I Can't Control Myself Because I Don't Know How

It's been a long time since I last opened up this page, since I felt that I had anything interesting or worthy to say. I've had great days, and I've had times of struggle, and though I often thought about writing a blog about it, it either seemed like recycled information or complaining. Or maybe I felt that my feelings would be a burden on others, something I feel regularly when I have something bottled up that I'd like to express.

Then recent events crept in on me. At first, I naively thought that maybe things wouldn't be so bad, that they wouldn't have an effect on me. Maybe that was wishful thinking, or some sort of self protection mechanism. Obviously, eventually there was no way to ignore it, as reality settled in and things got worse.

At first shifting to online classes seemed okay, I could learn at my own rate whenever I wanted and could do it all in my pajamas. But it turns out, the lack of structure doesn't sit well with me. I struggle to focus, to want to do any of the work. It's easier and more appealing to scroll social media all day. I'm getting things done, not falling too far behind, but without the physical component of going to class, I feel adrift.

I'm also struggling to take my meds. Everything seems different now, everything IS different now, and for some reason I either forget, or willfully decide not to take them. This is possibly the worst time to do this, as it's more difficult to access help from my care providers. And yet I keep doing it.

The first time I skipped them I fell into a funk pretty quickly in those two days, and when I took them again and felt better, I chastised myself for being such an idiot.

But I did it again.

That time I felt BETTER, which was not the best reenforcement. I felt less angry, more relaxed. But then, that night, I fell apart. I had to call my therapist for backup, something I've never done before, because I started to feel like I couldn't handle my own emotions. Luckily she was able to calm me down quickly. I took my emergency meds and went to bed.

And then I did it again.

Nothing bad or good happened that time, but I'm toeing a dangerous line here, and I can't seem to stop myself. I think one of the only reasons I'm taking them at all is because I'm worried that I might fully collapse and then the people in my life would have to deal with it. I'm apathetic about it on my end.

I wish I had answers for myself, that I could trust myself to reliably take my medicine, but I don't know that I can. Yes, I had a reminder set on my phone. Yes, I could ask my husband no nag me about it, but I think that will make me resentful, and feeling that way toward someone you're quarantined with isn't the best idea I don't think.

All I can really do is what we're all doing; take it one day at a time, hope for the best, and be gentle with myself when I can. My wish is that you're all doing this for yourselves as well.

I'm Fine

It's been a while since I last posted, and I guess that means things have been going pretty well for the most part.

They're going well until they're not, anyway.

Recently, I've noticed something has changed. And that something is my temper. I've been overwhelmed with intense flares of anger that I've been able to keep mostly to myself, but I worry it might start to leak out, that the grossness of it will spill over into my life and onto people in it. Everything is frustrating and rage inducing.

The problem is, I know I need to talk to my psychiatrist about it... but I kind of don't want to. Ever since I was diagnosed and started meds, I've had this weird eye watering empathy issue, where I'll be talking to someone and start crying almost. Well, no, it's just like my eyes get really teary, and it's incredibly embarrassing. I don't even really feel any emotion that would lead to crying, and yet there I am, trying to discreetly wipe my eyes. But since my temper has been on the rise, this has receded a bit, and I like that. I don't want to look like I'm crying every time I talk to someone. I'd almost rather be pissed off. So I haven't talked to my psych about it, although I think it's getting to the point that I need to.

This possibly means upping my meds, or switching them, neither one am I looking forward to. Adding a new one? Ugh, pass.

My behavior is starting to feel erratic though, and something should probably be addressed. I'm just afraid that, once this is dealt with, I'll be back to the stupid crying problem I was having.

This is never easy, admitting it or having to deal with it.

It would be nice to just feel happy for once. Like, more than just in fleeting moments. So I guess the only thing to do is try to medicate myself into submission, because counting to ten is bullshit and just makes me madder.

So I guess I'll spill my guts about this at my next appointment and hope there's some fix that doesn't involve me being a weepy mess instead.

Rolling In Like The Tide

Lately, I've been struggling with something I've dealt with for a long time, but not at this magnitude. It's given me even greater sympathy for those who deal with this level all the time. I'm talking about anxiety.

