their existence, then IT'S NOT WORTH IT. Kind of sounds like anyone wiht I've already alienated most of the people who have been closest to me, including the most important person in my life. What will another 25 years to do to the things i have accomplished.
I am thinking about rejecting my diagnosis. It has already caused me so much damage, I'll never be able to have a great job or a great lover or a great life if I accept that I'm inherently fucked up. I'm going to think about it until Monday, when I have therapy with my doctor. If I still feel the same way, I'm going to cancel my appt. and go about my life as it was before. Yeah, it was tough, but at least there was hope then that I could get better instead of now, when I basically have a life sentence.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
new developments on the homefront
Sooo. I have a diagnosis. And I think that probably it's correct. Bipolar II.
Now I have my little bag of psych meds and my pdoc and my therapist. Haven't started the pills yet. I have a wedding to go to tomorrow and want to wait until after.
I feel like it's been a terrible summer - very stressful. I was crying all last night about our friend who died. It was so unnecessary. It didn't have to happen. I have to do something about it. I'm pretty sure I'm a little hypomanic about now. Am I dumping this on this blog suddenly? maybe. I've never been a good blogger.
But for the first time, I have a therapist who is clear and concise. She asks questions; she's direct. I feel like I have a long way to go. I'm trying to avoid another breakdown. Holding for 7 days between appts gives me the tools to take a deep, hang on until next time. The pdoc actually talked to me. I had a lot of anxiety that I would be mistreated there, but he listened to me. And he mentioned bipolar II without me mentioning it. Which really gives more credibility to the diagnosis. So if my meds don't give me a deadly rash, it's supposed to make me feel much better.
Now I have my little bag of psych meds and my pdoc and my therapist. Haven't started the pills yet. I have a wedding to go to tomorrow and want to wait until after.
I feel like it's been a terrible summer - very stressful. I was crying all last night about our friend who died. It was so unnecessary. It didn't have to happen. I have to do something about it. I'm pretty sure I'm a little hypomanic about now. Am I dumping this on this blog suddenly? maybe. I've never been a good blogger.
But for the first time, I have a therapist who is clear and concise. She asks questions; she's direct. I feel like I have a long way to go. I'm trying to avoid another breakdown. Holding for 7 days between appts gives me the tools to take a deep, hang on until next time. The pdoc actually talked to me. I had a lot of anxiety that I would be mistreated there, but he listened to me. And he mentioned bipolar II without me mentioning it. Which really gives more credibility to the diagnosis. So if my meds don't give me a deadly rash, it's supposed to make me feel much better.
Monday, July 4, 2011
My life
is way too hectic. The inevitable unexpected things take up the quiet spaces between activities.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Today is today
...and it's passing slowly. J. has gone on a day trip with friends to occupy his mind and his time.
When he returns, I will have to share recently released news about our friend "Justin" who was killed. His father has been charged with voluntary manslaughter - an odd charge. Police affidavits reveal that while Justin was violent and attacking his father, the father continued to shoot him after he was down. The article makes a point of describing our friend Justin lying in the family's front flower bed as his father continued to shoot him. It's not fun to read - but everyone wants to know. Maybe if we know every detail then it will begin to make sense, we think.
The articles also describes Justin's repeated violence against his family. I have seen the look in his eyes - a determined, bone-chilling look that threatened and scared me. The look of a sick person, one that faded into a quiet, odd, but good person on good days. I never knew him when he was Mr. High School, dating the prettiest girl, outgoing and brilliant. The diseases of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia came on swiftly and strongly. I can see how his father would be legitimately scared for his life, and the life of Justin's sister who was in the home as well. I can even see how the only way to stop him might have been to shoot him. But it seems to have gone too far - who knows, only his sister was there as a dependable eye witness. I will never be able to judge.
I gave up prayer a long time ago, but in the last 3 days, I have listened to J.'s prayers with reverence and echoes in my own mind.
I must know - was Justin getting the help he needed? Where did the system break down? How can the mentally ill be expected to be proactive in their own treatment? What can we do?
