RealMental

My leg is touching the door and I can feel the vibrations of the music through my knee cap. I’m not thinking. I’m just feeling the bass line and mouthing the words. My mouth opens and closes with the words but no sound comes out. I don’t think I know this song. If I was the passenger in the car to the left, I would think I was singing. But if I was the passenger in the car to the left, I wouldn’t be me. I would be him. I think about this for awhile, forgetting to mouth along to the song, my jaw slightly slack.

What if I was him? That guy to the left? I wouldn’t be me. Or I would be both. I would have his feelings. Or they would be the same as the ones I have now, just his. Or they would be different. And I would look over and see me and wonder about the lady driving in the big black van and hope she had at least one other person in the car to make that beast worth while. And I would know that she wasn’t really singing because I didn’t really sing, either. Orange would be slightly different, but how, I couldn’t say. I would like the air slightly warmer in the cab of the car while driving, but my wife would want it cooler and I’d wear gloves to keep my hands warm, even in the summer. I’d hate the birds that shit on the car under the palm tree. I’d love orange suckers and I’d do ceramics on the weekend as a hobby to calm my nerves. Or are they my nerves. Or mine. I don’t know.

My shoe is near the speaker and I can feel the vibrations of the music climbing up my leg. I turn the bass up and look up to notice the sign that says the name of street I know, but isn’t on my route home. I’m confused for a moment and then I realize I passed my exit about twenty minutes back.

I wonder where I’m going.

I’m driving as if I don’t care that I’m not headed in the right direction. I just passed an exit where I could have turned around. And another one. And another. I’m not changing lanes to get to the right. I’m just going forward at a steady 73 miles per hour. Maybe I don’t care. But I don’t know where I’m going.

I’m out of water. My mouth is dry. I have a headache. I get off the freeway and get back on, heading west.

My hands are on the steering wheel and the vibrations are coursing through my fingers and into my wrists. The music is too loud and I turn it down. Then off. The car on my right is driving right in my blind spot. When I speed up, he speeds up. When I slow down, He slows down. I punch the gas and hit over 80, moving away from the irritation. The road is bumpy on this stretch and the van bobs up and down violently for a few seconds. The Santa Annas are blowing hard against the windshield and I can hear the whistle it makes as it leaks through the seams around the doors. It’s high pitched and screaming. All it would take is my not handling the wind very well. Just a tiny mistake going around the right bend of the hills. The tire would hit a pothole and explode. The van would flip over and over, jumping over the guardrail and into the middle of oncoming traffic. I could even take off my seat belt first. I look at myself in the rear view mirror. And then I look away. My foot comes off the gas pedal a little and I slow down to 68 and hit cruise control.

The wind whistling through the doors grows deeper and less insistent. It sounds more like a hum and less like a shriek. I take a few slow breaths and turn the music back on, but softly. I click forward through the songs until I find something mellow.

I’m close to home now. And I think I’m glad. The thoughts and feelings I’ve been avoiding come rushing at me. I’m a horrible person. I’m so unworthy of love. The world would be a better place without me. My kids deserve a better mom. Joe would have a better life without me. I imagine saying that out loud to Joe and I can hear his voice in my head. I would say, ‘I’m too broken. It’s never going to get better. How many times can I say I’m sorry before I get on your nerves? Once a day? Twice? I should just leave.’ and he would say, ‘Only say sorry if you commit a sin of commission or omission against me. You haven’t. You don’t need to be sorry. Your existence is not a sin. I love you. I hope you don’t leave. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’ And then I’m crying but I don’t know if it’s happening now or yesterday when he said it for real.

The car is stopped and parked in front of the house. I’m home. Home. The thrumming I feel isn’t music. It’s my thoughts and I’m trying to get them under control before I walk in the house. I’m numbing out my mind, creating a buffer around my body and settling in the center where it’s calm and one tiny bit of what I hope is reality comforts me as I gather my things and head up the walkway.

Your existence is not a sin. I love you.

Originally published here.

From Heather O.

Some days I wake up and the sun is shining. As soon as my feet touch the floor, I know it’s going to be a great day. I have a bowl of cereal, enjoy the morning sun shining through the front windows and smile to myself. Happy. Content. Comfortable.

I haven’t had a day like that but maybe once or twice in my life.

Most days, the bear gets me.

