Deep Dark Place

Does anybody out there understand?  Isn't there anyone who can relate?  My logical mind assures me of the truth... that I have kindred spirits all over the world.  But my emotional mind tells me that I am truly alone in my quiet dark place.

Is there anyone out there?  Reach out and let me know that you exist, and that you know that I exist.  Together, we can tell the world what it really feels like.

It feels like this:

• I don't want to be alone, but I want everyone to leave me alone.
• I don't want anyone to say anything, but I need someone to say something.
• I love you all with everything that's in me, but I hate you all so much right now.
• I want you to tell me that you love me, but we know that I won't believe you when you say it, because I just don't feel it.  It's not your fault.  I can't seem to feel anything right now.
• I would never purposefully do anything to hurt myself, but I dream that some fateful accident would occur, to take this all away.
• There's so much that I have to do (daily chores), and I'm terrified of you discovering that I haven't done any of it.  You'll think I'm lazy, selfish, irresponsible.
• There's so much that I want to do (writing, crafting, gaming, communicating), but I can't bring myself to really want to do any of it.
• I'm certain that there's a devastating accident just waiting to happen, that will tear all of you (or any one of you) out of my life, and I can't get the visions of it out of my mind.  I can't imagine how I'm going to carry on without you, but I can't stop imagining it!
• You've not given me a reason not to trust you, but I'm absolutely certain that you're lying to me, and laughing behind my back, at how gullible I am.
• How can I be rolling around in so many feelings... and yet feel so numb?
• I'm convinced that some incurable illness is silently killing me right now.
• I'm hot, so I put on a cool, sleeveless shirt.  Then I'm cold, so I put on a sweater.  Then I'm hot, so I put on the air conditioning.  Then I'm cold again.
• I'm so hungry, and I have so little energy, but I can't even stomach the idea of food.

I could probably go on and on, but what would be the point?  I think, perhaps, the point has been made.  Please tell me I'm not alone.

The Times, They Are A-Changing

So, anyone who has been reading lately, has probably figured out that I've been in a manic phase, as evidenced by my sudden daily postings ... after months of inactivity.  I've even created associated Google and Twitter accounts.  Several of the recent posts have revolved around sexuality, and been written in a somewhat explicit manner.  I hope I haven't offended anyone.  I'm just trying to be as open and honest as I can possibly be.  Ha Ha, open and honest!  Isn't that a funny thing for a secret woman to say while writing a secret journal?

Anyway, the times they are a changing.  I started feeling a little different about two days ago.  My husband and I have been skipping the hot sex, and have just been snacking, and watching television, until we fall asleep.  Yesterday I found that I couldn't concentrate on a blog post. It didn't matter much because I didn't really feel much like writing anyway.  


I was also quite irritable, as I had some errands to run, and my anxiety about leaving the house is kicking up.  This particular anxiety acts up from time to time.  Many years ago, the second in a short line of psychiatrists thought she had hit the nail on the head by diagnosing me with Agoraphobia, after a mere two visits.  Well, considering my behavior at that time, I guess it was a reasonable assumption, but that's a story for another time.   


I happen to think it's quite a rational anxiety, considering that I'm embarking on an adventure in transitioning.  Part of it has to do with my inability to concentrate.  As opposed to my regular, slightly dizzy personality, during this time I become sort of childlike ... as in feeling meek and lost in this great big scary world.  It takes all of willpower, not to operate the vehicle, but to remember where I'm going and how to get there.  I had a moment, while staring at items on a shelf at the grocery store, when I began to panic at the random thought that I might not even be fully dressed.  Don't worry, I was.  With thoughts like that, isn't it reasonable that I would just want to stay home?


By the time I got back home, I was snapping at the kids, and then having to come up with reasons why.  "You didn't clean the microwave".  I could have just explained the situation to them, but even they know all about my issues, I think they forget, because I'm pretty good at keeping it all together.  At least on the outside.       


I wish I could just stay in my safe place, and spend the next few weeks nestled down in my comfort zone.

I've Got A Disease

It leaves a stain on every one of my good days.
But I am stronger than you know, and I have to let it go.
Feels like it's making a mess.
I'm hell on wheels in a black dress.
Well, I think that I'm sick.
I've got a disease, deep inside me,
Makes me feel uneasy.
I can't live without it,
Tell me what am I supposed to do about it?
Keep your distance from me, don't pay no attention to me... I got a disease.
It's called Bipolar Disorder.

