Having A "Severe" Psychiatric Disorder Is Lonely Business

This is something the doctors do not tell you when you are diagnosed. Being, or rather, having Bipolar Disorder is a lonely thing to have. I do not know if I have chosen solitude because I have no problems with telling people I have Bipolar, or if people just sense something is off about me, and choose not to get to know me. I do not date anymore due to the lingering negativity from my marriage to the psycho porn freak. I have no idea what could be worse than that, but I am almost 100% positive that it is out there somewhere and with me being me, I will stumble headfirst into it. I realize that you have to talk to people to get to know them. It is kind of an obvious given. It is the same with going places where people congregate, and no, concerts with your mom and her husband and your niece do not count. 

I let all my walls down with my ex-husband, and I had them in place for good reasons. However, he made it through my massive defense mechanisms, and then stomped on what remained of the walls I had spent years erecting. When someone lets you in, that is something to be respected because chances are you may be one of the few who ever gets to see inside the madness, the weirdness, and the normalcy that is you as a person. They get to see the “real” you because you felt comfortable enough to let them see. It is a horrible thing to have that kind of trust betrayed. The new walls are simply taller, thicker and more heavily fortified than the old ones. At least that is the experience that I am having. I trust very few people because my life experiences have taught me that, given the chance, most people will turn on you. They can’t hang on for the ride never realizing one very important thing: they can get off the ride of they choose. I cannot. This is my life, and while I do not relish the idea of spending it alone, if that is what happens, then it is what it is. 

I would go out, but all my former friends are married with children of their own (I would have a 27 year old and and a 17 year old right now had things been different.) And, going out by myself just does not appeal to me, and you really can’t meet someone unless you leave the limited and comfortable sphere you have created for yourself. Add a little dose of paranoia to that, and everyone now suddenly has ulterior motives, or they want to hurt you, or you are one of the unlucky few who actually run into a serial killer. That would be me. I could be dating someone like BTK, and never know it. I just attract weird and odd people, and not the good kind of weird…..the scary kind of weird. The kind of weird that can freak someone like me out, and I have been in some really strange places in my life. I have been in some really dangerous places in my life, and these folks are scarier than that.

I guess I just really miss the companionship, the having someone to talk to, eat with, get along with and fight with. I miss the stability that comes out of a good relationship (notice the qualifier “good”). My ex-husband and I did not have a “good” relationship…..at all. And, the thing that gets me, and gnaws and chews at me is that I gave up one of the purest loves I had ever had in order to marry the jackass that my ex turned out to be. And, it is highly likely that I will never see this man again. He did not try to change me. He knew who and what I was from the beginning, and it didn’t bother him in the least. There has only been one other person like that in my life. We have known each other for some 27 years. He gets me. Yes, I know I am throwing myself a pity party. But, I am in a funk. A deep blue indigo funk. And no one wants to hear it. People ask “How are you doing?” They don’t expect an honest answer. They expect, and, in fact, assume that you will lie and they can go on their merry little way. No wonder there are so many shrinks in this country.

Depressive Episode ~ A "Life Choice"

I have been stuck in blue funk mode for about a month now. After about three weeks of just feeling awful about myself, the world, and my non-productive role in it, I finally broke down and called my psychiatrist to refill my anti-depressants. One has to be very careful administering anti-depressants to Bipolar people; they have been known to kick that person right into the manic phase of the illness. Although, at this point, I am willing to put up with a mixed episode. At least I will have achieved a balanced madness instead of this one-sided version of madness. 

I get very irritable and fatalistic when in the depressive phase of this lovely “life choice” as my Father put it in an email recently. I start to think no one really wants me around, and I start to wonder about what death would be like. However, due to a promise I made 6 years ago to the Universe and all it contains, I cannot actually go through with it. Being a Buddhist, I think that would be a really bad cause that would have Karmic retributions in this life and the next. I cannot believe that my Father called having Bipolar and having your brain swimming in toxic chemicals a “life choice.” Oh that just irritates the living crap out of me. It’s like when people say being homosexual is a “life choice.” How is a chemical imbalance in my brain a “life choice?” I most certainly did not wake up one day about 20 years ago, and say “I think I am going to have Bipolar disorder, and experiment with many psychoactive drugs.” A “life choice.” Hmmpphh. That tells me he doesn’t know the first thing about mental illness. 

