I hate you!!!!! I hate what you are taking from me! You are robbing me of my joy! You are robbing me of my time! You are robbing my children if their mother, and my husband of his wife! I am moving away from sadness and despair straight to anger and rage!

Tired

When I wake up in the morning, after a very full night of sleep (thanks to what I call my "sleepy medicine,") I am still tired.

My body is tired: my brain is tired: but, most of all, my soul is tired.

I pull out my arsenal of medications which makes me look like someone with a terminal illness, and swallow them down, every day hoping that it will instantly fix me.

My soul still hurts.

I hope this doesn't become a terminal illness. Don't panic. No need to call the suicide hotline or the local officials to intervene.  Sadly, I've already been there.

I don't feel completely hopeless; not like it was before, but my soul remains injured.

We recently moved into a beautiful home;  the one that we'd been waiting for. I hasn't been so busy moving, unpacking, arranging, while keeping a house going.

I have even been ironing. I fucking hate ironing with a burning passion.

My substitute teaching has keep me busy nearly every day although my doctor recommended no more than three days per week.

I just feel like I need to contribute to the family finances because I've been such a drain. My husband insists that I haven't, but that loud, annoying voice on my head says differently.

I'd like to talk that voice and punch it in the goddamn throat.

With all this going on, it has kept me beyond busy.

Did I mention that I've also been volunteering in my children's classrooms?

What the hell am I doing?

What the hell have I been thinking??

Naturally, I have hit the wall. Not just run into it exactly. I look like a squashed bug on a windshield.

I hate bipolar.

Hate.

I am such a machine when I'm up, but I'm a waste of life when I'm down. Today I'm down. How am I supposed to deal with 1st graders, kindergarteners (did I spell that right?), and second graders, in gym class no less, this morning.

I know in my gut that I will make someone cry today. Not intentionally, but they will cry just the same.

The fourth and sixth graders (my son's class) will be perfectly content beating each other up in dodgeball (thank the lord above) so I'll get a reprieve from teaching, but it's often those reprieves that get to me, to my heart.

It makes me start thinking.

That can sometimes be a very dangerous thing, can't it?

Back to Work

It's the first week of school.  I am substitute teaching this year.  I thought that I would have a couple of weeks between my children going back to school and getting called in to work.

I mean, what self-respecting teacher takes a day off during the first week of school?

Well....I failed to account for meetings, games, teachers so far tenured that they have accumulated months off in a nine-month-a-year gig...

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy and relieved financially to get back to a routine, but I didn't realize how dependent I was becoming on those precious few weeks  that I had created in my mind.  

I've been having a really rough go of it in the afternoons and into the evening. 

I've become short, snappy, and nit-picky: fidgety, uncomfortable, and often incoherent.

My poor husband.  My poor children.  Hell, my poor cats...

Especially when one is working, one depends on the peace and comfort of their home once they finish a hard-day's-work.

The truth is, I'm almost scared to go home in the evenings.

I hate that feeling.  Super bad.

Plus, being a substitute teacher is difficult in that there is a fine line between keeping order and wanting to be the "cool" sub.  

Now try adding anxiety to that.  

This is truly a recipe for a disaster.  

Ah, to hell with being the "cool" sub.  I'd rather they shut the f&^% up.

BLACK AND WHITE

Black is my favorite color.  Not because I am viciously morbid, or because I worship the devil.  I just happend to like the color.  I don't think I should have to defend myself.

Some people may not like my choice of color, but if you want to get technical, black contains all of the colors of the rainbow, added together.  So really...I enjoy every color - as long as they combine to make black.

So, why in the hell am I talking about my favorite color?  This is the kind of question you discuss in early elementary school.

I'm discussing the color black because it is often the color that I (and most people) associate with depression.  When someone is "down," they prefer dark rooms, dark clothes, dark clouds, and generally have bleak and dark thoughts. 

Through my bipolar, I have discovered that I can begin the day brightly.  As I become productive and feel okay about myself, I can feel my colors working their way toward green or yellow.  Perhaps, I decide to do something to feed my soul, such as yoga, drawing, or reading.  As my day draws to it's close, I may be close to purple/white...