My anxiety is definitely getting worse as I get older. It got to the point of hyper vigilance, where everything seemed threatening to me. New job? Terrifying. What if I made a mistake? I'm petrified of doing something wrong, especially if it impacts other people. Having someone angry at me, even for something small, can feel utterly crushing. Biking? Absolutely frightening, especially by myself. What if I got hit by a car? What if I wrecked? What if, what if, what if? The what ifs were drowning me. Attempting anything I wasn't sure I could accomplish was out of the question.

Thoughts would roll in, especially at night. Huge waves of anxiety, threatening to pull me under. Half of the time, I didn't even know why I felt this way, why my heart raced and my skin crawled with the idea of what might happen.

My therapist recommended tapping. If you're unfamiliar, that's a technique where you tap spots on your body for an emotional calming effect. I could have tapped until my arms fell off. The relief, if any, was incredibly temporary.

After months of telling my psychiatrist about my anxiety, he finally prescribed me a beta blocker that is supposed to help. I haven't taken it much, to be honest. Did it work? I can't really say. The idea of more meds, especially something that might not work, was daunting.

We did, however, end up increasing a few of the medications I'm already on. I don't know if it's what's helping, but I have been feeling better. Maybe it's because I've settled in at work, or because I'm not on the bike as much (or at all lately).

I still get the waves, roaring and raising up, crashing over me. School starts soon, and I struggle with feeling of being too old, being fat among all of the fit 18 year olds. I want to be confident in myself, at this age I should be. But the desire to fit in, to be accepted, brings that anxiety to a head.

So maybe I'll try those beta blockers again, once classes start back up. The mania was a great way to be confident, but I don't get to feel that anymore. The good parts have been stolen from me, along with the bad. I feel weakened, like an animal whose been wounded and struggles to keep moving along. I feel like the power I gained from the manic side of me has been put out, I feel watered down.

But I have to remember the depression. I have to remember the dangerous situations I put myself in, how my mania affected those around me. I have to come to terms that this is my life right now, the anxiety, the what ifs, the discomfort. As much as I miss those highs, I couldn't survive the lows. The only thing left to do is to hope the anxiety doesn't swallow me whole.

We've Gone Way Too Fast For Way Too Long

It's Mental Health Awareness Month. That's not what got me to thinking about this blog entry, though.

I've been really good about taking my meds, and feel mostly stable, which is a huge accomplishment for me. It's easy for me to kind of forget I even have bipolar when things are going so well.

But the other day, a thought occurred to me: what if it wasn't doing okay?

There have been times that were extremely difficult with this disease, things from my past that I can look at and be pretty sure were related to my mood disorder. There was my depressive crash in 2016. There was my breakdown in 2017. The ups and downs will always be there, I know that. It can be easy, though, to forgot how serious this disease is when things are going so well.

There's a possibility that, at some time in my life, I might suffer a psychotic break. That is absolutely terrifying. Like I said, my illness is well-managed and I'm technically bipolar II so it would be unlikely. But the chance is there. One of the things that delineates between type I and type II is hospitalization.

It scares me, to know I might lose control, that it might happen to me, to my family. They would be impacted, too. I've read several memoirs and case studies about people with bipolar needing to be hospitalized and it's frightening to say the least.

That's the severity of it. It might get worse as I get older. The meds could stop working and I could relapse. The thing I dread could happen, and there might not be any way for me to stop it.

~

Well, I wrote the first part of that way earlier in the month. Now we're at the end, and things haven't been as stable. Last night, I suffered a mixed manic episode. Not being in school, not having a schedule, is throwing my routine in a blender. I keep staying up later, sleeping in. I feel aimless and worthless.

This culminated in me going hypomanic last night. It's a feeling that's hard to describe, really. But it's something I can see in my eyes. I even told myself last night that I looked crazy. Can you see it? My husband could, he said I had the look in my eyes. I denied it. I didn't want to be stopped.

