I'm slightly broken.
No, I'm majorly broken. At least
that's how I feel.
When we are born we are given a
name. As we grow that name becomes entwined with our growing identity. Young
adulthood brings with it its share of challenges as we struggle to figure out
who we are.
But if you're diagnosed with a
mental illness you're given another name. Contrary to what many people want us
to believe, that it is not who you are I honestly believe that a person's
diagnosis is a part of who they are. And as they struggle through the challenges
of adapting to this new identity it becomes entwined with who they are. One of
the greatest challenges of being bipolar is figuring out where one ends and the
disorder begins.
I have written about many
different topics in my blog. I have shared my opinions and thoughts. A few I
have devoted to my struggles with being alienated from my children, my eating
disorder, and yes my bipolar. But none like I am about to share with you now.
Or even at the least if no one reads it, it is for me. I hope no one is
discouraged from reading by the site of its length.
Bipolar undermines everything you
ever thought you knew about yourself. Your successes, yours, or your mania's?
Your failure's, yours, or your episodes? Are you accountable or do they owe
their existence to your new identity?
Who knows how many eyeballs
landing on the following words will subconsciously begin judging me or think
how I need to be "fixed." Or worse, be completely turned off by what
I am about to say.
The truth is, I am not happy. But
I'm bipolar so go figure.
It has been quite a while since I
have written anything here on my blog. To be honest I haven't had the desire for
well over a month. My mind has been a whirl wind of thoughts and emotions
fueled with uncontrollable feelings. As always it took some time before I had
realized I had slipped into a deep and almost severe depression just short of
suicidal.
Looking back onto the past weeks
I can see the evidence of its presence. The irritability. Isolation. Lack of
interests. Shortness. Distorted thinking. Inability to concentrate. And on into
the severity....The Nothing Feeling as I refer to it. When I literally have no
feelings.
It is most likely an account that
you have never read before. It is my attempt to put into words the suicidal and
even psychotic depressions I am tormented with that comes with my bipolar. A
candid and non-watered down description. It's a personal story of my bipolar
life.
I am groaning under the miseries
of a diseased nervous system: a system of all others the most essential to our
happiness--or the most of productive of our misery. Day follows night, and
night comes after day, only to curse with life which gives no pleasure.
Mood, in the more serious
depressive state of bipolar, is usually bleak, pessimistic, and despairing. A
deep sense of futility is frequently accompanied, if not preceded, by the
belief that the ability to experience pleasure is permanently gone.
My feelings at this moment are
pitiable indeed. I am suffering under a depression of spirits that I know all
too well. I have struggled in vain against the influence of this melancholy. It
has always proven how much stronger it is than me.
I am almost never without putting
into words what I suffer--the longing that seems to tear my heart out by the
roots, the dreadful sense of being alone in an empty universe, the agonies that
are thrilled through me as if the blood were running ice cold in my veins, the
disgust with living, the impossibility of dying. Only the not-so-real voices that
carry the possibility of bringing comfort. The annoyances of hallucinations in
the form of shadows that show up in the corners of my eyes.
Lately, I have been really
struggling. One day the depression may not seem so bad while tomorrow it's all
I can do just to drag myself out of bed and fight through the day to hold my
tongue to keep from snapping at everybody in anger.
Depression affects not only mood
but the nature and content of thought as well. Thinking processes almost always
slow down, and decisiveness is replaced by indecision and rumination. For me,
anxiety rules my head. The ability to concentrate is usually greatly impaired
and willful action and thought becomes difficult if not impossible. The smallest
task becomes a large job. Even my work performance has begun to suffer.
On Feb 19, 2009 I wrote in my
journal:
"...all these emotions
just make me want to weep
kept locked up inside like my
very own prison
I need to break out of this, I
need to be released
Just eating me up inside, my
sickness within
I say I'm okay--when I'm
really stuck in a maze
Can't find my way out of this,
giving up on a rescue
Every time I think I've found
one, I'm wrong
Why is it I depend on people
who won't pursue
But push away the good ones
who come along"
It's wrong that being sad makes
you sad. It's wrong that feeling different makes you sad. It's wrong that
wanting to be like everyone else makes you sad.
Every day I take two cocktails of
meds. My handfuls of AM's and PM's. They try to keep me sane. They don't work.
