I have a confession to to make (as if last week's little story wasn't enough)... here goes. I really enjoy dorky sappy pop music. Hope you weren't expecting something juicier. That's all I've got. Pop music. Consider though, that this is coming from someone who thinks of herself as and surrounds herself with music aficionados. Let's play pretend for a sec that I'm not terribly adept at shaming myself for things that no one needs to be shamed for, and let me say, as loudly as I can, that nobody needs to justify or excuse the things they draw enjoyment from. There should be no such thing as a guilty pleasure. I essentially run off of music instead of gasoline, and use it to navigate my thoughts, feelings, and cycling moods. If my doctor really wanted an in depth analysis of my moods, I would tell them to look at my Spotify history. So I thought it might be a nice exercise to include a song for you with each post. And they probably won't all be sappy pop songs, but I can't make any promises. Today's song is about this blog. About what it means to be writing again, and sharing my thoughts publicly. About what it means to really be honest and unrestricted. To do something that no pamphlet or website or medical professional or family member or friend has 'suggested for my benefit'. One of the group workshops they had in the psych ward was 'defining what recovery looks like to you'. And although there is no "getting better" with bipolar, there is definitely a recovery process. One that has to happen after every episode, swing, and blip. One that hopefully gets a little easier each time. One that marks the massive difference between managed and un-managed illness. And one that looks different for everyone. Recovery feels like tidying up the debris after a storm. It feels like sifting through the wreckage and finding the valuable things that can still be salvaged. Taking inventory. It feels like super-gluing the handle back on your favorite coffee mug and praying it will hold. It feels like building new defenses to protect against the next storm. It feels like looking in the mirror and not being entirely certain who is looking back at you. It is a stubborn and indignant rebuilding. A humble reclamation of power. I want to thank the many people who reached out to me about my last post. Your comments meant the world to me. Many of you thanked me for sharing my story. Stories are much better told, don't you think? My story isn't quite over yet, and I hope not for a while. So I'd like to keep sharing, if you'd like to keep reading.
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It probably started when I was pregnant to be honest, but pregnancy has this way of swallowing everything else into itself, so as far as I or anyone else knew I was just pregnant. And pregnancy makes you tired and irritable and erratic, right?
Anyway, if I'm really being honest, it actually started way before I got was pregnant, probably as early as childhood, and maybe one day I'll tell you all about that. But this particular... we can call it an episode. Let's call it an episode. This particular episode started when Little One made his grand and glorious entry into the world. Birth must be a terribly traumatic experience for a baby, if their little undeveloped nervous systems are even equipped to process trauma at that point. I would say his birth was traumatic for me, but frankly I don't think the events themselves are horrific enough to earn that moniker, especially compared to other stories I have heard from mothers. Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn't. But I will spare you the birth story. It ended in a c-section. Little One had antibiotics for a few days. And we all went home healthy. Now listen, I am really not the right person to be telling you this story, because I really wasn't "present" for most of it and I actually find it quite difficult to remember. You'd be better off asking my poor husband, but he's not the one who wanted to write a blog, so I'll have to do my best. I remember him crying, crying all the time. I remember the horrible nightmares I would wake up from sweating and crying. I remember desperately trying to get him to eat. To sleep. When my mother left. When husband went back to work. I remember being absolutely petrified that I would drop him, hurt him somehow. Terrified that harm would come to him. I remember the feeling that I was losing grip on myself and on reality. The more I tried to keep a lid on it, the worse it got, and the more I hated myself. I was a terrible mother. I stopped sleeping, even when I had the opportunity. I stopped eating. Every time I closed my eyes I saw horrible things. Bugs writhing. Bodies decaying. Once I looked at him in the crib and for a moment imagined him drowning in vomit. Another time I was frustrated trying to calm his crying and vividly pictured myself throwing him against the wall. Intrusive Thought - an unwelcome involuntary thought, image, or unpleasant idea that may become an obsession, is upsetting or distressing, and can feel difficult to manage or eliminate. I went into the bathroom one day and the walls started moving. Warping and stretching in towards me. And then I started hearing crying when he was asleep, or not with me. At some point in this timeline, before things got really bad and while I was still desperately trying to hide things, I managed to get myself to see my therapist, who told me to see my doctor. And I managed to make an appointment with the nurse, and my husband persuaded me to go. And I managed to fill out a checklist of symptoms to show the nurse. And somehow, I managed to tell her what was happening to me. This is when, as I found out later, my husband got the phone call from the nurse instructing him to take me straight to the emergency room whether I wanted to or not. Which is what he did. And so I spent some time in the Behavioral Health Unit at St. Joseph's Hospital (this is another story) as I recovered from what I now know was a bipolar episode of dysphoric mania with psychosis brought on by the drastic hormone shifts, sleeplessness, and extreme stress of the postpartum period. It is much easier to tell people I had postpartum depression, and sometimes I still do, to keep the conversation short and relatable. But no, bipolar it is. Six months later, here I am, still processing a diagnosis that has left me reeling and struggling to put my identity and self worth back together. A chronic, lifelong, mental illness that demands constant attention and care. One that quite seriously threatens my life, and threatens the well-being of my family if not properly managed. One that continues to exist in a serious stigma. And one that so frustratingly explains so much of my life. But on the upside (because despite what my depression seems to think, I am an unbending optimist), I have a treatment plan, I have understanding, I have support. Had I somehow gone on hiding, ignoring, and denying my illness, trying to 'keep a lid on it', it would have only gotten worse. That is a hard fact. Life without bipolar simply doesn't exist for me, as much as I might wish it could. There is either treated or untreated, managed or unmanaged, surviving or not. It turns out it is actually much brighter on the other side of the nightmare. And, according to many studies linking the bipolar brain with creativity, I may have it to thank for my artistic abilities. So... thanks? |
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