Remembering as a Way to Start NaBloPoMo 2014 — Be a Pepper

The following post is actually a page on my blog that describes my journey with Bipolar I, PTSD, and Eating Disorder NOS.  At the start of NaBloPoMo, November 1st, I want myself and anyone reading to be reminded that mental health recovery is a life-long process.  I am currently going through a very difficult time, as indicated in the posts prior to and after this one will show.  And lately I have given a lot of thought to giving up, and then I read this and was reminded how far I have come.

The Story and the Stigma

POSTED ON APRIL 6, 2014 BY ROSE

Throughout grade school, middle school, and high school, I earned top grades.  I wasn’t the valedictorian, but I gave the high school commencement address, and I rocked it.  People on the outside saw a high-achieving, confident person.  Inside, I was fighting bipolar disorder, crushing anxiety, and an eating disorder.  No one knew, and I didn’t tell them.  I was afraid of what people would think.

When I went off to college, I went somewhere small, about an hour away from home, with the unsaid statement that I couldn’t go far away and succed; not without support.  Not without trips home every weekend.  I accepted it, and as time went on, I learned they were right.

I excelled at this small college, changing my major from pre-med to psychology after a horrific first semester in science classes that I couldn’t wrap my mind around.  I was depressed.  I had stopped taking my medication.  I think everyone knew that, and that summer, Mom tried to get me help again.

Every summer, actually, Mom would try to get me help again.  I would always participate, but then go off my meds as soon as I came back to school.  It was an ugly cycle, and it pains me to this day that I went through it.  But I didn’t want anyone to know what I was going through.  No one knew I had bipolar disorder, outside of my aunt who worked in the counseling center and my academic advisor, who was more like a surrogate mother.

My senior year, I was applying for Ph.D. programs that combined psychology and the law.  Forensic psychology, it was called.  I went on interviews.  Costly interviews.  They bore no fruit because I acted absolutely crazy when I went to these colleges.  They saw through me and saw that I was very ill.

After college and after failing to get into any kind of graduate program, I started working as a mental health technician on an Eating Disorders Unit (EDU) at a local hospital.  As a person living with bulimia, this was a bad choice.  I wasn’t on medication, I was drinking a lot, and I started to gain weight.  I was also working PRN at another hospital as a mental health tech.

I became manic.  Several days a week, I would work 7:30-4 at the EDU and then 5-12 at the other hospital.  A lot of the reason I did this was to stay away from Joe, my abusive boyfriend that I was living with.  All that working didn’t keep his hands off my body, or his reigns of terror on my psyche absent.  I became suicidal.

I moved out of Joe’s house and into my own apartment.  I picked up a boyfriend, almost literally off the streets, and continued to drink heavily and work many  hours.  Eventually, I completely cracked.  I quit drinking and I started seeing a psychiatrist.  When things didn’t level out quickly enough, my parents brought me back to live with them in the little city.

After a few months, I had a job and I moved back out.  I was working as a case manager with the mentally ill.  My caseload was loaded with the sickest of the sick.  It was a very stressful job and I didn’t fare well.  I was written up numerous times for poor attendance and tardiness.  I eventually left that job, three  years later, on FMLA because I had really lost it and couldn’t work.

I did an intensive outpatient program and started to feel better.  After about a year, I was hired at the local prison to work with the mentally ill on things like obtaining disability and getting services set up in the community.  Here, I was constantly being written up and warned about my attendance and lack of punctuality.  I was very depressed, I was very manic, I was very anxious.  I was always very something.  I did good work, though, and even won awards.  My boss liked to say that I’d outwork anybody, as long as I came in that day.

Eventually pressure built up again and I was very ill.  I went on FMLA and had to resign because there was no way I could come back to work.  My mom saw a pattern in my work and educational history, and talked with my doctors and therapist about filing for SSDI.

I couldn’t see a life without work, but I filed anyway.  We applied April of 2012 and it was awarded June or July of the same year.  This quick answer, with no questions or rebuttals, confirmed to me that, while I might feel like I could work, the powers that be disagreed.  SSA, my parents, my doctors, my therapist all concurred — Rose can’t manage full-time employment.