And then yesterday, my mother calls, and the gist of the conversation is that I only contact him when I need money. That is so objectively and subjectively not true. I have spent 14 years of my life trying to penetrate his narcissistic shell. That’s about a 1/3 of my life that I have been trying to reach out to him, and let him know how I am doing, what I am doing, and whatnot. Nowhere in these letters have I mentioned financial help. Granted, he did pay for insurance so I would not have a coverage gap, but he stopped that, and I did not plead with him to start again. He was reimbursing for Medicare part B, but he stopped, and once again, I did not go begging for him to continue. No, far from it, I just sucked it up and lived on $126 dollars less per month. So, I sent him an email telling him how much it hurt for him to say that when everything I have written to him recently has expressed appreciation and gratitude which are apparently emotions he doesn’t understand. Neither is humility. And, of course, I mentioned that Mom had told me about his comment. Now my Mother is all chappy because apparently she now feels he won’t talk openly with her anymore. So, I fucked up yet one more time. I just really felt he needed to know that his comment hurt to the bone. So, I schooled him in what it is like to be Bipolar with PTSD, et al. Why does my mother attack me when I am down? That has been her M.O. my whole life. Attack when one least expects it, and not only that, attack one’s character. I mean, after all, I “chose” to be poor and mentally ill.

This state of existence is not what I had in my life plan when I was growing up. I had it very clearly laid out: undergraduate school, and from there my Master’s and PhD. That was my plan. To find a subject that I felt fulfilled me personally, and brought a comfortable income. But, no, that is not how it turned out. I have no idea what these drugs are doing to my cognitive abilities. I know the PTSD rears it’s really ugly head when I am under too much stress. I just do not know if at this point, I would be able to do the research necessary to write a thesis. I do not know if I can hold down a job. If my past history is a measuring stick, the answer would be no. But my parents fail to see this about me. My Father thinks I use him for money when in fact, I have not asked for financial help until now to take care of my teeth, but I am hitting my Mother as well. He is so focused on the fact that he has retire at some point that he can’t see that he makes in a day what I live on for a month. If anything, he is the one who is caught up on money. Every correspondence I receive from him mentions retirement and funding that retirement. He is the President of a fucking University. His salary is a matter of public record. In the 6 years, he has been president they have paid him 2.2 million dollars. That does not sound like hardship to me. But every email. every letter mentions retirement and money. I am not bringing it up. I do not want his money. I want something far more precious: his love and understanding and time. You cannot buy that.

Man, I forgot how irritable I can get when I am in a depressive cycle. I am just waiting for the anti-depressant to start working. That’s all I really want right now is to get out of this overly sensitive, irritable, angry, and sad mood. I do not think it is too much to ask. But, maybe it is.  I am not even looking forward to my birthday. It’s just another day. I have had 43 of these, and I do not see any reason to celebrate my life because my life sucks. Okay, enough of the pity party. 

Well,, my birthday came and went without pomp or circumstance. although a very odd thing happened. Upon checking the mail on my birthday, I was surprised to find a parcel/package locker key. Being a perpetually curious person, I wondered what it could be for since I had not ordered anything, I opened the locker, and there was this rather large box, with a return address that was very familiar. It was a birthday gift from my Father! I was in shock for at least an hour, maybe more. My Father has not sent much in the way of cards for Christmas or birthdays for going on 8 years or so, and the same goes for gifts. I am still in shock and awe at the gift……and it has been about 3 weeks. Now I am baffled because the rules have changed. I suppose baffled is better than depressed.

Being Lonely And Alone Sucks

…..enough said.

