What is a Social Life?

I have been shy my entire life.  It was hard to make friends in school, but I did have a few.  I was at least likable for the most part, for those who took a chance on a strange quiet girl and got to really know me.  And I think I was a fairly good friend to have.  I was a good listener, didn't backstab or gossip, and I genuinely cared about the people I hung out with. If nothing else, I provided a few laughs what with my silliness and ability to look at things in a unique way. I maintained friendships through college and even my early years as a mother.  I remained likable, though still quiet.  I was able to hide the parts of me that were less...sane.  

It became harder to keep and make friends as my mind started to unravel.  I lost a good portion of people I hung out with (mainly church friends) when I went through the whole "crazy spell" and divorce.  I lost most of the rest during my second marriage because that's the lovely thing about abusers: they like to seclude their victims and make it impossible to reach out for help.  At this point, it wasn't just friends I lost contact with.  It was most of my family as well.  

After all those storms, you would think I would feel a little calmer.  But I don't.  You'd think I'd be busting at the seams to make social contact with others, but quite the contrary.  I find it harder than ever to talk to anyone, even my best friend that I have had since middle school.  She has always been a friend to me no matter what.  Even when I didn't speak to her for two years (thanks to the abuser).  She was still willing to be my friend, despite my inability to be a friend back.  

She and I try to meet for lunch a few times a year.  This is difficult for me because a) I don't drive anymore and b) I am very prone to panic attacks, especially in social situations.  For these reasons, the only way I can spend time with her is for my fiance to drive me there and then he stays with me to help me feel more comfortable in whatever restaurant we go to.  We go as early as the place opens, both for the fact that there is less of a crowd and my fiance works nights and consequently goes to bed pretty early in the day.  The meetings are brief, and I struggle to even make small talk.  It's pretty dysfunctional, and I am grateful that my friend and my fiance continue to make the effort for my benefit. 

But it's embarrassing, ya know.  And with other friends who ask to get together with me, I keep making excuses why I can't.  Just so I don't have to explain to them that the only way I can see them is to follow "the rules" to keep my panic at bay.  It's not a normal set up, I know.  And I miss those days when I could just hop in the car and go see a friend.  Just the two of us (or with kids in tow) having a girls' day out like real friends do.  I miss looking forward to these meetings instead of dreading them.  

I realize my anxiety and panic have grown into a matter of agoraphobia.  I avoid leaving the house as much as possible.  I will occasionally accompany my fiance to the grocery store or library, but I'm stuck like glue to his side the whole time, and that is still not a surefire way to avoid a panic attack.  I hate how much I have to depend on him, all while I am so very grateful that he puts up with me.  More than that, he encourages me but he's respectful of my limits at the same time.  I know most people would not be this understanding.  I still feel bad for him.  I want to be "normal" for him.  And God forbid if something happened to him, I would have absolutely no one in this world that could do even part of what he does for me.  That's really the only "unhealthy" part of our relationship, how much I depend on him and how much he acts like he doesn't mind it.  

I am beginning to feel more and more stuck in this little hole I've burrowed myself into.  I am still making efforts to climb out, but I seem to be going further down instead.  I don't even have a doctor or therapist to go to for help now.  Everything in life is becoming so terrifying, so suffocating, so disorienting. I'm not really sure how to get the help I need, but I know it's urgent that I figure it out. If not for myself, then for my kids, my fiance.  For friends that would actually still like to see me in person rather than our whole measly relationship being based around timid emails.  

I have been shy my entire life, but I used to be braver.  I miss that spark of determination, that gumption of "have to" instead of just "should". I miss who I was, and who I could have been without all these fears and limitations.  But I want to stop missing her and start being her again.  I must work a little harder at this, or die trying.  Which may actually happen, considering my panic attacks are pushing my blood pressure higher and higher.  

Sigh.  So stuck.  