So here I stand, at the bait shop.  SSDI checks coming in and working about 20 hours per week at an extremely low-stress job, so that I can function on a daily basis.  I moved from high-achieving college student, pursuing a Ph.D., to a cashier and bait slinger.  How far we fall, right?

What I can say now, however, is that I’m happy.  I am truly, genuinely living a life worth living.  It’s not always easy and there are many bad days.  Not enough sunlight or getting my sleep schedule thrown off can put me in a tailspin.  If I stick to my structure, to my routine, use my DBT skills, and employ my support system, I do pretty well.  I even like my job in the bait store, slinging bait, ringing people up, and keeping track of files and paperwork.

People who knew me way back when may not recognize or understand who I am now.  I generally don’t give them that luxury, either.  There is a very difficult stigma surrounding mental illness, and additionally surrounding young people being on SSDI.  I tell only those I trust, and only those who I think will have an either neutral or positive response.

What you see isn’t always what you get.  There is more to me than bipolar and depression and anxiety.  If I had high blood pressure and diabetes, you wouldn’t shame me, now would you?  The unfortunate truth is that you will likely never know who I am and what I go through.  I would rather you not know me than be shamed for having illnesses that came to me through no fault of my own.

Who I Am

Here we are, Day 37 post DSB-break-up.  I couldn’t be more thrilled with my new-found freedom, spare time, lack of anxiety, and re-connection with family.  I mean thrilled, over-the-moon.  What I am less thrilled with is the basic and simple fact that I have to work, REALLY HARD, at figuring out this new life again.

You know, what it means to be single, to not be tied down.  While I used to have a very rigid schedule, everything is very loose now.  It bothers me, to a degree.  I feel like I am reinventing Rosa, and in a way, I guess I am.  The Rosa of the past two years put up with way too much shit, had her self-esteem slowly chipped away, and mentally blocked out all of the “wrongness” that was the relationship with DSB.

But I see it now.  I see it clearly.  I see where I should have stood my ground, made different choices, forced him to leave much earlier in the game.  The minute he tried keeping me from my family, or badmouthing them, I should have ended it.  I didn’t, and I have nightmares about it, frankly.  About how I gave up my family for a relationship that really wasn’t all that great, or healthy.

 

I feel a lot of shame, am actually really burdened down by shame and guilt.  The Rosa of the last two years is not the Rosa I want to be.  And I’m changing things, sometimes in little steps, sometimes in huge leaps of faith.  It’s hard, though.  I have great family and friend support, but I am lacking something.  I think I know what it is, but I’m not positive.  What I think I am facing is a deep sense of uncertainty and insecurity.

Because I feel like I’m reinventing myself, I also feel like I don’t know who I really am.  I’m uncertain about what I like and don’t like, what I will put up with and I won’t.  I worry that my reactions to certain things are either over-the-top or not intense enough.  I feel wildly varying emotions about so many issues, so many people, so many subjects, and just so many things.  And along with that, I have had two cycles in the past month, and just when I’m feeling good, something crops up and I feel like all the progress I have made has been obliterated.

I’m not saying that’s how it is, but just that it FEELS that way.  I feel lost a lot of the time, and a lot of the time I’m putting on a happy face when inside I’m in a rage about something or I’m so agitated I can barely focus on what it is I’m supposed to be doing.  Lost.  Lost.  Lost.  I am like a ship out at sea that has lost it’s navigational system.  No way back to dry land, to safety.  But isn’t it safe HERE?  NOW?

I am good with life changing, but it seems so huge, so dramatic.  I feel like a totally different person now than when I was with DSB.  It feels good to be able to do what I want to be, but there is so much uncertainty now.  Before, I knew where I had to be at what times and what I was supposed to be doing.  Now, there is no plan, there is no schedule.  I’m living life flying by the seat of my pants and it terrifies me.  I don’t feel secure in this person I am trying to be and I feel very unsure about what I should be doing on a minute-to-minute basis.  Before, it was all planned out and orchestrated.  Now, well, like I said!  Seat of your pants!

When this song first came out, my grandpa had passed, but my grandma was still around.  I’d substitute Grandma’s name for the one in the song, and the line about looking like my dad and momma being my biggest fan were (and still are) SO TRUE.  This song really grounded me during a time where, again, I didn’t know who I was.  I’ve listened to it four times now on repeat, after writing everything above (which frankly, needed to come out either way), and it is grounding me again, like it once did back when times were rough.