If you're wondering why I take photos in these moments, I can't really answer that. Maybe as proof? Maybe because hypomania makes me feel invincible and inflates my ego beyond belief? I'm not sure.

As usual, things ended in a crash and burn where I started to hate myself. Luckily, I forced myself to sleep at 3am and remembered to take my pills. But this just touches on my previous point - relapse. I got a not so subtle reminder that I have a chronic illness, that my moods easily go out of whack. As much as I'd like to pretend that I'm normal, the truth is that I'm not. I take strides every day to be as close to that as I can. 

Writing this makes me feel vulnerable, makes me worried that people will recoil when they see the dark side. But this blog, it was started to remove that stigma, to show people that even though I struggle, I will keep working towards taking care of my mental health, like we all should. Today that included a three hour nap to catch up on the sleep I missed last night, something that my therapist and I agreed to this morning when I saw her.

Today was not the best day, and I can never be sure about tomorrow. All I can do is try to do the right things to keep me stable. Try to keep my mental health a priority and take care of myself, and generally just care about myself. There's no shame in taking that step, doing what you need to do to, getting the help you need. I'm grateful for the support I receive, both professionally and personally from my family and friends.

I don't want to fight my bipolar. That would be an exercise in futility. Instead, I feel like I should befriend it. Learn about it all the time. See what makes it better, what makes it worse, and work with it, not against it. After all, it'll be with me always. And even though that might not be fair, that's my burden, and all I can do is my best to live with it.

P.E.R.F.E.C.T. - Find Out What it Means to Me

I have an all or nothing attitude. About almost everything.

This includes being "perfect."

If I don't think I can do something exceptionally well, I'd rather not try it at all. This keeps me from doing a lot of things, from the mundane like making a phone call to someone who intimidates me, to fixing things around the house, to - back in my theatre days - trying out for the leading role. The fear of failure is so overwhelming that I'm paralyzed by the idea of it.

I don't know the exact beginnings of this, but like most origin stories, I assume it's somewhere in my childhood.

Okay Bruce Banner wasn't a child in his origin story

 but I relate to the Hulk so this is where we're at.

I do remember my parents pushing for me to get good grades, which I did, until things went off the rails in ~College - Take 1~ and my life flipped upside down after some emotional trauma that feels too attention seeking and pitying to share. Now that I'm back in school, that drive has returned, and anything less than an A is unacceptable.

Except that C in Statistics. Seriously. Fuck that class.

This perfectionist complex keeps me from doing a lot of things, and it's only been worse as I've gotten older. Am I holding myself to an even higher standard? Is it possible that I'm now completely accountable for all my successes and failures in my adulthood, as it seems you can blame your parents for failings in your youth?

The desire to punish myself for my failures is overwhelming and getting an 82% on a paper sent me reeling when the grade dropped yesterday. My mood sunk low, depression creeping in on me. Even though I feel less maudlin about it after a night of sleep, the shame and disappointment still lingers and haunts.

I've gotten very adept at spotting and acknowledging my shortcomings, my flaws, the gaps I need to fill. Despite that, I feel impotent to do anything about it. Maybe it's much like fixing things around the house; if I can't do it right, then best not to try. If I can't make myself perfect from the inside out, I might as well stay the way I am. 

Growth is important, even vital, and I feel forever trapped by my imperfections and shortcomings. Of course, when it comes to college, I have no choice BUT to try, try again because my future depends on it. That doesn't make me any less likely to berate myself.

I know I'm not alone in this, many people struggle with perfectionism. Google for self-help books on the subject and prepare to be inundated. Maybe this is something you struggle with, too. Deep down, the solution is clear - to try, not be afraid of failing, to learn from those mistakes, and to move forward. Again, I'm great and seeing the issue, naming it, knowing it needs to change.

But the fear of failing at trying to fix myself is the scariest hurdle of them all.

Will I Always Be Your Beast of Burden?

When you suffer from mental illness, it's easy to feel that you're a burden to those around you, your friends and family. I certainly suffer from this, to the point of even taking up space makes me feel uncomfortable. I just want to shrink myself away.