I go to bed, curl up on rumbled sheets and stare at the blackness for hours, willing myself to sleep. I cry until my insides ache and finally fall asleep two hours before the children come to wake me up for breakfast. I stumble out of bed, rest my head on the half-painted bathroom wall and try to psyche myself into getting through the day. I wash bowls and fix cereal with bleary eyes, pour the milk with shaking hands and fall into my chair to stare at the wall. I put a movie on for the kids and put my forehead on the desk.

I wish I could shut my mind up for just a few moments but I never can and the walls are closing in again.

Rent is due in 3 days, no money coming in despite my best attempts at sales and marketing, power due, phone due, need groceries, $7 to my name, thinking about spending it on a pizza for the kids for lunch but I know I can’t go into the pizza place without having a panic attack, need to go buy bobbin thread so I can sew, hyperventilating thinking about going in to buy thread, kids want to go to the park and I can’t, what if there are lots of kids there and I lose one of mine in the crowd and can’t find them or some kid’s parent wants to talk to me, just a casual “hi how are you?” that I cannot handle.

Think about Andy, about Chris, about Colin, about Mama and how I have no idea where we’re even going to live if I can’t come up with the rent but I don’t want to live with Mama again and she doesn’t want us there either, know they love me but can’t cope with “where are you going, when will you be back, how much gas have you used, aren’t you due for an oil change, how many pairs of shoes have you made today, how’s the job hunt going, are you taking your medicine”, think I suck as a parent but when everyone can hear every thing I say it makes it ring twice as loud in my head, can’t give up the last shreds of independence that are mine.

I need to get a job, third shift, leave the kids with Mama all night and try to sleep in the mornings after I bring them home while they rot their brains watching TV all day, how can I get a job when I can’t even say the word “job” without shaking, going to throw up during the interview, if I can even get to the interview, terrified just thinking about going to a job and dealing with people I don’t know who don’t know me, what will they think of me, will they think I’m crazy. Am I crazy?

Turn on the sewing machine but can’t sew without thread, can’t buy thread without driving to the store, can’t drive to the store until the kids are dressed and presentable because if they go in the store with unbrushed hair then everyone will know I’m falling apart and they probably already noticed that I can’t breathe and my hands are shaking so bad that I just dropped the thread on the counter, what an idiot, how could I be so stupid, those people all wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.

Have to get orders finished but can’t concentrate, don’t care, not many left anyway since no one wants what I’ve got so I can put these off another day or three, packages stacked here that need to go out but have to wait until after 5 to go into the post office to weigh them so no one is there and don’t have to see or talk to anyone, back home to print postage out, drive back to the post office to drop them off in the privacy of my own car with the music on loud, loud enough that I can drown out the nagging voices in the back of my head for just a little while. Loser. Fat girl.

My kids think I’m okay and for them I am. They are all that I have and I summon every ounce of sanity I have to take them places and let them live a happy life. They hug me and tell me they love me and they are the only ones I believe. They aren’t old enough to hate me for my inadequacies yet. Give them time, give them time.

3 weeks until my appointment at mental health and god knows what they are going to think of me. It’s their job and they see lots of crazies so maybe I’m really quite normal, who knows? Haven’t talked to anyone who isn’t related to me in weeks, lost my only friend because I couldn’t shut up, nothing but online friends left and they’ve got to be sick of hearing me by now, supposed to hold it together online because otherwise my business could be damaged but really not much left there to damage so might as well fall apart everywhere.

I walk around every day and my family thinks I’m doing so much better, holding it together so well, oh she’s on the upward swing. Lie. Bullshit. Inside my head I’m screaming weeping hurting dying and maybe if I could cut the pain out it wouldn’t hurt so bad but I don’t think anything will help.

Can’t believe I’m going to post this on the internet where everyone can see it but maybe I’ve not been honest enough because I’m so afraid of what my mother-brother-in-law will think and maybe they just don’t matter and will think badly of me no matter how good I try to be and how much I tried to care and how much I loved Andy so what difference does it make what they think. Never tried to be my friend, never gave one bit of caring or understanding. Money isn’t love, isn’t caring, isn’t understanding, doesn’t make a house a home, doesn’t make someone love you who just doesn’t even though that would be nice. Never believed me and still won’t when I say that I did want to be a part of their family, I wanted them to think of me like a daughter, wanted them to care about me. Doesn’t matter now, doesn’t matter at all. Your son is free of me, free to wash his own dishes and play computer games all day if he wants and yell at my kids on his only day with them and be glad to be rid of my abrasive insanity that only wanted us to be happy and love each other. Wasted years.