If I live to be a hundred
And never see the seven wonders
That’ll be alright
If I don’t make it to the big leagues
If I never win a Grammy
I’m gonna be just fine
Cause I know exactly who I am

I am Rosemary’s granddaughter
The spitting image of my father
And when the day is done my momma’s still my biggest fan
Sometimes I’m clueless and I’m clumsy
But I’ve got friends that love me
And they know just where I stand
It’s all a part of me
And that’s who I am

So when I make a big mistake
And when I fall flat on my face
I know I’ll be alright
Should my tender heart be broken
I will cry those teardrops knowing
I will be just fine
Cause nothing changes who I am

I am Rosemary’s granddaughter
The spitting image of my father
And when the day is done my momma’s still my biggest fan
Sometimes I’m clueless and I’m clumsy
But I’ve got friends that love me
And they know just where I stand
It’s all a part of me
And that’s who I am

I’m a saint and I’m a sinner
I’m a loser; I’m a winner
I am steady and unstable
I’m young, but I am able

I am Rosemary’s granddaughter
The spitting image of my father
And when the day is done my momma’s still my biggest fan
Sometimes I’m clueless and I’m clumsy
But I’ve got friends that love me
And they know where I stand
It’s all a part of me
And that’s who I am

I am Rosemary’s granddaughter
The spitting image of my father
And when the day is done my momma’s still my biggest fan
Sometimes I’m clueless and I’m clumsy
But I’ve got friends that love me
And they know where I stand
It’s all a part of me
And that’s who I am
That’s who I am

 

 

When He Won’t Seek Help

We’ve probably all been there.  Had a significant other, going through a tough time.  Perhaps they have a mental illness, or a serious physical illness.  Perhaps they don’t have any sort of illness, but life has them flailing.  As a concerned significant other — what do you do?

The first step is probably to wring your hands and worry about it a a bit first, before acting.  It’s quite possible that, while you’re wringing your hands and doing the “polite” thing and not saying anything, their situation is getting either better or worse.  If the situation is resolving itself on it’s own, then your boyfriend is lucky.  If the situation is getting worse, you tell yourself that they will surely seek help.

When it is said, “seek help”, that means help of any sort.  Perhaps they will come to you with their problem, their struggle, and ask you to listen.  You may have some knowledge of what they are going through, having gone through it yourself or having someone close to you  who has struggled in the same way.

Perhaps the problem is out of the bounds of what a layman can do, and they seek professional help.  A therapist, their primary care physician, an internist, a specialist, a member of their ministry.  Someone, hopefully the right someone, who can  help them with this problem.

What is more likely is that your significant other, or whatever  he is to you at this point, does not seek professional help.  Instead, there is denial that there is a problem, and you get your head bitten off for suggesting a call to the ol’ PCP is in order.

There may be Googling of symptoms and WebMD may lead your boyfriend to self-diagnose.  No one should ever diagnose themselves from WebMD.  It is a very bad idea, and they have a disclaimer on their website.

Perhaps your significant other has no insurance.  Perhaps they are unable to take a sick day to go see a specialist.  Perhaps the driveway is blocked with snow and they are unable to receive this much-needed attention.

So you, the significant other, has resorted back to a wringing of hands and worry mode.  Your mental health might start to suffer.  You might start to take those Klonopin PRN’s and find yourself wanting to stay away from home, because there is so much tension with this person who refuses to seek help.

He gets sicker and sicker, in body, in mind, in spirit.  You almost don’t recognize him anymore, for all the pain he is going through.  Your back and feet and head are killing you for the constant waiting on hand and foot, all the while working your regular job and trying to run your household.  The stress is breaking you.

It gets to a point, that he is so sick, even he has to admit it.  He admits it, but does not seek help, choosing instead to wait and see if things subside.  You are a party to all of that because, well, you live together and you are taking care of his every need.  Anticipating things that might go wrong and trying to veer things onto an even course, which he doesn’t let you do, because control is always his, even in this.

He has so many physical symptoms, and they’re getting so much worse, that you start waking up at night to make sure he’s still breathing.  Your mind turns over and over, with the thought that he is getting ready to die, and probably will, in your bed.  With the certainty that what is going on could kill him, you tiptoe around on eggshells, but you are never allowed to say what you are thinking, because you don’t poke spears at a sleeping lion.