Unfortunately, what has been happening lately is that I begin my day colorfully.  However, I can never forget the fact that I also have Generalized Anxiety Disorder.  With both of these mood disorders, it is nearly impossible to maintain a stability of color.

Where I am in my recovery, newly dealing with my bipolar and throwing in the GAD.  There are far and few in between times that I feel terrific: like I am worthwhile.  I feel like I can handle identifying with white.  However, there are times, often in the same day (or maybe several times in the same day) that I feel I deserve no more than the color black. 

Fix You

I had a bit of a melt down last night. 

My kids and I had a nice day.  My son went to football practice, and I colored the tips of my girls' hair with chalk pastels (Thank you Pinterest).

It was beautiful outside, but I was stuck with too much down time.  You know what I mean...I had finished what I wanted to accomplish for the day, and I had been spending a lot of time with my children.  They were beginning to become bored with their Mommy, and needed some down time of their own.

I held off until my husband came home.

I held off until after dinner.

I held off until the kids were nestled in bed.

Then the waterworks began. 

Do I remember what caused my tears?  No.  Did someone say something?  I don't know.  Did I think of or remember something?  No idea?

I was suddenly bawling, snotting all over myself (attractive), and speaking incoherently.

My husband sat next to me: holding my hand, and wiping my unending tears.  Like usual, he didn't know quite what to say.  I mean, who would?  He gently tucked me into bed once I was as settled as I was going to be, and kissed me firmly on the fourhead.

When my husband was in Iraq, we emailed each other everyday, sometimes more than once.  It became our thing to send each other song lyrics: sometimes just as a guessing game, but more often than not, it was to share our feelings.

He sent me an email this morning.  The waterworks began again, but mostly because I was so relieved and thankful that I had been blessed with such an understanding, faithful, and strong husband.  He understand me.  He cares so much.  It helps more than anything.

FIX YOU

When you try your best but you don't succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

And high up above or down below
When your too in love to let it go
But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will fix you

-Coldplay

Now that there are only 7 short days left until Mohawk, Little Miss, and BB return to school, I am feeling very nostalgic, just like most parents.  The warm weather that allowed for playing in forest trails, running along the tops of hay bale rows, and playing with friends and cousins is slowly slipping away.

We are all looking forward to school: the kids want to see their friends and meet their new teachers, and I am looking forward a locked-down schedule. 

During my nostalgia, I have also come to a deeply sad conclusion. 

This has been, by far, the worst year of my life. 

Unfortunately, I am not exaggerating.

I know, "Debbie Downer," right?  It's not like I mean to be.

I'd much rather be Glad Gladys, Happy Hilary, Ecstatic Elsie, whatever...I digress...

You know when I mentioned at the beginning of this entry about playing in forest trails, running along the tops of hay bale rows, and playing with friends and cousins?  Um, yeah...

I didn't do any of that.  In fact, I barely watched my children do those fun, summertime activities. 

Yesterday, my husband volunteered to take our two young neices overnight.  I wasn't exactly thrilled (I wanted to grab his testicles and whisper death threats, actually), but I knew that it was our "turn."

Everything was going well.  The kids were outside playing after breakfast when I decided to join them.  I wasn't out there for more than 10 minutes.  I decided that it was all that I could do, but just before I went inside, BB turned to me and innocently said, " Mom!  This is the first time that you've been outside having fun with us."

Holy hell, what a guilt trip.  She didn't mean it as such, of course, but it struck me like a ton of heavy bricks covered with rusted steel spikes tipped in acid.

Okay, so sometime I do tend to exaggerate. 

My bipolar and anxiety disorders have robbed me of joyful times with children.  They have taken away memories that I can never replace.

Not only because I have difficulty pulling myself forward to make these memories, but also because it has been leaving large gaps in my my mind - my memory. 

I have been walking around this week feeling like I have forgotten half of what I did last week. 

