Don't Stand So Close to Me

I was always a good student, K-12. I got mostly A's, a rare B here and there. High school was extremely easy for me. I don't mean to be braggadocios, it simply was. I never studied, except on my cumulative history final. I never revised papers, I had 110% in my Spanish class, and I got an A on my To Kill A Mockingbird test. I never read the book.

Honor's cord and everything. Thanks for the bunny ears, Mom.

When I got to college, it was a huge shock. Everything was so much more difficult and time consuming. I turned in my first essay in a comp class and got a C! I had always been great at English, I couldn't believe it. I'd been expecting that effortless A.

If high school was supposed to prepare me for this, it had completely missed the mark. I buckled down and, with a little extra effort, I was getting some A's, mostly B's and a few C's. I wasn't over the moon, but I wasn't failing completely.

Here I am, "going" to college. Or laying on it.

Yes, those are rave pants. No, I've never been to a rave.

I was dating a guy at the time that I completely adored. We met when we were in high school. I loved him so much, sometimes I would cry because I wasn't sure he felt the same. I didn't believe that anyone could have that much affection for me. My therapist would have a field day with that, I'm sure.  I was always scraping the bottom of the barrel of my self-esteem, and I'm sure having to constantly convince me that he cared put a strain on him.

So this is... from Cinderella.

We went to separate universities, not far apart but enough that we would only see each other on the weekends. The distance didn't seem daunting, so we decided to stay together. I was willing to do pretty much anything, because I was head over glass-slippered heels for this guy.

As time went on, those visits became fewer and farther between. I'll admit, I was putting in less effort than I should have, being so wrapped up in my theatre community and my new friends. It shouldn't have come as a surprise when he called to break up with me. I had a moment of a meltdown; honestly, I cried for five minutes and then was strangely okay. I don't think I was actually processing what had happened. My brain was attempting to protect me from complete collapse.

The next day he showed up on my doorstep, saying he changed his mind and we should stay together. I didn't really have the opportunity to let the separation settle in before we began again. Even though things had been bumpy, I thought this guy was my future, so how could I say no? I can't remember how that felt at the time, if it was right or wrong for me, if I had my hesitations. I suppose it felt like what I was supposed to do.

Our relationship was weird after that, which wasn't shocking. It was strained, and he didn't seem to trust me around my guy friends, which had never been an issue before. In retrospect, it makes sense. Often times, when someone's cheating on their partner, they point their guilty finger to deflect any suspicion.

Credit Arrested Development. Also my feelings at the time. 
Also a much needed humor break.

I was devastated. I always thought no one would ever love me or be attracted to me, and I took this as proof. I just wasn't enough. I didn't want to feel the pain and bitterness. I didn't want to feel anything.

This story of love lost is a common one. I'm sure most of us have had a similar experience. It shatters you, you feel like you'll never be okay again. Slowly, it gets easier, and you can almost live again. Eventually, you can love again.

Personally, I decided to plummet face-first into self-sabotage. I wanted to suffer, I wanted to fail. I felt like I deserved it, that it was the only thing I deserved. I could barely leave the house, let alone make it to class. I grabbed on to anything that would aid my self destruction, complete with a really reckless rebound relationship. I lost my job, went into incredible debt, started getting D's and eventually F's. I don't know if I'd call it depression because it was far too volatile for that. In retrospect, it was probably dysphoric mania. It's surprising how much you can ruin your whole life in two years; that's how long it lasted.

Hey there, college girl. Stop studying so hard.

I'm not sure how, but eventually I came out of it. It was like waking up from a nightmare to the safety of your own bed. I don't know if my brain was just so fried I can't remember, or if it was just so subtle I didn't notice. I got a job I actually liked and cared about. The rebound relationship that lasted 18 months crashed and burned in its own horrendous spectacle. Maybe I wasn't okay yet, but I was getting there.

I emerged, scarred but renewed. Maybe that's how bipolar works, maybe that's what it is. I was still pushing through to finish school, and my grades pulled out of the nose dive they'd been in for four semesters. My last year and a half I got mostly A's again. I managed to graduate. My GPA was shit, but I had a degree. I'd survived college.

My dad was super proud! I was... kind of drunk, to be honest.

Bipolar never goes away. I actively work to treat it, with medication, therapy, and support groups. Now, as I tackle College: Take Two, things are different. I no longer want to get it over with. I'm older and, I hope, wiser. I'm in a very stable relationship, and not trying to balance work and school. I want to learn, and move toward something to make this world a better place. It might be more uphill than down, but I'm ready to keep moving forward.

First test! Hanging on my fridge. Because this time,
I'm quite proud.

And Like That, She's Gone

Not so very long ago, I ended an 8 year endeavor that was very close to my heart. It came about as a result of injury and, though I didn't know it at the time, I was having a pretty severe mental collapse.

For 8 years I poured my heart, my soul, my body into it, and then I broke away almost entirely.

This love was roller derby. I was pretty badass. Check out this derby booty:

Battle E. Portman if you're nasty. Credit Schonfeld Photography

It was often a tumultuous affair, putting in a lot and not getting back as much. Abusing my body for the sake of the sport. Straining my actual relationships due to the time commitment. But it was all worth it.