The day comes, when you realize you have memorized his entire (quite lengthy and involved) medication schedule, because you know you will eventually break him into going to the ER.  And you know that he will not know these things, along with the fact that he might not physically be able to do so, due to severe pain or shortness of breath or general malaise.

You take charge and you make sure the nurses have the right information, the information that will get him admitted, because that’s where he needs to be.  Of course, blood tests and chest X-trays and CT’s are ordered, because it is very clear, even to your partner, that at this point, there is a very serious problem.

He tells you that he should have gone to the doctor “a week ago.”  It is not in your best interest to point out that you have been suggesting such for the past three.  In fact, it is not in your best interest to do much of anything while waiting for tests to come back.  Including going out to smoke a cigarette, because, well, you know, HE can’t, so why should YOU?

He asks you to go dig for change in your car so he can have a Pepsi, although the closest vending machine is worlds away through a complicated maze of the hospital’s basement floor.  He doesn’t take no for an answer, and when you bring him one from a convenience store, because that was, well, more convenient, he is enraged.

It is not his money, but he cares how you spend it.  In trying to explain that you perhaps spent 20 cents more, he yells at you.  For no reason.  And mutters to himself, “I should have just taken care of this shit myself.  I should never let you do ANYTHING.”

While you try and tell yourself that he is in pain, and that things will be better soon, you are faced with an awful truth.  This is round six in the ER in the past two years, and things are the same as they always have been.  In fact, it’s round two in the past month.  You start to realize that this is not going to get better.

Of course, they admit him, mostly because  you have provided a wealth of information, and then the hospital stay starts.  You shouldn’t smoke while he’s in the hospital, because he can’t.  You shouldn’t eat fast food or do anything “fun” while he’s in the hospital, because he can’t.  You dutifully bring him requested items once, twice, sometimes three times a day.  He is miserable and in pain, he can’t breathe, there is always something and he takes it out on you.

They are ready to discharge him, for the sixth time.  You know he will be coming home to a fairly clean house, because you begged your mother to come help with the mess.  When he arrives, he is critical of how things look, and especially how things smell.  You think it smells clean, and he accuses you of using chemicals to poison him.

You realize, with this sixth hospital admission, that something inside of you broke a little bit.  You realize that you aren’t sure how much longer you can hold on.  You continue to wait on  him hand and foot, but you don’t care as much.  You continue to listen to the ranting and raving when you want to go do something, and still, you’re not able to break free.

And then on the 30th, he’ll tell you about all the plans he has for his money, and none of it include anything for you, including groceries.  Another month in a two year relationship rolls by, in which, you’ve had help with groceries a handful of times.

And then a fight starts.  He screams at you and tells you that you are the most self-centered person he has ever met in his life.  He tells you that your family treats him like dog shit on their shoe and that they are trying to ruin your life.  He tells you that he could have made it through all of that, without your help.

A few more angry words, more yelling on his side.  You ask him, if you really feel that way, why are you still here?  He says, fine, then I’ll go.  And you scream at him, “please motherfucking do!” and cuss  and yell your way out of the house, leaving behind two dogs who are used to the drama, so you can go to your mom’s and get away for awhile.

While at your mom’s, you text him to please plan on sleeping on the couch, and all items need to be removed and him gone by the end of the next day.

Best text message ever sent.

Better

I have been rather annoyed with myself this past week, for not blogging more.  I told myself that it was okay, that I was taking time out to do things that would improve my mental health and lessen the loss of DSB.  I told myself that starting new routines was what I needed to do in order to move on with my life, and, in some ways, that is true.  In some ways, it isn’t.

Not being on a structured schedule, where I have to be home at a certain time, get dinner on the table by a certain time, spend a certain number of hours at home, and so forth — that’s not structure I need, and it’s structure that I’ve kissed goodbye.

I realized that I have really no reason to wake up at 6:00 a.m. every day, or even 7:00 a.m. for that matter.  I therefore do not have to go to bed at 8:00 p.m. or 9:00 p.m.  What this means is that I can stay out (yes, OUT!) later, enjoying the company of my family, nuclear and extended.  It also means that I can stay up until 10:00 p.m. to watch a tv show or watch a movie.  It means that I can go to bed at 10:00 p.m. and it’s ok to  read for another hour or two, if I’m really into my book.

