Most people with a mental illness will tell you that they have things that will trigger an episode. Sometimes they just have things that are non-negotiable points; if you want to continue building a friendship with them, you will not do certain things in the understanding that those things can hinder the healing process. Most of us are in a process of healing to get to the point where we can function like a person without a mental disease.
Three of my biggest ones come in the form of phrases.
"Just get over it."
"Suck it up and deal."
"EVERYONE has issues."
On a personal level, I have spent my entire adult life struggling with those three little things and not understanding why *I* couldn't get it together when everyone else *could*. A lot of my year and a half in therapy has been spent coming to terms with the fact that I have an illness and that the inability to do these things isn't my fault.
The first one is becoming easier and is the least hurtful of the three. I admittedly over-stress about things that any normal person would consider minor. However, I realize that fact and try to lessen the amount of stress I expose myself to simply due to that fact. Whether it be real life, internet, gaming, whatever.. I have to be extremely careful of what I take on.
Usually, number one leads into number two. Trying to explain that I need to manage my stress gets me this response more often than not. Having already been put on edge by the first statement, my defense mechanism is thereby heightened by the insistence that I simply let everything go that stresses me out. At this point in my life and my healing process, I am completely incapable of doing that. I have not yet reached duck status where minor things can roll off of my back.
Inevitably, trying to explain this further leads into statement three. Statement three, in this context or not, has been known to completely end friendships where I am concerned. This is the point where I will NOT deal with someone anymore. When someone says this to me, my brain informs me that the person does not -- and will not -- understand what it is like trying to deal with an illness of this magnitude and has absolutely no interest in -trying- to understand it.
Does everyone have issues? Yes. However, I'd like for someone who doesn't have a chemical imbalance to tell me that they would go through the same things I have.
What things?
My last major relapse, I ended up in the bottom of my shower, curled up in a ball and crying. Had I had razor blades handy, I probably wouldn't be here. I almost put myself back in the hospital. I'm still not sure how I managed to pull myself out of that, except that the concept of -failing- so hard and ending up back in the hospital terrified me more. Being alone around people I didn't know terrified me more than what I was going through.
Why did I relapse so hard? I'd gotten off my regular schedule of medication. That's it. There was no other reason. I wasn't upset. There wasn't a huge load of stress. Nothing abnormal had happened. But because I wasn't taking my meds properly, my mind started to spiral on itself, and I was -convinced- that I was nothing but a burden to my friends and family. I was -convinced- that everyone would be better off not having to deal with someone as sick as I am.
When a person tells someone like me to 'just get over it' or 'everyone has issues', we don't hear what you mean. We hear 'your illness isn't real.' We hear 'why can't you deal with it like a normal person?' We hear everything we've told ourselves countless times over before we got help.
I prefer to compare my struggles to diabetes. No one would tell a diabetic 'hey, I produce insulin, why can't you?' Yet, those same people don't even hesitate to say 'just get over it.' I am still in the beginning stages of dealing with my 'diabetes'. I am -still- getting used to the fact that I will be on medication for the rest of my life. I am still getting used to the fact that having children can very well be a 'life or death' decision. I am still getting used to the fact that my life will never be that of a perfectly healthy person.
I *envy* the fact that a normal person's issues are amazingly easy to fix in comparison to what I go through every. single. day.
So please. The next time you think 'gods, why can't you just -deal-?!', pause. Whether someone has been up front and honest with you about their illness or not, stop to think. It is entirely possible that they cannot 'just deal' with life as it is.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Fickle Muse
There are upsides and downsides to taking medication to regulate my disease. Many people who know me well and have lived with me extensively will tell you that one of the biggest upsides is the fact that I am, for the most part, stable in moods. I still have good days and bad days, certainly. And an episode like this weekend can be exhausting for everyone involved. But off medication, every day is an episode like this weekend.
The downside, however, is that the medication dampens my creativity. Instead of being a whirling flood of ideas and words, I often find myself with a lack of it. It makes enjoyable things such as roleplaying quite a difficult thing to sustain over a long period of time.
It also makes days like today frustrating. I actually have a good deal of time on my hands today. I -could- be roleplaying in email, continuing a plot that I've been writing for weeks... except that the Muse isn't there. I have another friend asking me to do something with him, and I can't think of anything. I have friends asking me into their IRC channels, but I'm empty.