RIP, Friend.
 |
| I need something bright |
The articles also describes Justin's repeated violence against his family. I have seen the look in his eyes - a determined, bone-chilling look that threatened and scared me. The look of a sick person, one that faded into a quiet, odd, but good person on good days. I never knew him when he was Mr. High School, dating the prettiest girl, outgoing and brilliant. The diseases of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia came on swiftly and strongly. I can see how his father would be legitimately scared for his life, and the life of Justin's sister who was in the home as well. I can even see how the only way to stop him might have been to shoot him. But it seems to have gone too far - who knows, only his sister was there as a dependable eye witness. I will never be able to judge.
I gave up prayer a long time ago, but in the last 3 days, I have listened to J.'s prayers with reverence and echoes in my own mind.
I must know - was Justin getting the help he needed? Where did the system break down? How can the mentally ill be expected to be proactive in their own treatment? What can we do?
RIP, Friend.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
young men
The night I met my love, my J., a few other people were there, including his best friend from high school. I'll call him Justin.
After a night of eating and drinking at the local watering hole, J. was halted in his attempt to leave because he couldn't find his keys. I - already somewhat smitten - volunteered to help scavenge the restaurant, the parking lot, the street. Finally, Justin returned and extracted the keys from his pocket. He had a scheming grin. A scheme, a wingman's attempt at letting his buddy spend more time with a girl he'd just met. Me.
I got to know Justin's ex-fiance - she was there, too, during this time of my life. The two seemed...volatile. Compared to mine and J.'s budding romance (sweet and simple) theirs was a tornado. Their engagement, which had come and gone before I met them, was a perfect example of my favorite cautionary Shakespeare bit:
"These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder.
Which, as they kiss, consume."
There had been broken glass doors, maybe some bruises on his ex, nothing I knew for sure. Eventually we only saw them separately and then, less often. Justin would show up at my house from time to time, looking for J. Same scheming grin. Then less grin and more scheming. There were rumors of fights, of trouble at parties we missed because we were off getting sober and falling in love...he brought a large rock to my house once and held it between his hands like he might squeeze blood from it. J. would have no more - it didn't feel right - he couldn't just show up at my house and leave menacing rocks on my porch anymore.
Later, we tried again to reach out to Justin. He was sick, he had clear mental health concerns. I was worried about him. He sat on my couch once, utterly silent. He seemed furious and yet insisted nothing was wrong. I felt helpless. Suddenly, he threw his can of chewing tobacco clear across the room as hard as he could. It was the oddest thing. Once, J. made an off-color joke and Justin threw his beer bottle at J.'s head - narrowly missing. We called his parents. I didn't know them, but I plead with them to help him. They knew, they said. There was nothing they could do, they said. A year ago, we learned how Justin fought another young man with a knife, unprovoked, until he could be restrained and carted away by his horrified parents. We hear how he's got a good job, working with his father.
We see Justin from time to time, out and about. Sometimes he does show up at my house. Usually J. calls him first. Two weeks ago, J. and Justin and Justin's father went downtown just to walk around. He doesn't want to let his old best friend go if he can help it, even if the friendship had faded away with his health. J. filmed the excursion, focusing on his friend and his friend's father - both tall and thin, superbly good-looking young men.
This morning, Justin's father shot him several times in the front yard of their home, killing him. The newspaper picked up the story before any of the friends, so many of our friends found out from a harassing news reporter. Sensational, yes. Sickening, yes. I won't be surprised if it's picked up nationally. It's too good to be true for the struggling newspaper. "Beautiful blonde upper middle class family shoots each other in yard."
Last night, J. commented that unspeakably horrible things happen all the time. We cannot predict the future, we can't count on our resolutions and our plans to hold up through the swiftly striking tragedies of life. He was referring to drinking. Hopefully this will not drive him to drink again. Last night, we were talking about the difficulties that people have in getting mental health treatment. I dreamed of an A.A. - like place for people with anxiety, depression. A safe place where people like me could call, could find a list of therapists, doctors, resources. A place to simply speak to others and to know that you weren't the only one to google "need a psychiatrist in __city___".