I walked into the Little Miss and BB's room and saw that there were two beautfully colored pictures by their beds.  On closer inspection, I saw my name was signed. 

I have no recollection of coloring those pictures.

I asked my husband about it, and his reply was, "Yeah, you colored them the other night.  I thought it was weird, but I didn't say anything.  I figured it was keeping you quiet, so I shouldn't interrupt you."  - ha ha - Good one, shithead...

This morning I asked him what we did last night.  He cocked his head, and said, "You don't remember?  We made out on the couch like teenagers, quickly put the kids to bed, and made love like we hadn't in a long time."  His face flashed disappointment, sadness, and a bit of annoyance, before he composed himself: remembering that I have been upset about the gaps in my memory. 

Holy hell, did I feel like shit.  I mean, seriously.  If he would have said that he forgot the most passionate love-making session that we'd had in months, I would have gouged his eyes out with rusty spoons. 

Just kidding.  Kind of...

Anyway...as the school year approaches, I will do my best to make lots of memories with my children: hoping that I will remember at least a few snippets.

I don't seem to been getting my bipolar/anxiety under control (they take turns), and the meds just keep being added. 

Just hoping something will click soon....

Sleep is elusive

My doctor told me the most important thing in my recover (and in life in general) is to protect your sleep: to guard it as if your life depends on it.

Because it does.

Not getting a good night's sleep can affect every aspect of the following day, whether you notice it right away or not. 

It begins with shoving a pop tart in my kids' mouths on the way out the door, instead of taking the 10 minutes out of the morning it would take to fix them some eggs, bacon, and toast. 

I refuse to apologize for taking that time to enjoy a quick cup of scalding coffee while throwing on some mascara and dragging a tube of lip gloss across my chapped lips. 

After all, that's why there are locks on bathroom doors, right?

I have been wired all afternoon and evening, and even now, after settling down (relatively), the idea of sleep is incredibly elusive.  It might be the lack of sleep, but I swear the sandman, that little fucker, is peeking through my curtains, laughing at me, and doing his little lucifer dance on my annuals.

I can't deny that I am enjoying the quiet, but beyond that quiet is a day full of living that I'm going to have to get through. 

Protect your sleep, guard it with your life.  What happens if I don't even have the energy to do this?

Tired

My mind slowly began forming conscious thought as the cruel morning light seeped through a crack in the drapery.

 It was morning. 

It was another day. 

Another day that I was forced to crawl out from the safety of my strategicly blackened room and face those that depended on me to be normal, to be strong, to be their Mommy, to be a wife.

I hate the thought of wishing my days away; of wanting to hurry throught the weeks, just to get through.  I know in my heart these times are precious.  I should be savoring every second as my children change and grow, even on a daily basis.

Why the fuck is it so hard?

It just want to be left alone.  I just want to be ignored.  It's painful to be included, when I feel like I'm just an anchor being drug along because they can't let me go. 

A burden.

Oh, Christ on the cross, I just want to go back to bed!  It's 8:00am and I know the husband is already gone.  I can hear Little Miss and BB's footsteps: back and forth, back and forth on the upstairs floor.  Relentless. 

I want to scream, "Can't you just sit in front of the TV and zone out for hours like other children?"

However, that would just attract their attention, and I want to be ignored. 

It's now 8:36....9:02....9:17...  Man, I'd better get up because if it gets to be 10:00 and I'm not up, I'd be a real loser.

The clock is ticking for my husband to come, too.  What if I hear his pick-up pull in the driveway and I'm not up?  I'd have to throw off the covers, rush upstairs, pour a cup of coffee and take couple of scalding swigs to make it look like I'd been drinking it all morning, and grab something: laundry, fill the sink with water, soap, and dishes, throw a toilet  bowl cleaner in my hand.

But then he'd walk in and see my dead eyes and the sleep lines on my face.

Goddamn him.  Goddamn him for seeing right through me.  God bless him for seeing right through me. 