It's just so bloody irritating. People tell me I'd be an awesome novelist. Before medication, I couldn't focus long enough to complete a long-term story like that. After the medication, I can't keep my creativity going long enough to complete a long-term story like that.
The hope is when I move and start using my own money for food and such, I can start regulating the chemicals I take in (through food and such) and perhaps start lessening my dosage of medication. I won't be off it entirely, of course. That's never going to happen. But perhaps I can cut things in half simply through diet (and exercise!). That would be awesome.
The downside, however, is that the medication dampens my creativity. Instead of being a whirling flood of ideas and words, I often find myself with a lack of it. It makes enjoyable things such as roleplaying quite a difficult thing to sustain over a long period of time.
It also makes days like today frustrating. I actually have a good deal of time on my hands today. I -could- be roleplaying in email, continuing a plot that I've been writing for weeks... except that the Muse isn't there. I have another friend asking me to do something with him, and I can't think of anything. I have friends asking me into their IRC channels, but I'm empty.
It's just so bloody irritating. People tell me I'd be an awesome novelist. Before medication, I couldn't focus long enough to complete a long-term story like that. After the medication, I can't keep my creativity going long enough to complete a long-term story like that.
The hope is when I move and start using my own money for food and such, I can start regulating the chemicals I take in (through food and such) and perhaps start lessening my dosage of medication. I won't be off it entirely, of course. That's never going to happen. But perhaps I can cut things in half simply through diet (and exercise!). That would be awesome.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
The Truth.
I think there may be all of.. three people, possibly four, that know this story. I'm not sure my best friend and my adopted sister know. I've hidden it, glossed it over, pretended it didn't happen. Yet, it's the number one, solid-adult thing I can think of that really triggered 'the change'.
What change? The change into the paranoid, social recluse that had severe issues with going out.
It all really started when I asked my therapist for an official diagnosis. Bipolar, he said, which I knew. I'd been in the hospital for that one. And PTSD. That one floored me. PTSD was something that happened to people that'd suffered extreme trauma like child abuse or war. But when I started to dig into what PTSD actually -was-, I discovered it wasn't that black or white.
And well.. I have a fair amount of emotional trauma in my history that I simply Do Not Discuss. Until now. Out of anything I may write in this blog, this post is probably going to be the hardest. Therefore, I'm going to write it first.
In college, I didn't socialize so well. Poor Vicki tried to get me ready for it, and I love her dearly for that. The truth of the matter was... I went from graduation where all of my friends had turned their backs on me in the last week to college where I was suddenly free to do whatever I wanted -- and responsible for doing whatever I wanted.
My first semester bombed miserably. I ended up in the 'if you don't do well this semester...' group. I was determined I was going to do well. Needless to say that didn't happen. Part of the reason it didn't happen was because of a guy.
I was waiting outside the Psych building for my roommate the first time I met him. He seemed nice enough. Asked me to come chill at his place. So, I did. I don't.. honestly remember how I ended up on his couch with his hand down my pants. My memory does that, sometimes. It blanks out. But that's where it started..
He would call me at ten, eleven, twelve o'clock at night and ask me to come over. Come get me. He'd use me, leave bruises from biting, then make me sit and listen to his exploits about girls he picked up at the clubs. Eventually I'd fall asleep. He'd wake me up, basically kick me out, make me walk home and do it all over again in a couple of days.
At this point, any sane person would've gone "what the hell." Dropped him like a hot potato. And I tried. Oh, I tried. But I've been thinking about it a lot this morning, and this is what I think. A lot of people with my kind of disease end up trying to self-medicate. They use drugs, alcohol.. anything to retain some semblance of balance. This guy was like a drug for me. I kept going back, even -after- he told me I was just a psychological experiment to see what he could get away with.
When Vicki introduced me to the internet, all of a sudden, I was.. free. Or, perhaps, chained to another addiction. But free of him. I met my first, serious, post-highschool boyfriend at school and suddenly I had the power to say "No" and mean it.
Not that that relationship was any healthier, but at least I was no longer a psychological experiment. I was, however, severely damaged.