Into my 8th season, my injuries started stock piling. My knees sounded like ratchets (still do), I had endured a stress fracture, and multiple, and I mean multiple, concussions. That's what happens when you're 4'11" - you get hit in the head. A lot. The injury that broke the camel's back was a dislocated, tendon torn pinky. A seemingly easy and innocent injury compared to some I'd seen in my years on the flat track. Since I was grooming dogs at the time, it was a big deal. The recovery was months-long and it made it very difficult to do my job.

The real story, however, is that my mental health was degrading to a point that I could hardly function. I had always thought that everyone went through the same horrendous bouts of depression and panic that I did. Turns out, that's not necessarily the case. My ups and downs were a little more severe than the average person's.

I didn't know I was bipolar then. I was sliding ever faster into one of the most depressive states of my life, thus far. Hopefully ever. But I think that's a little too optimistic.

I hid my instability, thinking that's what everyone did. That everyone felt just as lost, miserable, and hopeless as I did, and that hiding it was just how it was done. If I showed any of my feelings, I assumed I was being weaker than the rest. Showing weakness was akin to baring my throat to a blood-thirsty predator, and I wasn't about to roll over. Even though I really, really wanted to.

I spent long stretches on the floor, unable to move. I slept more than twelve hours a day, because if I was asleep, I couldn't feel as darkly reckless as when I was awake. I didn't necessarily want to end it all, but part of me wanted it all to end.

Legit on the floor. Sat there for an hour.

Needless to say, I had zero energy left for roller derby.

Maybe if I had retired when I was mentally healthy, I would have kept contact, stayed involved. But I barely had the energy to get out of bed, so I broke it off and didn't look back.

I have a lot of regrets about it. Of course I do. I loved playing, loved my teammates and the friendships I had made. At the time, none of that mattered. Now that I'm finally headed up from this mental mess, I miss it. It was a time in my life that maybe was coming to a close anyway. Maybe there could have been a way for me to stay involved, something less time consuming, less physically demanding.

I'll never get that opportunity back, and that hurts down into my heart space.

Recently, one of my league mates contacted me about announcing at an upcoming bout. I was pretty nervous almost immediately. It had been so long! (Really only 2 years or so) Would I remember how the game was played? Would I make an ass of myself?

I've felt pretty stable this week. Yes, it's often week by week. My med changes seem to be working. I feel human again. I feel like there are so many things I've said no to in my life because my brain wasn't healthy enough for me to say yes. But a good friend recently gave me great advice: Will I look back on this and say, "Gee, I'm really glad I didn't do that?"

Of course not. So instead of saying no, I said yes.

The team has changed, there are a lot of new faces. They probably don't even know who Battle E. Portman was. But there are some I still know. Helping the league in any way is the least I can do for all the years it gave me strength, love, and support.

I'm nervous, of course. But I'm also really, really looking forward to it.

Credit... I'm not sure. Please don't sue me.

I Feel Violent, Like I'm Dying

Bipolar disorder isn't always about mania and/or depression. It certainly is sometimes, but for me, a lot of the time it's about anger.

Bipolar comes with an unhealthy dose of irritability. Sometimes I don't want to be touched, or have any form of human contact. When it's bad enough, I can't stand the feel of my clothes brushing against my skin, or my hair tickling my shoulders. These things agitate me, make me frustrated.

Other things make me incredibly angry. I have the shortest of short fuses. Driving is unbearable. Anyone who meets me with any resistance will likely get yelled at.

Ah, the airport. A surefire way to make me Hulk out.

I've had this agitation since I was ten, I remember. I would yank my hair back off my forehead with a tight fist, irritated by it getting in my eyes. I even saw a therapist for one session when I was 24 because I hated my rage-fueled explosions, but I determined I couldn't get any help there. That was back before I realized how vital therapy was. Before I knew I was saddled with a mental illness for the rest of my life.

The feeling of this anger is so uncomfortable, overwhelming, and embarrassing. I try my very best to keep it under control. When I was a teenager, I used to punch walls. I'd punch the roof of my car.

I punched a mirror once and broke it into my knuckles. I still have the scar.

With the right meds, the boiling hatred of everything mostly subsides.

I haven't been on the right meds.

I had been taking 900mg of lithium - a fairly average dose - before I did my bike ride across Iowa. We dropped it down to 600mg during the ride to prevent dehydration. Between quitting my job, starting school, realizing I needed to go a different direction with school, dropping classes, not having much to do, feeling worthless, etc, I was getting more agitated, and way more depressed.

Really depressed. Crazy dark thoughts that I'm honestly not ready to share with the world yet depressed.

So today I went and saw my psychiatrist.

A very familiar waiting room

The good news is this is nothing out of the ordinary for someone with bipolar. We tweaked my meds and added three new supplements. I'm glad to have the ability to get the medical care I need, have solutions in the form of several handfuls of pills.

But it's also unfair to have to fight this demon all the time, to know that the rest of my life will be about finding the balance of what I'm taking, choking down endless tablets and capsules.

My current array of daily medications

I can't imagine what it's like to be healthy. I've been battling serious allergies since I was 4 years old, and I've only added to my chronic illness list since then. I'm only 36 now, who knows how many other things I might have to struggle against? I keep trying to tell myself to be grateful to be able to afford treatment, to have access to it, that others have it worse, at least I'm fairly regulated and able to make it through the day most of the time.

But still, it's a bitter pill to swallow.