Now it seems more urgent than ever to me that supposedly "normal" people who are really suffering need mental health care. Maybe this tragedy could have been prevented, but probably not. While the newspaper reporters continue to speculate on homicide v. self-defense - no one knows at this point - we are just mourning, pacing, sitting, looking at the menacing rock still sitting on my porch, like a talisman of warning. Time for me is standing still, I feel close but not so close to the situation. J. is still in shock, I think. He has has too many friends die. The lives of young men seem so dangerous.
After a night of eating and drinking at the local watering hole, J. was halted in his attempt to leave because he couldn't find his keys. I - already somewhat smitten - volunteered to help scavenge the restaurant, the parking lot, the street. Finally, Justin returned and extracted the keys from his pocket. He had a scheming grin. A scheme, a wingman's attempt at letting his buddy spend more time with a girl he'd just met. Me.
I got to know Justin's ex-fiance - she was there, too, during this time of my life. The two seemed...volatile. Compared to mine and J.'s budding romance (sweet and simple) theirs was a tornado. Their engagement, which had come and gone before I met them, was a perfect example of my favorite cautionary Shakespeare bit:
"These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder.
Which, as they kiss, consume."
There had been broken glass doors, maybe some bruises on his ex, nothing I knew for sure. Eventually we only saw them separately and then, less often. Justin would show up at my house from time to time, looking for J. Same scheming grin. Then less grin and more scheming. There were rumors of fights, of trouble at parties we missed because we were off getting sober and falling in love...he brought a large rock to my house once and held it between his hands like he might squeeze blood from it. J. would have no more - it didn't feel right - he couldn't just show up at my house and leave menacing rocks on my porch anymore.
Later, we tried again to reach out to Justin. He was sick, he had clear mental health concerns. I was worried about him. He sat on my couch once, utterly silent. He seemed furious and yet insisted nothing was wrong. I felt helpless. Suddenly, he threw his can of chewing tobacco clear across the room as hard as he could. It was the oddest thing. Once, J. made an off-color joke and Justin threw his beer bottle at J.'s head - narrowly missing. We called his parents. I didn't know them, but I plead with them to help him. They knew, they said. There was nothing they could do, they said. A year ago, we learned how Justin fought another young man with a knife, unprovoked, until he could be restrained and carted away by his horrified parents. We hear how he's got a good job, working with his father.
We see Justin from time to time, out and about. Sometimes he does show up at my house. Usually J. calls him first. Two weeks ago, J. and Justin and Justin's father went downtown just to walk around. He doesn't want to let his old best friend go if he can help it, even if the friendship had faded away with his health. J. filmed the excursion, focusing on his friend and his friend's father - both tall and thin, superbly good-looking young men.
This morning, Justin's father shot him several times in the front yard of their home, killing him. The newspaper picked up the story before any of the friends, so many of our friends found out from a harassing news reporter. Sensational, yes. Sickening, yes. I won't be surprised if it's picked up nationally. It's too good to be true for the struggling newspaper. "Beautiful blonde upper middle class family shoots each other in yard."
Last night, J. commented that unspeakably horrible things happen all the time. We cannot predict the future, we can't count on our resolutions and our plans to hold up through the swiftly striking tragedies of life. He was referring to drinking. Hopefully this will not drive him to drink again. Last night, we were talking about the difficulties that people have in getting mental health treatment. I dreamed of an A.A. - like place for people with anxiety, depression. A safe place where people like me could call, could find a list of therapists, doctors, resources. A place to simply speak to others and to know that you weren't the only one to google "need a psychiatrist in __city___".
Now it seems more urgent than ever to me that supposedly "normal" people who are really suffering need mental health care. Maybe this tragedy could have been prevented, but probably not. While the newspaper reporters continue to speculate on homicide v. self-defense - no one knows at this point - we are just mourning, pacing, sitting, looking at the menacing rock still sitting on my porch, like a talisman of warning. Time for me is standing still, I feel close but not so close to the situation. J. is still in shock, I think. He has has too many friends die. The lives of young men seem so dangerous.
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