It All Started At Birth (Age 16 ~ This Part Is A Bit Rough) Warning: Potential Trigger

Where was I? Oh yes, my parents were waiting for me, and they were angry although not quite as pissed off as I was. However, I may have been in shock by the time I got home. All my parents had to say was the equivalent of “Where the hell have you been”? I didn’t answer. If I remember correctly I told them to fuck off, and gave them the finger as I turned around and headed down the hall to bathroom. All I wanted to do was bathe…..for hours. You would think one of my parents would have found it odd that I stayed in the bathtub until about 3 am. If I were a parent, this would worry me. I had obviously been crying, my whole demeanor had changed in a matter of an hour or so, and I told my parents to fuck off which I had never done in my life. But, life was different now. Something had been stolen from me that night that could never be replaced; my innocence, faith in people, belief that most people were decent at heart. I knew differently now. People, including my parents, were not to be trusted in any way, shape, or form. I cold not believe that my parents had yelled at me for being late especially when there was something clearly wrong; I mean, who takes a four hour bath at 10 at night. Clue number one, and they chose to ignore it. Loss of interest in school, running away, staying out all night without calling, and the beginning of my experimentation with alcohol and drugs. And, they couldn’t see anything was wrong. I never did tell them what had happened to me that night. They would not have believed me. They thought I lied all the time, and the more dramatic, the better.

I am still pissed off at them for not taking time to find out why I was late, and why I seemed so “out of it”. Parents are supposed to support and protect their kids as best as they can, and mine yelled at me for being late because I was too busy being assaulted. Something died in me that night, and it has never grown back. It has a simple name: trust. I couldn’t trust my own parents. I couldn’t trust anybody. To this day, I have this thing about being as clean as possible, and I still do not trust anyone that I do not know well. I look over my shoulder when walking down the street, I have an exaggerated startle reflex, I have infrequent (thank all the powers that be) nightmares, I always feel like I am being followed, or that everyone has an ulterior motive that is bound to hurt me. The thing that has always bothered me is that I can see the whole episode as if I am floating above it, and I can feel it in the first person. So, I have the disassociated third person view, and I have the first person view. It is pretty nifty. I didn’t repress any of the attack. It is as fresh in my mind now as it was then. This incident probably shaped who I was then more than anything else that had occurred up to that point.

Bullies at school be damned; I had just survived something far worse than bullying, and it was made so much worse by the fact that I could not count on my parents to listen. They didn’t actually find out or even believe it had happened until my therapist told them. I guess it took someone with a Ph.D. for them to truly believe, and this was about 17 years after the fact. Sad, just freaking sad on so many levels. 

As I stated earlier, This marked my initial foray into the world of what became a really bad substance abuse problem. At first, it was smoking pot on occasion with a friend of mine. Then the pot smoking became a regular thing. It helped me deal with what had happened. Like I said, I didn’t tell anyone for about 2-3 years. The only thing that was apparent was my grades fell dramatically. If I had wanted to die before, I really wanted to die now, and I really didn’t give a flying f*&^ what happened to me after that. Sexual assault is one of the most devastating events anyone can live through. It is completely different than any other form of physical violence because in a matter of minutes, your whole life and outlook change. Hitting someone is one thing, and yes, it can break a person down over a period of time. Sexual abuse makes the survivor feel dirty, ashamed, guilty, and like it was somehow their fault. And, you know intellectually these ways of thinking and feeling are not right, but your heart and soul don’t know that. So that was the opening of my 16th year on this planet. Not a good start. The “drug years” follow, but they are hazy…..very hazy….

It All Started At Birth (An Ongoing Story About How I Arrived Here) Warning: Potential Trigger

It all started the moment I was born with a predisposition to being moody. I was apparently a difficult and demanding baby and child. I can remember being and feeling very sensitive to others even as a toddler. I know “they” say we cannot remember that far back, but I do not believe that. I can remember the house that I first came home to from the time that I was about two. Obviously, I do not recall being an infant, but I can remember my younger sister as an infant which would put me at about 2 years of age. I can recall her nursery. It was the early 70’s, and she had shag carpet in her room. I vividly recall stepping on a toothpick in that room, and she was still in a crib. I recall feeling rejected when she didn’t want to play with me, and crying as I played alone. Loneliness and being or feeling alone are both very prominent in my life, and have been for many years. There really is not a feeling that is worse than that sense that you are alone even when you are with someone. Well, maybe there is, but I have not experienced it yet. 