My Happy Box

My son has a new hideout.  Under the table in his playroom he has a cardboard box just the right size for a two year old to snuggle up in.  One of my daughters even cut him a door that opens and closes for it.  So if he gets quiet, there's a good chance he is hanging out in his box.  

I have been in a relatively happy place myself for the past few days. I have had an indecent amount of depression, so depression-free happiness is not what I am talking about.  But creative happiness has been abundant as I delve into the book I am working on.  I really become myself when I am writing.  I don't know why I shut myself off from it so often.  Well, yes, of course I know: self-doubt.  And while I can't predict when that awful hate for every word I write will kick in again, I am going to enjoy the peace before it.  This nice, calm breathing in, breathing out of ideas becoming actions on paper.  

"You can avoid reality, but you cannot avoid the consequences of avoiding reality." 

-Ayn Rand

Sleep...What is That??

Angry moon is angry.

Insomnia has been full force the past few...um, I've lost count...days?  weeks??  Basically, I can't sleep.  My insomnia comes in waves.  I may be able to go to sleep with little trouble for a couple of months, but then I can't for a couple of months.  Give or take.  It's an unpredictable cycle like everything else in my anxious bipolar life.  I have a sensitivity to sleep meds (Ambien, Seroquel, Tylenol PM, etc.) in the fact that they give me horrible full-body RLS which makes it even harder to go to sleep!  Melatonin will help, but only if I take it maybe once a month.  Any more often and it does nothing.  I did stumble across one great sleep inducer: Nightime Cold-EEZE. They taste horrible, but when I'm desperate for sleep I don't mind the gagging involved to get there. I am out of them right now, but I predict a purchase of them in the near future...say payday! 

In the meantime, I am not sleeping.  I have done a lot of reading though, so it's okay.  It's not really okay.  Less sleep equals more mood swings.  More mania in this case, which makes it even harder to sleep, which keeps things snowballing, snowballing, snowballing! Mix in the stress of the holidays, and I'm not the poster child for stability right now.  But at least I am not feeling suicidal anymore.  I'm having more hypomania than anything, with speckles of fullblown mania tucked here and there, and brief crying spells where I feel terribly inadequate and confused.  But not suicidal.  Ironically, I have heard about quite a few suicides that have occurred this week. Of course, that is sadly common this time of year, but it's made even eerier for me this year because I was so close to taking that route myself. When I hear of someone else taking their own life, I realize how sad and senseless it is, but when I am feeling that way myself it makes perfect sense.  Amazing what depression can make you believe.  What a liar.  

My mind is running 50,000,000 miles a minute right now, and there are lots of bright colors and brilliant ideas to behold, so I shall cut this short and try to get in a calmer frame of mind.  I actually want to read a stack of books tonight and I just might do it.  If I can concentrate. That's a big IF.

Let There Be Lights

I did not decorate for Christmas.  However, it's relatively festive around here, what with my mood swings flashing as quickly as Christmas lights, from dark to neon to dark to neon...

Who knows, I may still put up a small tree before The Day of Presents arrives.  I was so very thankful for a surprise bonus from my fiance's boss that consisted of a $100 gift card.  While it's true you can't buy three kids much with that amount, it sure beats nothing!  I think they will be happy with the purchases.  If not, we have not taught them enough about gratitude so shame on us!  

I am feeling pretty good at the moment, waiting for the neon to turn back to darkness.  My darkest moment today was when my ex-husband told me the girls didn't want to spend this weekend with me since they are spending a week with me after Christmas.  Being told your kids don't want to see you...stings.  A lot. But I tried to turn all that pain around into something productive, which I expressed in my last post about finally forgiving myself.  My internal Christmas lights have flickered bright and dark a million times since that post, but I have not lost my determination to make good on my word.  I have also decided to follow through with my plan to dedicate 2014 to completing one of my books.  I have chosen my memoir to put the full effort into.  I have been putting off its completion because I always think I'm not ready, that delving into those memories will hurt too much.  But in reality, I wear those memories around my neck, quite tightly, on a daily basis.  To write it all down and get it over with can only help at this point.  Perhaps it will present some form of closure for me.  If nothing else, it will provide something for my daughters to read when they get older, when they are ready for all the darker details I have fluffed over in my talks with them.  If they want to know what happened to the mom they knew, then I want them to know every part of it.  While I hope this is never the case, I know there is a chance that at least one of my children will inherit mental illness from me.  My understanding will be imperative to them.  So I will aim for whatever painful honesties I have to shed from my being to write this book.  If it could help them one day, if it could explain things I have been unable to with my mouth, then it will be worth it.  