When things in that relationship started to go sour is when I really started to become, for lack of better description, unhinged. I decided I was going to move to California. I had the money. I had the place to stay. The day before I was going to leave, my parents showed up at the apartment. One of my online buddies had ratted me out. Dad took my keys and proceeded to spend the next few hours laying into me.
I don't remember everything he said. I do remember him telling me that I never finished anything, and that I was a failure. I was crushed. I was 20, then. Now, at 32, I still wake up from nightmares of him screaming at me. For a while, it was literally a once or twice a month occurrence. Fairly regular. He and I have sat in a therapy session, though, and in the three or four months since, I've had -one-. And I'm less afraid to talk to him about things that bother me. I consider it a success.
The problem is that I'm still timid. I still jump, emotionally, at the slightest hurts. When I feel used, I break inside. I start to wonder if anyone even -wants- me around except as something to entertain them. "She'll be there when I need her." And I hold it in, and I hide it. I still have my dangerous people-addictions. My drugs. And in the capacity that I need him, I still have the one that I'll never completely let go of.
I just don't let anyone see -this-. When I've shattered from stress, from feeling used, from being empty. When I cry for six hours and have trouble going to sleep because I feel like I'm going to throw up. When I wake up the next day and cry more, trying to hold it in because I have my two year old nephew in my arms.
But if I don't do this.. if I -don't- open up and stop trying to pretend everything's okay, I -am- going to relapse. This hurts a lot now, letting people see this, but.. it'll hurt a lot worse if I don't lance the wound and let it heal.
What change? The change into the paranoid, social recluse that had severe issues with going out.
It all really started when I asked my therapist for an official diagnosis. Bipolar, he said, which I knew. I'd been in the hospital for that one. And PTSD. That one floored me. PTSD was something that happened to people that'd suffered extreme trauma like child abuse or war. But when I started to dig into what PTSD actually -was-, I discovered it wasn't that black or white.
And well.. I have a fair amount of emotional trauma in my history that I simply Do Not Discuss. Until now. Out of anything I may write in this blog, this post is probably going to be the hardest. Therefore, I'm going to write it first.
In college, I didn't socialize so well. Poor Vicki tried to get me ready for it, and I love her dearly for that. The truth of the matter was... I went from graduation where all of my friends had turned their backs on me in the last week to college where I was suddenly free to do whatever I wanted -- and responsible for doing whatever I wanted.
My first semester bombed miserably. I ended up in the 'if you don't do well this semester...' group. I was determined I was going to do well. Needless to say that didn't happen. Part of the reason it didn't happen was because of a guy.
I was waiting outside the Psych building for my roommate the first time I met him. He seemed nice enough. Asked me to come chill at his place. So, I did. I don't.. honestly remember how I ended up on his couch with his hand down my pants. My memory does that, sometimes. It blanks out. But that's where it started..
He would call me at ten, eleven, twelve o'clock at night and ask me to come over. Come get me. He'd use me, leave bruises from biting, then make me sit and listen to his exploits about girls he picked up at the clubs. Eventually I'd fall asleep. He'd wake me up, basically kick me out, make me walk home and do it all over again in a couple of days.
At this point, any sane person would've gone "what the hell." Dropped him like a hot potato. And I tried. Oh, I tried. But I've been thinking about it a lot this morning, and this is what I think. A lot of people with my kind of disease end up trying to self-medicate. They use drugs, alcohol.. anything to retain some semblance of balance. This guy was like a drug for me. I kept going back, even -after- he told me I was just a psychological experiment to see what he could get away with.
When Vicki introduced me to the internet, all of a sudden, I was.. free. Or, perhaps, chained to another addiction. But free of him. I met my first, serious, post-highschool boyfriend at school and suddenly I had the power to say "No" and mean it.
Not that that relationship was any healthier, but at least I was no longer a psychological experiment. I was, however, severely damaged.
When things in that relationship started to go sour is when I really started to become, for lack of better description, unhinged. I decided I was going to move to California. I had the money. I had the place to stay. The day before I was going to leave, my parents showed up at the apartment. One of my online buddies had ratted me out. Dad took my keys and proceeded to spend the next few hours laying into me.
I don't remember everything he said. I do remember him telling me that I never finished anything, and that I was a failure. I was crushed. I was 20, then. Now, at 32, I still wake up from nightmares of him screaming at me. For a while, it was literally a once or twice a month occurrence. Fairly regular. He and I have sat in a therapy session, though, and in the three or four months since, I've had -one-. And I'm less afraid to talk to him about things that bother me. I consider it a success.