I mainly feel like, before I had all of these contstraints on me and on my time, and now those heavy chains have been unlocked and I have shed them, leaving them far behind.  Doing what I want to do, unfettered by anyone else’s agenda, is lovely.  Being where I want to be, eating what I want to eat, driving where I want to drive.  It’s all quite freeing.

In some ways, I feel like I’m a bit free-floating, and could possibly use some more structure, but I just feel so HAPPY with the way things are going right now, that maybe that part of me that has always held such tight control over having a schedule and having things PLANNED out, is releasing it’s grip a bit.

Regina asks, “if I kissed you where it’s sore, would you feel better, would you feel anything at all?”  The answer is, yes, I have actually already been kissed (by family, by freedom, by living life, by my pup!) where it is sore, and I do feel much, much better.

 

 

When it Officially Fell Apart: 16:30, April 30

Do you ever find you get in the same argument with your significant other, over and over?  There are always promises to do better, to change, to love more and control less.  In our case, they never happened, those promises.  They never bore fruit.

Just fifteen minutes after writing my last post, Uncertainty and Anxiety, I confronted DSB about why he never shows me any affection.  This is a common argument.  He had no answers, but told me I was the most selfish person he had ever met, including his ex-wife.  He said several other degrading things, mean-spirited comments, and then I guess I goaded him into leaving me.  That’s how he puts it.

What happened was more like me asking why he would want to be with someone he felt so negatively about, and him saying “I guess I’ll leave then.”  We’ve had this roundabout discussion numerous times.  If you have so many bad things to say about me, DSB, then why the FUCK are you still here?  I think that’s a valid question.

He said more mean things, and even brought my beloved family into the mix.  After hearing him spew bile about just what he thought about them, and about how my family didn’t care about me, not the way I thought they did, I had enough.  I told him I wanted him out, just as he said he’d be out by tomorrow.

As Dad said, funny how ballsy people who get their checks on the 1st are, right before they get their check.  I agree, Dad.

Do I think he’d been planning this for some time?  Yes and no.  We’ve been trying to make things work, but as my mom pointed out, this was just yet another abusive relationship.  Having to be certain places at certain times, not being able to have company over often, not being “allowed” to go to my mom’s whenever I wanted, having to have “permission” to do so many things.  Controlling.  Very.  Add to that the yelling and the name-calling and the blaming?  Yeah, it’s probably an abusive relationship.

And like an idiot, I let it go on for two years.  Two years of him not paying a single bill, living rent-free, making me do all the w0rk, and trying to keep me from my family.  Badmouthing people I cared about all the time.  Who does that?

I’m now several hours post-breakup and I’m feeling very sad.  I’m crying a lot, thinking about the good times we did have and wondering what I did to fuck that up so badly.  Petting Rascal, who I will probably never see again after tomorrow.  Looking at the one picture he allowed me to take of us, some two years ago.  Remembering how deep those feelings ran, and to a point, still do run.

I feel like I am losing my best friend, but I know that a week or a month down the road, I’ll see things differently.  I know I’ll realize how negative he was for me, how much he hurt me, and mostly, how unloved he made me feel.  Unlovable.  Seems to be my thing.

I guess on an upside, maybe all 0f this anxiety will quiet down.  Maybe I can sleep at night and not be bound to my home, by someone who never wants to go do anything or see anyone or go someplace.  Maybe someday I’ll realize that I’m worth more than that.

But for right now, I’m going to be sad.  It’s the end of the DSB and Rosa era, and we did have some good times.  He did pull me through some bad times, but I don’t owe that to him forever.  I pulled him through some of the worst times in his life, with nary a thank you.  It just seems really sad that what always seemed like a fairytale to me ended how it did.  When he showed who he really was and I failed to speak up when he labeled me things I am not.

I’m sorry this is so all over the place.  I’m really feeling emotionally wrecked right now and I can’t stop crying.  I’ve talked to Mom and the Big Dawg, and I just got off the phone with my dad.  My mom asked me if there was anything she could do.  My dad asked if there was anything he could do.  Other than making this better, fixed, which is not possible, please just say a prayer for strength for me.  If you don’t pray, that’s fine.  Send a shout-out into the Universe or light a candle or chant.  I really don’t care.  I need to find some peace so I can heal, and that doesn’t look too likely, at least for tonight.