Doesn’t do any good to love because who wants to kiss a crazy girl, give me vodka but don’t come by to talk to me even when I plead, let me bare my soul and then walk away, ignore me for years, treat me like the laundry-girl but now even less than that, not worthy for your affection, who is, who wants it, do you treat everyone like this or just the crazy girls who bug the shit out of you.

“For as long as our love shall endure” was the vow, not enduring, never had a chance, escape clause built in from the beginning, “I don’t love you” to absolve from the responsibility of a marriage, stand back and watch me crash and burn.

And it’s better this way, better this way.

Originally posted here.

(Written June 27, 2006)

From Adams Street

When I was about 11, I went to a party at my aunt and uncle’s house with my dad and his wife. Most of my cousins were there. A couple of days beforehand I had sprouted a lovely pimple right in the middle of my forehead. I put a band aid over it before I went to the party and tried to pass it off as a cut. My cousins weren’t buying it. Most were older than I was and knew what a band aid on the face meant. Zit! They weren’t horribly cruel, just mildly cruel in the way kids can be. And I was alone among siblings and very anxious and nervous. I remember wanting to be anywhere on earth but there.

In the twilight, some of my cousins sought me out and told me a horrible thing. They said that my Uncle Bob had told everyone that I wasn’t the daughter of my parents. I was really the daughter of my much older sister. “That’s why you all had to go to Missouri. So Debbie could have you. They’re just pretending that she’s your sister.”

The noise of the grown-up party filtered out through the windows in a happy din, but it didn’t feel warm to me. It felt like a wall, and I didn’t want to be on either side of it.

Did I run to my father and demand the truth? Did I protest to my cousins that Uncle Bob was a liar?

I did not.

I filed this nugget of information away, where it nagged at me for 20 years.

Eventually I came to believe it was bullshit. Eventually I came to believe that it didn’t matter if it were true.

But it affected me profoundly throughout my adolescence and early adulthood. I never felt like I fit in. I felt like the whole operation was a house of cards that could come down at any minute. I believed that no one told the truth, especially my parents.

My Uncle Bob died on Friday. I’m sorry that my father is in pain over his loss. But, really, he was kind of a shit.

Originally published here.

She, so young starving for your affections.

You, too interested in cheating on your spouse to and pretending she didn’t exist with one of your suitors to be bothered.

What did you do to her, can you even remember what you did to her?

You were in a fog of emotions that you couldn’t understand, overcome by mental illness that eventually comes for us all.

Her desperation to be loved was so severe she began to hurt herself.   She hoped you would notice.  She hoped that it would solve the riddle of why you couldn’t love her.

You could have gotten help, you could have talked to someone honestly about your own injuries.  Instead you took the way of not dealing with it, blaming everyone else for all of YOUR problems.

You are not solely responsible for her being broken but you played a huge part in it.  Many years later, you get a second chance to make it right.

And you don’t.

Make it right.

You still cannot look at yourself honestly and try to repair what is broken in you.

Going to a new therapist every other month is not how you solve your problems, hoping you’ll finally find the one that will agree with you.  Agree that your entire life is shit because of what other people have done to you.

How many years have you been chasing this elusive, magical therapist that you seem unable to find?  There is no magic kingdom princess.  They told you lies.

Move forward, many years later.

She’s older, and moved beyond you.  She’s wise, she’s learning who she is without you.  She’s going to make it.  She knows you are very sick, she knows the love she spent so much time looking for was right in front of her despite the years of work you put into manipulating her to think otherwise.

“If you do this, I’ll buy you a pony” you lied to her.

She’s already advanced far beyond your range, she’s going to leave you behind.

My words are not meant in evil, I honestly hope that you might turn the bus around and break free from the chains that bind you in order to become the person you know you can be.  If for no other reason, than for her.

Yeah, hi.  That’s me.  I know I’ve been away for a while, but what better occasion for a return than to tell the world just how horrible a person I am?