The problem is that I'm still timid. I still jump, emotionally, at the slightest hurts. When I feel used, I break inside. I start to wonder if anyone even -wants- me around except as something to entertain them. "She'll be there when I need her." And I hold it in, and I hide it. I still have my dangerous people-addictions. My drugs. And in the capacity that I need him, I still have the one that I'll never completely let go of.
I just don't let anyone see -this-. When I've shattered from stress, from feeling used, from being empty. When I cry for six hours and have trouble going to sleep because I feel like I'm going to throw up. When I wake up the next day and cry more, trying to hold it in because I have my two year old nephew in my arms.
But if I don't do this.. if I -don't- open up and stop trying to pretend everything's okay, I -am- going to relapse. This hurts a lot now, letting people see this, but.. it'll hurt a lot worse if I don't lance the wound and let it heal.
Endless Beginnings
Here I am again, standing on the edge. I can feel it. I'm not as close as last time. Last time, I created this blog under a pseudonym, ashamed of my weakness. I didn't want anyone to know I was in pain, or that I was struggling. That's my flaw, see. I hurt so deeply, but I don't want anyone to know.
Ever since I can remember, I've wanted to be normal. I've wondered why I couldn't deal with things the way other people can. Why everything seemed to be an unclimbable mountain. It got worse after college. Or, I should say, my failed attempt at college. That's another post. Another long post.
Getting diagnosed with bipolar has started a long, hard road. It wasn't until recently, though, that I discovered I'd also been diagnosed with PTSD. For those not in the know, that's Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. That's the root cause of the anxiety and the social-fear I seem to deal with regularly.
Of course, saying "I have bipolar" and "I have PTSD" does nothing if someone doesn't understand what the diseases are.
Bipolar Definition
PTSD Definition
Ultimately, this all leads into the fact that I do not deal with things as a normal person might. What seems 'minor' and 'dramatic' for someone without these diseases can be a trigger for me. That isn't to say that I think I need to be treated with kid gloves. I'm just tired of curling up in the bed and crying my eyes out for hours on end, alone, because I'm afraid that saying anything will just get eye rolls and comments to get over it.
I've landed in the hospital once. Since being back at my parents' house, I've had a close brush where I almost ended up putting myself in the hospital again. I can feel the edge coming on; I need to stop it before it gets to that point.
That is, I hope, what this blog will do. I need people to understand that what I'm going through is not -easy-. That if I seem like I'm being dramatic over something 'silly', it's a sign of a deeper problem. And most importantly, I need a place to write so that I -don't- end up in a place so bad that I have to make mom and dad worry about me. They don't need that right now.
Ever since I can remember, I've wanted to be normal. I've wondered why I couldn't deal with things the way other people can. Why everything seemed to be an unclimbable mountain. It got worse after college. Or, I should say, my failed attempt at college. That's another post. Another long post.
Getting diagnosed with bipolar has started a long, hard road. It wasn't until recently, though, that I discovered I'd also been diagnosed with PTSD. For those not in the know, that's Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. That's the root cause of the anxiety and the social-fear I seem to deal with regularly.
Of course, saying "I have bipolar" and "I have PTSD" does nothing if someone doesn't understand what the diseases are.
Bipolar Definition
PTSD Definition
Ultimately, this all leads into the fact that I do not deal with things as a normal person might. What seems 'minor' and 'dramatic' for someone without these diseases can be a trigger for me. That isn't to say that I think I need to be treated with kid gloves. I'm just tired of curling up in the bed and crying my eyes out for hours on end, alone, because I'm afraid that saying anything will just get eye rolls and comments to get over it.
I've landed in the hospital once. Since being back at my parents' house, I've had a close brush where I almost ended up putting myself in the hospital again. I can feel the edge coming on; I need to stop it before it gets to that point.
That is, I hope, what this blog will do. I need people to understand that what I'm going through is not -easy-. That if I seem like I'm being dramatic over something 'silly', it's a sign of a deeper problem. And most importantly, I need a place to write so that I -don't- end up in a place so bad that I have to make mom and dad worry about me. They don't need that right now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)