Letting Go

Sometimes you will say or do things in your life that, for whatever reason, you consider to be the right thing to say or do.  And then later down the road, you realize how very wrong you were.  There are several things you can do at this point. You can accept blame instead of making excuses.  You can ask for forgiveness.  You can try your best to change in every way possible into someone wiser and more aware of reality so that you never make those same mistakes again.  You can live and learn and try to grow from it, instead of collapsing under the consequences. You will find people along the way that love you, that stand by you, that understand, or at least try to.  You will also lose a lot of people in your life, because no matter how sorry you are, you can't undo your past, and they will never let you forget it. This part will hurt more than you can imagine, but you have to remember: their judgment of you says more about their character than it does about yours.  

The point is, time does not stop for your broken heart. You can't move backward, and you can't stay still.  You have to move forward.  Otherwise, you aren't living.  You are just dying in slow motion. 

I have been dying in slow motion for eight years. I have even tried to speed up the process a few times.  But I am still breathing.  Still hurting, still dying, but my heart is still beating and I still have a few brain cells left.  And I realize I can't keep doing this to myself.  I can't keep hovering over things done, things said, things that can never, ever be repaired.  I have to move on.  I don't know how to do this.  Therapists have not been able to tell me how to do this.  Friends haven't. Enemies haven't.  No one can tell me how to do this.  I have to learn it on my own.  But I think, finally, I am ready to do that.  Because I can't live like this anymore.  I can't keep telling people I am sorry when they will never care enough to listen.  I can't keep wishing I was dead just for fear that I will have to remember how to live.  To live after such an awful loss, where do you begin?  This isn't a jigsaw puzzle that can be pieced back together.  

I think the first step is to realize what I still have and what I have gained.  To spin around in the could-have-beens, should-have-beens, is to relive the same hell over and over and over again. Up until this point I felt too guilty to let go.  I felt like I deserved to never get over this, to never move forward.  As if holding myself prisoner would somehow prove to the ones I hurt how much I loved them, how much I want the best for them.  Instead, it has consumed me to such a point that no one wants to be around me, including my children. I continue to hurt them by not moving on, by lingering in the pain and being unable to reach out to them because I am so bogged down in the mire of memory.  This has to stop before I sever what little relationship I still have with them.   

I have always been a forgiving person.  There have been a few people who have significantly damaged me in my lifetime, but I let go.  I moved on.  I didn't hold a grudge or dwell on hatred for them.  Why haven't I shown myself the same grace?  So this is me, right now, forgiving myself.  And I can't lie and say there is a huge rush of relief in it.  Perhaps it is not a thorough forgiveness.  But it is a start.  And if I can choose to forgive myself a little more each day, maybe one day soon I can feel the motion of living again.  Everyone I love deserves for me to try.  

I Can't Stop the Cynic in Me

I walk a very thin line of trying to keep up with world news enough to not be completely ignorant and in the dark about important stuff, but not enough to let it wreak havoc on my mental health. Right now, it is all harmful to me. I know ignoring it and pretending life is wonderful for all is ridiculous, and impossible. But it is just as impossible to make sense of anything anymore. Everyone has their own opinion about everything; facts are an ancient art form that have been so muddled and scraped over by false interpretations and political agendas that the fragments of truth don't even form half the picture. So, what do we do with these table scraps? I don't know. I honestly don't know. Some say pray, and I'm all for the positivity of prayer, but it doesn't seem to be quite enough. Because prayer requires action, not just some pretty words and a coin in the bucket. Prayer is the easy part. You don't even have to believe in a god to pray. But to make any difference at all, what can we do, and for what purpose? And who can say that purpose is even the right one? After all, there are so many sides, so many beliefs and opinions. Everyone is fighting for something different. And we are all losing.