My bipolar husband, despite doing all the right things, has been deep, deep, deep in an atypical (for him) depressive cycle for at least the last six months.  It’s actually probably lasted longer, but that’s about how long it’s been debilitating to the point that he can’t work or maintain normal function.  I won’t go into details about everything that’s been tried for him so far, but let’s just say it’s been a LOT.  And that he has cooperated whole-heartedly with every treatment, regardless of how horrible the side-effects may be, because he wants his life back.  Badly.

You know, depression has never been the bugaboo for us.  It’s always been the threat of a manic episode that loomed nearby, and kept us ever-vigilant for the slightest symptoms and early-warning signs.  It’s mania that has scared the stuffing out of us both, because we both know that a good, strong florid mania is capable of ruining our marriage and our family, despite whatever good intentions we may have.  Mania has always been, for us, the Other in our marriage–a beast to fight and fear.  I even used to joke, “Where is the other pole in this bipolar disorder?  I think we could use a swing toward depression right now!”

Ha, ha.  It’s not funny any more.  I am so sorry, but I really had no idea.  I thought I did, which now is very nearly hilarious–I thought I “got it.”  I didn’t.

I did not anticipate, in my wildest dreams, the depth, the blackness, the despair of this depression.  That it could affect my brilliant spouse’s cognitive abilities and physical coordination.  It’s like a malicious, transient form of brain damage, really, and stunning in its power.

And my response to it has been, well…less than stellar, at least lately.  I have been so wrapped up, in the years since the diagnosis, in watching for and combating the manic side of the spectrum, that the depression caught me completely flat-footed.  My troops were all amassed at the Hypomanic Border, and the few straggling sentries and scouts who brought reports from Depressive Kingdom were brushed off as insignificant, or addled.  If only I’d known.

Who knew–turns out that my moods cycle, too.  And that cycle, in regard to my mentally ill spouse, appears to go something like this: Patience, understanding, patience, kindness, patience, concern, patience, frustration, worry, frustration, resentment, impatience, fear, deep frustration, RIP YOUR HEAD OFF AND DISEMBOWEL YOU WITH UNKIND WORDS.  Nice, huh?  I honestly, and truly suck.

That’s right–when a loved one is down lower than you can even imagine being, why not give him a good swift kick, you know, as long as he’s down there?  Go ahead, vent your spleen–after all, you have feelings, too, right?  And you’ve bottled this up for so long, why save it for therapy?  I’m sure that the person who is clinging to you like the only life-raft in a raging sea of misery won’t mind ONE BIT.  Let him know just how displeased you are with this whole depression thing, because almost certainly he’s been doing it ON PURPOSE, and just needs to feel your wrath, resentment, and maybe even a smidgen of contempt, to snap right on out of it, get back to work, smile, and be happy!  RIGHT?

I feel about two inches tall, and I’m so, so sorry.  I wish that what I’d done was to recognize and appreciate the things that he is amazingly ABLE to do right now, even through a thick black fog.  That is true courage, and I DO see it.

Going back to my best attempt at being positive (which is where I should’ve stayed all along, more’s the pity), we’ve pushed the doctors to make some fairly radical (for us) and frightening  (for us) changes in medication regimen, and I can’t help but think that something’s going to happen soon.  It may be too much, but at this point, anything different will be welcome, at least at first.

One of two mood stabilizers has been removed entirely, as has the benzodiazepine.  This will be the first time since diagnosis without Depakote and Klonopin.  This is terrifying.  To exponentially enhance our trepidation, factor in a huge increase in anti-depressant dosage.  Now, realize that this is exactly the time of year when the “ramping up” usually begins, and you have a real “YIKES” element going.

Of course, this is all pretty much what we asked for.  Much the same way ECT jolts the brain out of a repetitive, destructive pattern, we’re hoping to shake up the med cocktail SO much, while at the same time hopefully harnessing some of that very manic energy that we normally fear so greatly every spring, that my dear husband’s brain will HAVE to let go, and emerge from the depths.  I’m just hoping that we have time, once the climb begins in earnest, to get the lid on before it’s too late.

I’m also hoping to be less of a jerk about the whole thing.

Oh hi, i have been absent from writing here for a long time, I have remained present on the inside reading comments, moderating occassionally. Keeping everyone in my thoughts.

