Tag Archives: bipolar

You can act to change and control your life; and the procedure , the process is its own reward.”

16 Oct

Never watch Law and Order SVU if there’s no plot synopsis.

Last night, that plot was bipolar, and I really wasn’t prepared.

I saw myself, fully, for the first time ever. Or as full as a healthy person can portray. I wish I could hate it, but I can only regret it while I use it, while I gladden myself with movement and change.

Stabler confronts his mother, speaking hard about his childhood, her threats to leave, to die, as she makes a sand castle, two planes, two people, one never listening, incapable of feeling for the people near to her.

Later, she says she’s lived the life she wanted, and paid a terrible price for it.

It’s cheesy to see one’s self on a TV, to face your demons on network television, but suddenly, vividly, I saw what I’ve been doing to my family, to the people in my life, for years. Sure, the TV version is always the most extreme, but what’s better? A slow death, or a fast one?

The voids I’ve left in lives, the utter wrung outness I give to people, squeezing them dry of everything inch of life, of passion, all the while demanding more, telling them they’ve stolen mine. I’ve made people raw, I’ve started down a path that would have destroyed everything in my life, made ruin of my children.  All because I circled on myself, my own orbit, my planet around I the sun.

Oh how I saw that last night. How my heart cracked and shuddered, with that awful realization of who I have been, what this disease makes me into. What it could become, who I could be. Who I do not ever want to be.

I could be worse. I’ve never spent thousands of dollars on a spending binge-I’ve been too poor for that. But I’ve ran multiple credit cards up to the edge, destroyed my credit. I never ran around sleeping with everyone, but hey, I was never that attractive. Likely, without marriage to tether me, I could have at times. I’ve always felt one step away from catastrophe.

Then I fell into it, and came out of it and now I’m sitting here wondering how anyone could last though all of that, how I could possibly be in anyway redeeming, worthy of lasting through the hell that I’ve been lo these many years.

How crushing to discover you’ve been not only bad, but horrid. Like a haze clearing from an early morning highway, I can see the road ahead, and the carnage I’ve left in my wake, and no amount of apologizing, no amount of trying could ever make it right.

And that scares me, as does the image of my future, bereft of those I love.

I’ve made changes. I know that if I stick to this path, my future is open and wide and full of love. But it’s hard, and I’m frightened of my very easy weakness. I’m frightened of myself.

Reclaiming the Crazy

23 Jan

Went to see El Shrinko today, after three months of rescheduling due to deaths, meetings, general busyness and assholish receptionists. My doctor has THE most passive aggressive receptionist I’ve ever seen. My last few appointments I’ve had to turn down because of work commitments and snow storms, in that order. Last week she called, saying my Dr really wanted to see me, could I come in tomorrow. She had left me a message, so I didn’t call her back since I knew I had to check my calendar at work.

She calls me 2 hours later at home.

Of course I find out the next day that there is no way in hell I can change my day around, so I leave a message cancelling, saying it’s no problem to wait until today. I figured my levels were either low or high, but not really bad, or they’d be insisting.

Well today, the wench calls me in the morning to remind me, which is fine. Then she adds “Oh, so you’re actually coming this time?”

If I could have reached through the phone to throttle her, I would have.

Then I make it to the appointment, only to have my doctor be 30 mins late anyway. I know these things happen, but after dealing with Miss. Bitch, I was annoyed. So I let my doctor know just how irritating this woman is, mentioning that if I was, oh, I don’t know, really depressed, being treated the way this woman treats people would NOT HELP AT ALL.

The doctor didn’t seem surprised, which kinda weirded me out truthfully.

But really-you work at a mental health center. One would think that you would be a little more empathetic and kind. And that you’d realize that not all crazy people are on welfare with nothing to do. Hell, I’d imagine even people on disability or welfare have things to do other than jump when their doctor has an open appointment.

But I digress.

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I’m a little hypo-manic lately, have been for about 2 weeks now. Nothing major, but enough that when she told me my levels were off, I wasn’t surprised. My appetite is up again, I was down at Christmas, I’m talkative as all get out-I know something was up. But I enjoy my sessions more when I am a bit manic because then we get past the “Woe is me-the sky is falling” scenario, and just talk.

I started blathering on about something, maybe about how crazy can’t talk to crazy about things (referring to how 2 crazy people don’t make sanity) and she immediately got excited.

“You’re not crazy!!!”

I stopped and stared at her. “Erm, yeah I kinda am. I mean, I’m not bag lady hiding dead squirrels under the buggy crazy, but I am mentally ill.”

“But you aren’t crazy!” she seemed offended, really bothered that I’d refer to myself this way. ” And you sound like you like saying you’re crazy!”

I tried to explain to her my philosophy of reclaiming the crazy. I’ve had other mentally ill individuals take umbrage with my matter of fact usage of the word crazy, and frankly, I don’t care.

It’s important to me to stand up and say “This is what crazy looks like. This is what mentally ill really is. Not necessarily dirty and homeless. Sometimes, just like you, just like your mother, or your teachers or your nurses. We ARE you.”

I’m tired of crazy being relegated to this Victorian idea of asylums and electroshock therapy. I’m tired of people being ashamed of having a disease over which they hold no control in it’s happening. You can, to some degree, outwit cancer, heart disease. Live well, exercise, yadda yadda yadda. Mental illness? You can’t eat your way away from crazy. It is something you have, period. And yet we act like somehow it’s a person’s fault, that they could have done something, that they are lesser beings because of a defect in their brain. Why the value judgement? Why blame the victim? Who is that serving?

I use the word “Crazy” because you recognize that. In your mind, when I say crazy, you form a specific mental image of what and who crazy it. I want to be your cognitive dissonance. I want you to have a new picture, a new understanding. I want to alter the ways in which you, and the people around me, handle a crazy in your midst.

It’s quite simple actually. Treat us like we’re real. Treat us like we matter. Treat us like you would have if you had no idea that we were crazy.

My doctor looked surprised over my little manifesto, and asked who I tell about my bipolar.

“Everyone.” I said. “I tell everyone, so maybe they’ll start to get it.”

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There is no easy way to changing the public perception of mental illness. I mean, there are still millions of men who think women were put on this earth to serve them-we’re not going to change anything overnight. But with perceptions going from “Village Idiot” to ‘Autistic’, people are beginning to see that for those of us afflicted, we aren’t just putting it on for fun. (And really, who would do this for fun? I have this and I don’t want it. I’d give it away in a heartbeat) Many of you aren’t able to be as open as I am, for various reasons ranging from “I just don’t want to” to “I’d be fired”. I hate that you can’t, and I feel driven in someways to put it out there for you.

If I can help one person understand, if I can comfort one person who’s going where I’ve been, then it’s worth my time and effort. If I change someones mindset, and they go on to support a spouse, a sibling, a parent, then I’ve done at least a little good in the world.

And I will have reclaimed Crazy, and made it something to be proud of.