When I was in treatment at the Mayo earlier this year, the head of the department gave me the diagnosis of Severe Recurrent Depression with Generalized Anxiety Disorder.  Holy shit, that's a mouthful.  But at least with a "name," it felt like I could move forward. 

Hell, the Head of Psychology at the MAYO CLINIC diagnosed me!  He's got to be the best in the world right?  He's working for me, and he has to be right!  Right?

I left feeling like I was finally on top of this.  I had support there, I made friends there that knew exactly what is was like to suffer, and I had a husband and family that has been supporting me throughout this entire fight.  I was going to be okay, right?  Right?

Then, three days later my brother-in-law lost his leg in a motorcycle accident.  Our lives became consummed with advocating and caring for him.

Then, my grandmother suffered a fall which resulted in a subdermal hematoma (blood on the brain).  She needed brain surgery.  Our lives became consummed with advocating and caring for her.

I am happy to have been a part of their care.  I love my family.  I wouldn't have changed my part in their care. 

But...I lost my path.  I forgot how to care for myself. 

To make matters worse, my Psych. NP has given me a new diagnosis: Bipolar II due to the swings in my emotions. 

What the fuck?  When I think of bipolar, I think of people who go from being depressed and can barely get out of bed (guilty - today, in fact) to staying up all night and painting an intricate mural throughout their entire entryway and organizing their spice rack by size, color, and alphabetically.

I never get that hypomania. 

Shit, at least I'd be getting something done.

The light from the opening in the drapes has shifted so it is now slicing directly toward my face: my eyelids fluttering, my mind willing them to stay closed. 

I could just turn over, pull the covers over my head, and ignore the sunshine trying to rouse me to begin my day. 

It is such a tempting thought.  Then BB comes down and asks where to Kool-Aid is because she and her sister are going to color their hair. 

Well, shit.  Here comes another day.

BLOG SHORTCUTS

During my insomnia, I searched the internet and found several blogs regarding women who are dealing with mental health issues in their "normal" lives.  I was inspired by many of thier posts and giggled several times.  Please check them out.

I made it through the night.  My oldest daughter is home with me today so we can take care of some bowel issues.  Yippee.  For those of your in the know, sometimes it can be like a mountain that needs climbing in order to make it through the night. 

It's a new day and I will try and do my best, which is all anyone can ask for, right?

Fake it 'til you make it.... right.....

After making some decisions in my life regarding the direction we will be taking as a family as we deal with our everyday lives and mommy's "sickness," I have done my best to be as happy (often overly, annoyingly happy) as is possible.  I have also tried to consume every waking moment with something of positive substance.  As I said in my last post, this is totally wearing me out.  I am exhausted.  I feel like I am running around in circles trying to find the next positive thing to accomplish in order to prevent a downward anxiety or depression-ridden spiral.

Of course this sounds selfish and sickening to many people, but for a few of you out there, you might have a slight understanding of what I often feel.  I have a wonderful, understanding husband and three beautiful, smart, and sensitive children.  I love my family more than anything in this entire universe and beyond.  But, because of the guilt that has been driven into my psyche since childhood, along with my bottom-dwelling self-esteem, I can't help feeling like they would all be better without me.  I would not want them to feel the pain of losing me, but I wish that I could just disappear and that no one would have any recollection that I ever existed.  I felt this was early into my treatment, and these negative thoughts are again beginning to surface.  I am running out of distractions, and it's making me feel panicky.  Ugh.

Rainy Day

It has been nearly 8 weeks since I have started on my journey of dealing with my panic/anxiety disorder and depression.  I have been utilizing several different medications, and MD, a psychotherapist, and my family: my family the most, by far.  I am in my early 30s, and a wife and mother to three beautiful children.  It is an extreme understatement to say that it has been difficult for all of us.

I have recently decided to stop working to stay home and concentrate on my recovery and the management of my disorders.  Although I initially felt relief and calm once I made this decision, I am now starting to feel scared, anxious, and sad.  I have tried to put on a cheerful front (you know, "fake it until you make it"), but I have come the conclusion that that approach, although it works for a while, it is an exhausting undertaking.  The weather today is not helping.