So, I was born with the genes that predisposed me initially to deep depressions, and finally a diagnosis of Bipolar disorder. My paternal grandmother was a manic depressive who went untreated. Since the first approved treatment for Bipolar was Lithium in 1972, she would have been undiagnosed and unmedicated for about 63 years. One can only imagine the living nightmare that would have been. Well, actually, I can imagine it as I lived it for many years not knowing what was wrong. Or, more specifically what was causing the nightmarish shifts in mood. Perhaps she was allergic to lithium as I am, but I really think she just didn’t know what she had. There really wasn’t a diagnosis for manic depression when she was growing up, getting married, having children, and living her life. Besides I do not think she thought anything was really “wrong”. My grandmother typically would be in the manic phase of the illness, although she and my grandfather did not share a room for whatever reason (perhaps depression or extreme mania that he needed to get away from). She was always flitting around barely able to keep still making sure guests had everything that they needed or could want. She was very social during these episodes. She was also in the early stages of Alzheimer’s which also has a genetic component. That scares me due to the fact that it is her genetics that partially contributed to my mood disorder. The maternal side of my family has it’s own history of depression. So, I got it from both sides.

I think the first time I can remember being truly depressed was when I was still in grade school. I had few friends and the ones I had tended to drop me fairly quickly. In fact, I do not remember having a “best friend” that was another little girl. My best friend at the time was the step son of a man my father worked with at the University. Seems like every time I think about the friends I have had over the years all have been male. Anyway, I had one good friend, and the rest were to be avoided at all costs as they bullied me relentlessly. Perhaps that is why I tend to be a bit closed off. Or maybe, I just had not encountered The Art of War yet.

I remember not wanting to go to school, and pretending to be sick so I could stay home and be by myself. I think I was about 10 years old when I first really recall being depressed in a clinical sense. I wanted to be a cat more than anything in the world because they seemed to have it pretty good. They were relaxed (unlike dogs who need a lot of attention), they just wanted to eat, sleep in the sun and be petted. It appeared good to me.

At the time I was in the “gifted” program for students who had IQ’s in that range, and needed additional educational and creative outlets. We got to leave class for an hour and go do neat things like dissecting frogs or doing research papers on an assigned topic. I had been in the program since the age of 7, and we were all pretty much outcasts because the other students did not understand why we got to leave the regular class room. I knew one kid who could solve a Rubik’s cube (no matter how messed up it was) within about 5 minutes. He was probably a genius on some level.

Moving on….I was 10 when I first recognized that my moods and perceptions were different than others. I thought that no one could possibly like me, I was pretty convinced that my parents didn’t love or want me (I was a birth control failure), and I had an overdeveloped fight or flight instinct when faced with something that I perceived as a threat to me. If I was teased in any way, I ran. If I had to give a presentation like a book report, that triggered a strong flight instinct. I ran from almost everything, and could be counted on being found crying on the swings in the back of the playground. I appeared weird, and “not cool” to the other kids, and topping it off was that I could identify and perceive adult emotions, but I could not process them. I was too young. So it all came out in emotional outbursts, anger and aggression towards others, etc. All of which are classic symptoms of depression in a child. I also had, in my mind, decided that if I were to die that nobody would come to the funeral. Suicidal ideation in a child of that age? Probably. I could see it so clearly. The casket, the flowers, and the very random people of which there were few that actually cared to come. I definitely wanted to be if not invisible to others, then dead. Everything hurt too much. I just wanted out. I was 10, and I wanted to die more than anything in the world. My first attempt at leaving this world behind came when I was 12.