Maybe I'm Crazy... Probably

When everything that you thought you were supposed to know about the world ... changes ... there is no safe place to go, but within your own mind.  "There was something so pleasant about that place. Even your emotions had an echo, and so much space".  "Well, out there, yeah, I was out of touch.  But it wasn't because I didn't know enough, I just knew too much".  If the innocence in your spirit has been damaged in some way, then you, indeed, know too much.  You've seen the darker side to reality.  But that kind of crazy can also bring a wealth of knowledge.  You're perception of life is changed, and you can see many things a lot clearer in the end.  When you've stared Crazy in the face, it becomes that much easier to recognize Crazy in others.

Mania Made Me Do It

I have found that "mania" has a life of it's own, in a world of it's own.  Like being an alternate personality in an alternate universe.  No two are ever the same, although they sometimes share similar characteristics. 

I can't tell you when I had my first manic episode.  But I can tell you about the strange thoughts that have come over me, throughout life, and the ways that I acted on them.  Like the time that I thought I was under government surveillance for about two months.   I had begun to take notice of white vehicles with tinted windows.  They were everywhere I went, all around me.  White vans, SUVs, sedans... any make, any model... and they all had dark tinted windows.  They were watching me, following me.  I knew, at any moment, a dozen men were going to pop out from somewhere that I least expected, and take me away.  I didn't know why they would want me, but I must've done something criminal, because there they were.  White vehicles, in the parking lot of my apartment complex, in the neighborhood as I walked my children to school, at the grocery store, and the doctor's office, and beside me at the red light.  I was afraid to go outside, to answer my phone, to look out the window.  Luckily, this irrational fear came with an enormous embarrassment.  I didn't want anyone I knew to know that I was a wanted woman, so I kept it all very secret.  Hiding my paranoia, and continuing on with life as usual, pretending that I wasn't completely freaked out every minute of the day, until the day came that I forgot all about white vans with tinted windows, and FBI agents.  Then another day came when I remembered what it was that I had forgotten.  And I laughed at myself, for being so crazy. 

I can tell you about the time when I referred to myself in third person, feeling very much like I had been possessed by a higher being... an angel of God.  I was just a kid, though, in middle school, and I had always been kind of a weird kid.  I don't know, maybe I was just desperate for attention.  I don't even recall the day it stopped, but for several weeks I spoke very softly, and talked a lot about my boss, "JC". 

Manic periods, for me, can also bring on a period of hyper-sexuality, which I (and my husband) thoroughly enjoy.  But ... and I know it's hard to believe... but there are pitfalls to this, that require skill and dedication to avoid.  Before I met my husband, and began learning to control my behaviors, I had fallen into the pits of promiscuity, cheating, and indiscriminate fantasy play.  It took a long time to overcome the guilt and shame I harbored because of them.


Another symptom of my manic periods is actually quite productive, and enjoyable.  The energy burst, and the explosion of creativity usually leads to an assortment of projects.  I'll tear a room apart, repaint, clean, reorganize, and redecorate.  I'll pull out my crafting supplies and design a new necklace, mosaic, needle craft, or candle.  I'll write one or two chapters of an epic novel, or go back and work on the ones I've already started.  I'll start a new blog, or make several posts on the ones I already publish.  It all goes well, until the multitude of ideas overcrowds the space in my head, and I struggle to keep up with all of my on going projects.

Warning: crash ahead, expect delays. 

In Good Company

When I was twenty one, I was diagnosed by a mental health professional (my second in a list of four) with having moderate agoraphobia. This was later classified as a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

When I was twenty nine, I was diagnosed by the third professional as having Borderline Personality Disorder, later modified to Bipolar. My symptoms were classified as severe Chemical Depression, severe Social and General Anxiety Disorder, and mild Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Being properly diagnosed elated me, but living with these disorders can be disheartening. So I thought I'd share with you a list of celebrated others, who have also been properly diagnosed and talked openly about their afflictions, OR who are thought (by scholars, historians, and health professionals) to have had manic depression, schizophrenia, or some other form of mental/emotional disability.

If you can relate to nay of these issues, you must know... not only are we not alone, but we are in good company.

Axl Rose, musician
Maurice Bernard, actor
Margot Kidder, actress
Carrie Fisher, actress, author
Charles Dickens, author
F. Scott Fitzgerald, author
DMX, musician
Rosemary Clooney, actress and vocalist
Russell Brand, comedian and actor
Adam Ant, musician
Ludwig Boltzmann, physicist and mathematician
Sir Isaac Newton, physicist
Ozzy Osbourne, musician
Jane Pauley, journalist
Vincent Van Gogh, artist
Pete Wentz, musician
Mark Twain, author
Peter Gabriel, musician
Earnest Hemingway, author
Kurt Cobain, musician

There are so many more. Please visit "Wikipedia: People Affected By Bipolar Disorder" for a more detailed list.