(Check ya later)

This feeling is heightened when it comes to the people, or person, closest to you. In my case, this is my husband.

He is level headed where I am literally moody - fiery temper, crushing lows, thrilling highs. He has a sense of responsibility whereas I'd just like to indulge in whatever tickles my fancy. He is definitely the adult in the relationship.

He checks on me when I'm up too late - 2am comes fast - to make sure I'm not slipping into hypomania. That I'm not binging on food, beer, TV. The threat of a mixed state worries him when I sit awake watching episode after episode of Brooklyn 99, afraid to go to sleep for some reason. A reason that's been with me since my teens, one I don't understand. But that's for another blog post.

(Terry's not tired, okay?)

It's hard for even me to tell if I'm getting hypomanic half of the time. I think part of it is denial - I wish I just felt that good all the time. Why can't I? Why does it have to make me so suspicious? We have to be, though, because it usually ends in a crash and burn scenario.

My husband reminds me that it's time to shower, something that seems insurmountable when I'm caught in a grasp of a fierce depression. He asks if I've had anything to eat, and has been kind enough to let me sleep late when I need it.

(I feel you, Tobias)

I've felt like a burden for a long time. It's hard to see what I bring to the table when someone is constantly having to take care of me. Before my husband, it was my parents, bailing me out of many mistakes I've made. It's easy to feel like I haven't matured past the age of 13.

What scares me the most is how much I've come to rely on that support. I feel like I can't make decisions for myself, that I'm always in doubt. My diagnosis makes me second guess my every move, its motivation. I feel like I used to have some sense of swagger and bravado and now I'm meek, muted by insecurity.

I feel powerless a lot of the time, and have no idea how to get back to the person I was. Maybe there's no going back. There's only the path ahead, and I need to muster the courage to forge it, to cut through the barriers, to carve my way.

Easier said than done.

I'd like to lift some of the pressure from those around me, while still being able to ask for help when I really need it. Balance isn't in my nature - my diagnosis says as much. But I need to remember I am more than a label written down in my chart by my psychiatrist. I need to remember that, even though it's really easy to blame it on the bipolar, to give in, that I need to fight it.

I've been diagnosed for just over two years. I'll admit that I've leaned into my diagnosis, as it explains so much about me. I think it's time to try something different. I spent so many years struggling. There's no shame in asking for help, there's no shame in needing the help in the first place. Now, I have the knowledge and support I need. It's time to find myself again.

Well, maybe not my ONLY hope.

I'm Not

I want to tell you how I'm really feeling when you ask, "How are you?" but I don't want to burden you with the truth.

I want to be able to call in sick because I'm having symptoms of my illness, but mental health shouldn't be talked about. And when it is, I should just, "Get over it" and deal with whatever is going on as if I was normal.

I'm not.

You wouldn't shame me for having the flu. You'd accept that I'm not feeling well, tell me to rest, to get better soon.

Instead you think I'm weak, that I can't control my emotions, that everyone struggles and why should I be cut any slack?

You're not alone. I think that, too. That if I just try harder, I can will my disorder away, that I can grit my teeth and power through the depression, the unreasonable anger, the anxiety.

I take an extra pill to smother the burning rage I'm stewing in for no reason. It helps, but it leaves me feeling hollow inside. The apathy is almost as bad.

What am I supposed to feel? What is normal? I don't think I'll ever be able to put my finger on it. I'm held together by a precisely crafted cocktail of pills, and my ability to pretend that I'm fine.

I'm not.

I wish the road was easier, or that I was stronger. It's a fight, and just when I think I'm winning, the world drops out from under me. Stability is fleeting. Everything is a symptom, I can't trust what I'm feeling.

I feel caught up in chaos, unable to grab ahold of anything that might stop the ups and downs. I feel like I'm on a rollercoaster without a lap bar. Any twist or turn could throw me, send me reeling out of control.

But I'll smile and tell you, "I'm doing good." I'll make it easy for you, make you think I have it under control. Make you believe it.  I don't want to pile the weight of my unpredictable moods on you. You hear it from my lips, that I'm okay.

But I'm not.