The many trial and error combinations I have tried throughout the years have
never worked. The hospitalizations, suicide attempts, arrests, blackouts,
episodes, anxieties, mood swings, outrageous behaviors, bad decisions, voices
and hallucinations, delusions, I could go on, they speak for themselves. But
one med I can't live without. It is my life source that for the most part keeps
the suicidal thoughts at bay. Ironically too much of it can also kill me.
Lately, my bipolar has seriously
got me tired. Tired more than it has ever in the years of my life. I am worn
out from it. Tired physically. Tired emotionally. Tired mentally. And tired
spiritually. I have grown tired of fighting it. And it is taking a toll on me. Not
just this current episode but all these years of instability. I can't remember
the last time I was stable. I know it was well over seven years ago. I can't
remember what stability feels like. I can't remember the last time I wasn't
struggling with mania or depression. I can't remember the last time I haven't
been irritable.
I've always embraced my bipolar
while accepting its pros and cons. I've even shunned the so called
"normal." But here lately I've wondered what "normal" would
be like. I want to be like most of everyone else and this makes me sad. I want
to be "normal" and I think about it all day.
I hate depression, to whom life
and death, are alike impossible. Most miserable at present in this, that being so
miserable I have senses continued to me only that I may look forward to the
worst. My thoughts are like loose dry sand, which the closer they are grasped
slips the sooner away.
I have found that every act of
life from the morning routine to the dinner in the evening has become an
effort...hating the night. The night soon presents a new day. Hating the night
when I can't sleep and hating the day because it brings toward the night. I
sleep on the heart side now because I know that the sooner I tire it out, even
a little, the sooner would come the hour of nightmare which, like a catharsis,
would enable me to meet the new day.
I am weary of everything, I stay
because I am too weak to go. I crawl on because it is easier than to stop. I
look out the window. There is nothing but the blackness and the sound of rain.
Neither when I shut my eyes can I see anything. I am alone...there is nothing
else in my world by my dead heart and brain within me and the rain without.
The melancholy I have all my life
been subject to has become of late years not indeed more intense in its fits
but rather distributed, constant, and crippling...one of my states of madness.
It has proven to be unconquerable with a mind and will of its own.
The body cannot rest when it is
pain, nor the mind be at peace as long as something bitter distills in it and
it aches. Like David did so many times I call out to God and even my spirit
feels severed from His presence.
Moods are by nature compelling,
contagious, and profoundly interpersonal, and disorders of moods alter the
perceptions and behaviors not only of those who have them but also of those who
are related or closely associate. Depression is heavy. Almost too heavy to
bear.
I don't care about labels or
stigma or biases....insane, nuts, crazy, lunatic, demented, maniac, psycho,
screwy or mental. But I do want to be "normal." Whatever it is I want
it. Because I am tired. I want the mood swings gone. The ups and downs. The irrational
thoughts and behaviors. The suicidal depressions. I don't want to have them
anymore. I know I can't have it no matter how many pills I take for treatment.
No matter how hard I try. It is not for me. I don't know if I would know how to
handle it.
Everyone says, "Be
different." "Stand out." But inner turmoil is not standing out.
I see beauty all around me.
I find it in painted sunset skies
and the morning rising sun. I see it the eyes of my children. I see it in the
budding trees around my neighborhood.
I see beauty all around me. But I
can't see it in the mirror.
My self-image--that picture
inside my heart of how I view myself, has long become distorted from a lifetime
of a whirlwind of emotions. No matter how hard I've tried, stability or
normalcy has always felt far beyond my reach.
The picture I see of myself is ironically
fitting none other than a Picasso painting. Ironic because my last name is the
same; shattered, distorted, disproportionate, colorful, messy, cracked, but he
was a drunken womanizing adulterer.
But no matter how unattainable
"normal" is, I know my value comes from and is rooted in love. The
love of a Father who, because of His great love for me, chose to come down and
live as one of us, chose to die for me, chose to defeat death for me. Even
though I don't feel it.
I know He wants me to see myself
as beautiful, but the reality is, it remains a daily struggle for me. Today, I
don't see the goal. All I see in my reflection is this broken, messy, ugly
devastation of my life. And I can't help but question how there can be beauty
in all this rubble.
But God responds by lovingly and
gently showing up in the eyes of my children and my wife. I know God doesn't
only want me to see the beauty in how He's using me. He wants me to see the
beauty in me..."normal" or not.
It's there I see that I am enough
because He is enough.
It's there I see that I am
desired, valued, and fought for.
It's there I see that He
recklessly loves the beautiful mess that is me.
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