I went off Lexapro last september for a variety of reasons. Most importantly i felt the medication was making my mania, depression and self-harming behaviours worse. My marriage had ended after my husband found out i had had an affair. The medication didn’t make me have the affair neither did being bi-polar, but those things definately had some influence on the choices i made. After being on medication for three years and being hospitalized for an overdose of prescription drugs,  a subsequent suicide attempt and two years of depression i decided to try life without medical intervention. I had a feeling that being medicated was making me worse.

I tapered off Lexapro over an eight week period. It was very difficult. I did it without doctor supervision for fear that my doctor would not agree with my self-diagnosis.

After three months i felt completely normal. Like the jess i used to know. I still had chronic anxiety and fears of depression coming back out of hiding. But, i could think clearer than i had in years. I could look, with perspective, at the mess my life had become. I saw, regretfully, the pain i had inflicted on those around me and the stupid choices i had made.

I could also see that i still had children who loved me and that i had managed to cobble together a life on my own. A home, a job self-sufficient. Something i had never been. Independent. Last spring and summer were monumental for me in regards to personal growth. It was an amazing time capped off by a trip to BlogHer in july. I was proud, strong and confidant.

In august my ex-husband and i began the painful process of trying to reconcile. I moved back into his home and we tried to come back together as a family. It hasn’t gone very well. The pain he has combined with my guilt has been incredibly difficult. It is a very tough path we are on and we have both thrown in the towel on several occassions only to crawl back in the ring and give it another round. The fight is nearly over.

Last week i went to my doctor because i have been having this irritating and frightening problem with orgasm-induced migraines. The pain is so intense and instant that i feared i was actually dying of an aneurism. I have started taking amitriptyline, an anti-depressant, to control the migraines. I don’t know yet if they are working as i have been too nervous to “test”.

I have noticed that my brain is slowly slipping back into it’s medicated state. My anxiety has lessened, but feelings of despair and depression have crept back in. Obviously, i am in a not great situation at home that is adding to the hopeless feelings, but i keep thinking is it really the medication? Am i a hypochondriac? Does anybody else feel this way on drugs? And really? Is it worth it, is a life without orgasm better than a life depressed. I think probably.

Shortly after my two older sisters came in from their day journey, it dawned on me that the three daughters and one mother were all in the same house together. It’s not a typical situation, us all being under one roof. Depending on any of our moods, you never know what could happen with all of us together in the same place.

We aren’t the easiest bunch to understand or to deal with, and no one would ever mistake us for a  “safe WASP family.” We argue, we annoy, we fight. We say horrible things to each other, then we kiss and make up. It isn’t always that quick, sometimes months go by before feuding parties speak. We’re better than we used to be.

Despite the reason for us all being there (not a celebration, one of us has become very, very sick), I felt a genuine family tie to these women. These are MY wolves, I love them and together we could probably conquer anything. I love my sisters and my mother deeply.  It isn’t often I feel that kind of raw power and strength.

We’ve been through some really hard times but in that very moment, I love each one of them most of all. They are my roots, we are the same. As we rally around in times of crisis, we forget the petty bullshit arguments that we usually poke each other with.

Having us all together like that can sometimes turn into a dog fight, each dog trying to fight their way to the alpha position with lots of gnawing and gnashing of teeth with threatening growls. We aren’t always together, mainly because one of us lives elsewhere, one of us is drowning in a life of pure chaos, and one spends a lot of time taking care of our mother.

Our mother is the mainstay. She’s always there, sitting in her chair surrounded by her “things”. Empty toilet paper rolls, empty plastic bags, endless mail waiting to be read and coupons ready to be clipped. Her ashtray, her cigarettes, her coffee, our dead dad’s shoes. Everything right within her reach, to guarantee she won’t have to put much effort in retrieving something she might need. She is an agoraphobic hoarder that chain smokes in her house.

If you are visiting, she’ll often put you work fetching her stuff. She can tell you in minute detail exactly where everything is and where to find it. I assume this from years of having our dad retrieve things for her. I often wonder how that man survived all those years with four very strong and sassy women.

I like to believe he’s with us, sometimes I wish more than anything that he was still physically with us. We probably drove that man to his death with all our crazy combined. He loved us, each and every one of us and he was patient and kind and loving and he was exactly where he wanted to be. With us.

It’s good for me to have a moment like this, to realize that despite the dangers of hanging around with wolves, I love them all deeply. They are my pack. It’s up to me to not stay too long after the carcass has been eaten.