Medicated

Upon the diagnosis of BiPolar Disorder, my therapist referred me to a psychiatrist to verify her findings, and to start me on the common pharmaceuticals.  The psychiatrist bore a striking resemblance to Dr. Sydney Freeman, the Sigmund Freud protege from the television series, MASH.  I liked him for this, feeling almost starstruck.

After a complete workup from him, I was off to the pharmacy!  My life's unworthiness, unhappiness, instability, and overall general craziness could be cleared up with a tiny little pill, called Zoloft.    The first two weeks were not what I expected at all.  Even though both doctors explained how Zoloft would not begin working immediately.  It takes about two weeks to really get into my system and have it's desired effect on my brain. They warned me of the side effects that could occur, but when you're in the middle of the worst, skull splitting headache, and the most uncontrollable crying jag, one tends to forget what warnings they've been given.  Being bipolar, and somewhat of a hypochondriac, I went to my regular doctor to be diagnosed with an unexpected brain tumor.  No such growth.  She patted me on the back, and reminded me of the side effects of Zoloft.  Brief increased depression, and headaches being the top two.
So I suffered, and silently wondered what I had gotten myself into.  And then, that first morning came, when I woke up, and my eyes were finally opened, and not just literally.  I felt relaxed and confident that my husband was truly at work, and not philandering around town with a hitch hiker he may have picked up, or his female boss or coworker, or the clerk at the gas station... or any number of floosies I constantly imagined he was with.  I suddenly knew that the laughter on my neighbor's porch wasn't directed at me on mine, but really was due to the antics of the cute little puppy they had just brought home.  The reflection in my mirror, was so very similar to the many millions of normal looking women around this world.  It occurred to me that I really was loved by family and friends.  Why shouldn't I be, after all?  I was worthy.
For several months, I could breath easily, and life was good.  My sails were full of this Zoloft wind, and I glided happily along.  I hadn't even realized that I was sailing right into a full blown manic episode.  Probably because this one was different, full of confidence and security.  I delved into craft work, my fingers tirelessly threading and sewing until they blistered.  I branched out into online social networks and surrounded myself with a circle of friends and became intertwined with their personal dramas, through all hours of the night.  I was up at dawn, and out in the garden, trying to raise roses out of the sand, and wrestle peppers out of the mouths of our overpopulated squirrels.  I became notorious in my family for rearranging three rooms of furniture, painting the walls, baking some cookies, creating a woven basket, and having a home manicure in one afternoon... while chatting online the whole time! 
It was the most fabulous summer I had had in a very long time.  The ideas and ambition came effortlessly, and kept right on coming, until it all started coming to fast, and I couldn't keep up.  Before I could even begin work on my first notion, my mind was already working on a plan for the third.  And when I could no longer keep up, I began feeling useless.  I slept later and later in the mornings, I watched the soaps all day, and turned my husband away at night.  My crafting supplies gathered dust, the squirrels ate the garden, and I pushed all of my chat room buddies away.  But I didn't cry.  That was different.  Instead I became irritable.  And I began to notice that, for months, every time I felt the slightest anger, even if it was warranted, my husband's first response was "did you take your medication today?".  I got so sick of hearing that phrase, that I decided to quit.  I'd rather be angry and own it, than be a prisoner of the pills. 
I've been out of treatment for eight years now, and have been doing okay.  Not great, but okay.  I had learned enough about behavior and thought control from my therapist, that I can recognize many symptoms as they set in, and with some help from my family, I can guide my reactions in healthier directions.  Some days I do consider returning to medication, but I still fear losing my identity and validity.  I do long for therapy again, but even with my insurance plan, it's just too expensive.  In the meantime, I just keep on keeping on.  That's all anybody can ever really do.

Knowing is Half The Battle

I had no idea that my therapist was that strong. I don't think she knew her own bionic power either. But the moment that she confirmed my diagnosis, the weight of a heavy planet was lifted clear off of my shoulders. There was a release, and a lightening that suddenly allowed me to stand upright, and walk with my head held higher than ever before. For several hours afterward, the one notion that displaced every other thought in my mind was "It isn't me."

Now, of course, it was me. The horrible choices I had been making for all those years were mine. The angry outbursts, and the relentless crying jags were my own. It was my arm that had once bared the scars of secret cutting sessions, that I alone had performed. However, in another sense, it wasn't me. It wasn't my fault. I hadn't merely been immature and irresponsible, selfish and self absorbed, or even lazy. It was something so much more important than any of that. It was a true physical, chemical, biological ailment. The people who could never understand me could certainly, and easily, understand my illness. Manic Depression ... Bipolar Disorder.