Reasons to Live

Sometimes I write something to help others and it ends up helping me :) 

I am still here.  Still alive.  I really didn't think I would be a couple of days ago.  I had it all planned out. I am not going to discuss those plans on here, but suffice it to say I thought it was a brilliant plan.  In hindsight, it wasn't. And I am glad I did not go through with it.  I can't say that I am less depressed or even remotely "well", but I am a little stronger than I was.  I can fight this a little longer.  Maybe forever.  Maybe I am much, much more resilient than I think.  

I came across a beautiful post just a few minutes ago and I encourage you all to read it.  If you are feeling the way I am it will make you cry your eyes out, but it will make you want to live as well. 

One of the sweetest people I know emailed me today to ask if I was okay.  Someone I went to high school checked on me as well.  My fiance told me that he knows that I am used to having to go through these times alone but I don't have to anymore because he will help me through it any way he can.  My toddler gave me a hug and kiss.  It's these small things that are so monumental to me.  I am not alone.  I thought I was, but I'm not. 

I can't make depression buy a plane ticket and ride off to a foreign land where it will crash and burn and never return.  I can't always clear out the demonic voices I hear or avoid seeing the Shadow Men or faceless beings wearing blue jeans or any of the other out of place but so, so real hallucinations that I encounter on a minute by minute basis during psychosis.  I can't pretend this isn't a part of me, but I have to remember that it is not all of me.  I am still that good person that people used to know.  I am not all monster.  When I feel suicidal it is because I want to kill that monster that I think has consumed everything I once was.  But I am always hiding in there somewhere, like a scared little girl, and I want to protect her, not harm her.  She's been through enough.  And she has three amazing kids and an understanding boyfriend and friends who care about her whether she realizes it all the time or not.  

So, I am still here.  And I don't plan on changing that.  

Apology

That last post was stupid.  I'm sorry.  I debated deleting it, but then I thought: why should I hide how I really feel?  Isn't that what stigma feeds off of?  Whatever the case, I am still as depressed as I was when I wrote it, but not quite as suicidal now.  I didn't go into grave detail but I did open up to my fiance tonight about what I'm going through, and despite my fears that he would be mad or exasperated, he was very comforting.  That really helped a lot.  I am going to try to get some sleep soon, which is what I have been craving all day.  But I have had really bad insomnia the past few nights despite being so exhausted all day, so that doesn't really promise anything.  Sigh.  Life goes on.  Until it doesn't. 

Google Has Temporarily Saved My Life

Looking at the statistics for this blog, I think I am pretty safe to write what I am about to write.  While I have a few readers (mainly from Russia, France, and India) it doesn't look like anyone who knows me in real life reads anymore.  So I am going to be honest.  I am thinking about killing myself. 

No, this is not a cry for help.  I am not seeking attention. I'm not trying to be "emo" or "selfish" or "stupid".  I am just telling the truth.  

I Googled "how to make suicide look like an accident" earlier today and didn't find anything noteworthy as far as ways to die.  What I did find was a lot of people trying to talk others out of going through with it...for all the wrong reasons.  I'm sorry, maybe you mean well, but telling someone they are being selfish does not change their minds.  If anything, it just drives home the fact that we aren't fit to live anymore; when we can't see past the pain anymore, when we've gotten to the point where we feel like our death would be easier on our families than our living, then being called selfish is perhaps the sharpest knife you can stab in our hearts.  Thank you for killing us quicker.  How thoughtful of you.  