It’s all I can do to keep from running in the other room and telling him to stop packing.  I was laying in bed when I heard NCIS: Los Angeles come on.  That was one of OUR shows, and he is in there watching it without me.  This is going to take a lot of getting used to, but it will be easier when he is out of MY house.  MY HOUSE.

Dammit.  There is nothing more to say for right now.  I need to cry some more and then try and get some sleep.  I just wish I could stop crying and suck it up.  Sometimes, even T-women have to cry, right, Madre?  xoxo

 

Moving On: Through and After Abuse

I happened upon this photo quote today and it struck me upside the head, blinding me for a minute.  Could this be true?  Do I get to choose who I want to be?  Of course, there are certain things I strive for, but could I do, ya know, ANYTHING?  If I wanted?

I often feel like I’m the un-cool kid at the party, drinking lemonade from a red Solo cup and hoping no one notices that I’m not getting drunk like they are.  I think I feel that way, because I’ve been there, and I just tend to extend it to other venues.  I want to hang out with the cool kids at their blog.  I want to find funny and inspiring and thought-provoking picture quotes for my little blog.  I want so-and-so to c0mment on my last FB status.

And when one of these things happen?  When one of the cool kids invites me to play?  I nearly shit myself.  But why would you choose me?  Hello there, Ms. Confident!

One of the things that can happen in an abusive relationship, is that your partner convinces you that you are no better than the dog poo on his shoe.  Everything about you is wrong.  Your hair, your friends, your job, your family.  You just suck and don’t really even deserve to live.  No one will want you but me, and I don’t even want you that much.  And as you’re begging and pleading for him to stop whatever the hellish thing is that he’s doing at the moment, you start to believe these things.  At the end of 11 months, he has totally destroyed your self-esteem and anything positive you have ever thought about yourself.

You thought your self-esteem was low before.  Well, yes, of course it was.  It’s partly how you let this go on for so long, you sack of shit!  And then those outer voices turn to inner voices and you start telling yourself that those things are true, plus more.  You have whole rants lined up, on tape, in your head, and you find that your brain wants to play them constantly.

It takes years.  Of therapy, of medication, of being surrounded by people who love you — to get even the smallest bit of relief.  Your belief in your non-existent self-worth starts to grow slowly, but can be quashed just as quickly by a sideways comment.  Every comment hurts, but you start to seek out the positive ones.  The people who are there for  you, day in and day out.  The people that don’t hurt you or beat  you down.

So here it is, I thought I’d been working on finding myself.  Turns out, when I see it in print, I have been CREATING myself.  I am Rosa, and I am Rose, and I am Rosie, but most importantly:

1) I am Auntie Rose.

2) My parents love me:  QoB and the Big Dawg, and Dad

3) I have two great dogs.

4) DSB would do anything for me.  ANYTHING.

5) I am proud to work in a bait store.  I personally feel like I am the key to organizing everything and making sure things stay in their place.  I feel useful.

6) I blog.  A lot.  I try to every day, and sometimes that’s hard, but it seems like I always find something to say.  There are even people that READ this blog.

7) My abuser has stopped trying to seek me out and I have stopped being afraid of him doing so.  I would love for him to show up on my doorstep and meet DSB and Rascal.

8) I have worked hard enough in therapy (and in life), that my trauma issues have greatly settled down.  When I don’t sleep, it’s not because I’m having trauma nightmares.

9) My psychiatrist and I have found a potent drug cocktail that appears to (mostly) keep my symptoms in check.

10) I have allowed myself to be open to friendship again.

11) I have stopped thinking of myself as gross and realized that it’s just fat, and I can still be attractive and be fat.

12) I have found compassion for those I don’t understand, those I don’t like.  I don’t need to understand and like everyone.

13) I have given up on friendships that were so clearly one-sided and unhealthy.

14) I have developed a schedule that I stick to, almost without fail, and that helps me keep my highs and lows to a minimum.

15) I feel, through many methods, like I have achieved something that feels a lot like peace and contentment.