In the previous decade, it was an idea that seemed to come out of left field, and was often dismissed by most of the experts out in right field. Newly diagnosed sufferers were warily interviewed on the daytime talk circuit. Some were accused of lying or exaggerating their symptoms, looking for attention and sympathy. Some were feared, and seen as being just plain crazy. Some still, were accused of foolish naivety, for falling for some "mind bender's" latest get rich quick scheme. It was a difficult concept to understand at that time. Society was just coming into the psychological age, finally understanding the fragile human mind. People were embracing the idea that mental illness could be successfully treated through medication and therapy, allowing it's victims to live full and fulfilling lives. Despite this new open mindedness, it seemed that people could only embrace the well known, and accepted illnesses, and made little room for new and unknown diagnoses.

That was then. This was a new decade. It was an up and coming disorder, and the mainstream media was just beginning to talk about it with serious interest. Information was abound, and medications were emerging. There was no more shame in having a mental impairment. So, it was with great enthusiasm that I called my friends, and members of my family, to announce the wonderful news. I shared it with my chat room buddies, and joined online support groups to talk about it. I came just shy of shouting it out to the world, from my front porch!

As liberating as it is, knowing isn't the cure. My symptoms didn't suddenly cease. I still had medications to experiment with. There was an undefined number of therapy sessions to come. I still needed to be educated about the illness, and learn how to cope and retrain my patterns of thinking, and feeling. For me, all that was beside the point. The hurdle had been jumped, and I didn't see how the rest of the track could be anything less than smooth sailing.

It's The Not Knowing That Hurts

Since my early pre-teen years, I knew that something wasn't right. I just always thought it was me. I wasn't right. In fact, I was just plain wrong. My hair was wrong, my skin was wrong, my eyes, my nose, the way I walked, talked, laughed, behaved, and felt inside my body. Overall, I was simply the wrong organism to be existing on this planet. I thought that I must've been switched with a human soul at the moment of my cosmic birth.

As I grew, my feelings only intensified, and grew into a deep paranoia. Everywhere I went, I could feel the eyes of strangers watching me, awed and disgusted by this creature with whom they were forced to share the Earth. Every whisper that floated through the air, was about me. Every chuckle, was a private joke at my expense. Family, and the people I called 'friends' were merely tolerating my presence in their lives. And I was certain that someone, somewhere, was constantly plotting to disrupt every attempt I made at normalcy, and were probably even recruiting every other person who did, might, or would someday know me.

The years went on, and I came to accept my fate. I assimilated into society, and at times, I truly felt that some miraculous change had occurred. I dared to dream that I had been occasionally accepted, and could lend myself to the possibility of being included in the beautiful commonality of the human race. Of course, these moments of triumph were punctuated by the inevitable recognition that I was still a 'nothing'. Out of anger and depression, I was often reckless and rebellious. There was heavy experimentation with alcohol, and the dangerous situations that accompanied that behavior. There was sexual promiscuity, and the dangerous situations and predicaments that accompanied that behavior. Although I cannot presume to speak for others, it's reasonable to think that no one understood the whys and whats about me. I was labeled, by the people closest to me, as immature, irresponsible, lazy, selfish, and self absorbed. Gee, what's that old saying about fuel, and a fire?

My only comfort was the wash of calm peace that came when I wished for death. I wrote endless songs and poetry of sweet permanent slumber. I even received commendations for my 'natural talent' and 'skill with language'. Though no one was ever able, or willing, to look into the deep end of my literary pool, through it's unmistakable transparency, and interpret my prose into it's obvious definition: help. Perhaps, I was just not worth their effort. It goes without saying, but I'll reiterate; my life was unbearable, and at that point, I was barely reaching the recognized age of adulthood. The ensuing phases of life brought no alleviation of the pain, and loneliness. I merely developed an exquisite expertise in masking my internal hardships, through two marriages, and motherhood.

After several years, it happened one day, that I suddenly had a realization to the endless cycle I was experiencing. Weeks of abusive internal dialogue, melancholic crying spells, and angry mood swings would melt into weeks of joyous, exhilarated love of life, that generously bestowed upon me the gifts of creativity, energy, and insight, only to revert once again. Finally making the declaration that something was not right with me, I agreed to seek professional advice. After several sessions, and some personality testing, I was diagnosed as Manic Depressive. I was thirty years old, and it was the best year of my life.