Beyond that, though, I found something valuable today.  I found people who understand what this feels like.  I didn't talk to any of them (some of them are probably dead by now), but the words they wrote on various spots on the internet, the exact places my Google search led me today, reached out and grabbed hold of my trembling hand.  And suddenly I didn't feel so alone in this battle of how, of when, of why.  

I have plenty of people in my life to tell me why I should stick around. Well, I say plenty, but I really only have a handful.  Some of them would be angry with me.  Some would be devastated.  Some (like my children, and god this hurts the worst) may even blame themselves.  They might never recover.  I really don't have anyone I go to and tell that I feel like I am going to kill myself.  There are a few who I tell after the feeling passes, but I withdraw into a cold hard shell in the meantime.  I don't want to tell anyone my plans; they might try to change them.  Or, for the few friends I have who wrestle with the same demons, I am always afraid my candid talk of suicide might trigger the same feelings in themselves.  And telling a doctor or therapist?  That's a surefire way to end up in the state hospital.  If I had the option of somewhere lovely like Laurelwood where they actual do try to help, then I would drop everything and run to the place.  But being caged like an animal in the state run hospital where they don't even send in someone to talk to me except maybe one time with a doctor who appears drunk and hopeless? And with the patients who throw chairs and accuse me of stealing their room even though it is the one I was assigned? No, thank you.

The depression has been rough lately.  My last post on here (right after the fake-optimistic one of YAY I'M GOING TO FINISH MY BOOK AND NOTHING IS GOING TO STOP ME) hinted at a little of that depression I suppose, but it runs much deeper than that.  My paranoia is back.  The kind where I feel like everyone hates me, including my fiance. Everything I say gets on his nerves and I'm holding him back in life and I can't even keep our living quarters clean or consistently cook food for us...yada yada.  And to my daughters, I am just a complication.  They have a good life with their dad and stepmom and stepbrothers.  Every picture I see of them having a good time both comforts me and kills me.  Because I am not in those pictures, and I am barely in their lives.  Because I have no money and no driver's license and no guarantee at the few social functions I have the courage to attend that I won't embarrass them to death with one of my stupid panic attacks.  And my son.  When I am a good mom I am a freaking good mom, but when I'm not I am aloof, impatient, rageful, terrifying.  Of all the people I know who have a mother with bipolar disorder, none of them have ever said anything good about their childhood.  None of them.  Instead, I hear the horrible dysfunction they had to endure, and on a good day I can kid myself and think I will never produce that type of atmosphere for my dear children.  But then the rage comes.  I'm not talking about a little snap of the tongue.  I mean full-blown rage.  Screaming, throwing things, locking myself in another room so I don't kill someone rage. So, yes, I am a complication in my kids' lives, dead or alive.  While I am the only one available to watch our son each day, I figure if I died then my fiance would probably move in with his mom and then there would be plenty of people to share in a good, nurturing childhood for him.  The good things that could come from my death are abundant in my eyes.  Would they outweigh the grief?  I don't know.  I hold all the possibilities in my hands and try not to drop any of them, because to tip the scale will certainly seal my fate one way or another.  

I had decided I wanted to get the house clean before I did anything drastic.  So that no one would call me a slob when I was gone.  But just sweeping the living room floor I screamed at my son for getting in the way and then I just sank down to the pile of dust and sobbed.  I thought of waking my fiance, so he could save me from myself, but I know he needs the sleep.  I logged onto Facebook to see if there was a friend I could confide in (because I can't talk on the phone and certainly not in person) but the first thing I saw was a picture of my two beautiful girls posing with their stepmom.  And they looked so happy, like nothing was missing.  I deactivated my Facebook account, and now here I am.  Still weighing the odds, but the scale is more unbalanced.  I am unbalanced.  And I'm tired.  I'm tired of crying all day.  I'm tired of my thoughts.  I'm tired of my actions.  I'm tired of my past, my present, my future.  I'm just tired.