Thursday, June 14, 2018

This post is not directed at anyone specific...

I'm tired of you telling me how strong I am.

I'm not.

Not an ounce of strong resides in this body.

Sometimes, for reasons unknown, I'll leave the room and have a silent cry.

Is that what makes me strong?

The idea that I can have a total meltdown without making a sound?

That I can return to the room and you have no idea how weak I actually am?

If only you could hear the racing thoughts making laps in my head.

Constant addition in milligrams and ounces.

Constant wondering of how high is that structure.

Constant planning of when and where.


I'm as weak as they come.

I get that sometimes you're unsure of what to say to me so you turn to building me up.

You don't realize that sometimes it does a hell of a lot more harm than good.

I say thank you because it's the right thing to do, but I'm really trying to just move it along.

What does strength really have to do with getting through day after day with Bipolar Disorder?

It's not strength.

I call it powering through.

Everything in my life is a struggle right now.

Telling me how strong I am makes me feel weaker than ever.

Do you even know what I'm going through?

Do you know what my illness is?

Do you realize I'm going to have this forever?

Bipolar depression isn't situational.

Bipolar (hypo) mania isn't fun.

Bipolar Disorder is medication (I've tried over 30), therapy, ECT (10 years of my memory has been erased), hospitalizations, suicide attempts (sometimes successful), crisis hotlines, not wanting to take care of yourself, not wanting to cook or clean or leave the house, severe depression, mania (it isn't always creativity--sometimes it's anger), avoiding friends and family, irritability, careless spending, reckless behavior, anxiety (sometimes crippling), zero concentration, and on and on and on. 

I know you're trying.

But I also know, if you tried harder, you'd get it right.

Disclosure: Of course not everyone with BD experiences the same symptoms, gets the same treatments, feels the way I do. This is my perception. 

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Untitled -- Read With Caution

I woke up sobbing again last night. It's happening more and more. This time was different. This time I was watching a movie, based on a true story, and it fucked me up.

I was in my dining room talking to my husband in the next room over. I looked into the mirror on the wall and saw myself behind me. I was hanging from the chandelier, legs swaying back and forth. I was dead by my own hand. This time it was a reality and not just a vision of what could be.

I began crying and couldn't catch my breath. I looked at my husband, who knew the person standing before him wasn't actually his wife. I looked him in the eye and he screamed, "I know!"

From then on, I was no longer there. I was hovering above watching; listening.

My kids.

My kids.

My funeral.

The sadness.

My sadness.


I know what needs to be done. There's just a lot happening. More than I can explain. I'll figure it out.

I need to say this's not like going to the hospital is a cure-all. Perhaps the right one may be but most aren't. Life keeps happening while on the inside. And once you're discharged? Everyday life is the same. You jump right back in. It's not like you have access to another week of learning how to make life work for you again. You just go back to the way it was and it doesn't help. It's rather pointless.

People who die by suicide aren't selfish. They just want the pain to go away. They would take it being even a little lighter at first. The pain and the pressure inside wants to detonate.

Those thinking about death by suicide aren't selfish either. We spend every minute of every day thinking how our spouses and our kids will get on without us. We think about telling our spouses to tell the kids our death was an accident so they don't carry the guilt forever. But then we realize that's a lot to ask for.

This isn't the easy way out.

Monday, June 4, 2018

It's Always the Same

I don't know if what I sense is really happening or if I'm paranoid.

I feel like I'm being pushed away; out of lives.

Maybe I'm the one doing the pushing?

Sometimes I need more attention.

Then when I get it, I tense up, and want to be left alone.

A permanent lump has taken up residence in my throat.

Crying isn't something I like to do; doesn't make me feel relief.

I don't feel much of anything anymore.

On occasion, I feel too much.

Sleep is broken. Needed. Craved.

Yet, I often wake up too early so I don't miss out on anything.

I can't sit still.

My limbs ache and my joints feel twisted.

The anger. The rage. The accusations.

Sometimes it can't get be forgiven; it definitely cannot be erased.

Why do I keep ending up here?