Nobody knew any of this was going on in my head; not my parents, not my teachers, not my few friends. I kept it to myself because I honestly believed that I would be better off dead, and I did not want to tell this to anyone although there was clearly something abnormal about my mood. Kids that age typically play with one another, and all I wanted to do was be alone so I could read. At the time, I was reading a lot of Nancy Drew books, and I wished I could be more like her. I could read two or three books in a day. I really do not know what my parents thought. They weren’t really around. My mother was busy as a full-time Law student, and my father did a lot of traveling for work. Of course, now I can look back and see that I was probably delusional, and operating on some form of psychosis. I just recall feeling really bad about myself and my worth as a member of this planet. Like I said earlier, I was 12 the first time I tried to kill myself. I drank ammonia mixed with soda after being disciplined by my parents for using a curse word when the soda fizzed up and out when I took off the lid. I look at it from the perspective of an adult with mixed episode Bipolar with psychotic features, and I can see how inherently pointless it was to try something like that for getting “talked” to by my dad for cursing. 

Since my word count is already in the 1300’s, I will start the next part in middle school when everything gets worse than I thought it could get…….

Absence

I know I haven’t been blogging much over the past month or so, but, I just haven’t had anything to write about. Which is odd for me. I did write a 4 page thesis in my journal about my fear of my doctors’ retiring, people passing away before me, and how I could rationalize suicide so as not to be left alone with only myself to look after me. I do not always do a great job of that.

I did have the pleasure of taking the MMPI (Minnesota Multi-phasic Personality Inventory), and it confirmed that I am nearly equally as depressed as I am manic. So, that was nothing new. My paranoia score was quite high, but this little diagnostic tool can be quite accurate if you report honestly. Apparently, I am having a hard time trusting people. I think it is that my chemical riddled brain is finally starting to process how abusive my marriage really was. Leave it to me to marry a guy who really couldn’t show emotion or attach himself to a person and has a rather banal addiction to internet porn. It is interesting, though that since I have been divorced my level of “self-worth” has ridden. Probably because I am not trying to be something that I am not. My anxiety level is higher than normal, but I chalk that up to being a slave to public transportation. Would explain the paranoia too. You would believe how many men will stop to offer me a ride. I mean, really? These guys really think I am going to get into a stranger’s vehicle. No, I value my life and personal safety too much to do something that erratic. You feel really exposed sitting on the side of a street waiting for a bus that may not come for 45 minutes especially when you are female even if you are 5’10” tall, and could probably take a potential creep down. See, paranoid.

Another blogger posed a very interesting question in his last post. He stated that many people with manic depression consider it to be part of who they are, and if there were a “magic” pill that could fix everything, would you take it? I do not consider Bipolar to be part of who I am, fundamentally. I believe that it is something that I have. It is estimated that somewhere around 3% of the population have this disorder to varying degrees. It is gender neutral and can afflict males and females equally. Hence, I am not the only person who “suffers” with this affliction. I have always been moody, and generally depressed. I had my first major depressive episode when I was about 12. I had my first nuclear meltdown when I was 30. I was diagnosed with Bipolar I with Psychotic tendencies, Panic Disorder with and with out Agoraphobia, PTSD, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. But, I have always been anxious and a bit high strung. This is the personality that I am used to. If there were a magic pill that could take all that away, who and what would I be? People live productive lives with this disorder all the time. Just Google “famous people with Bipolar”. You’d be surprised who also has this disorder, and hide it quite well. I hide it quite well. Most people just think I am weird. 

I guess my biggest fear about a pill that could fix everything right now is that it would also change my personality which I have grown quite fond of, even if no one else is a big fan. I do not know how I feel about that idea. I mean, getting rid of the paranoia, the anxiety, the fear, and the constant mixed state so quickly might trigger something else. It’s like my father explained to me once; for each medication you take, it locks like a key into the neuroreceptors that it was designed to fit. This opens up other receptors kind of like doors. One medication closes a door, but opens new ones. The scientists do not know how most of these medications really work in the brain. A magic pill could be like the genie in the bottle. It opens, you make your wishes and hope they were the right ones. So, in response, I would have to really consider what a “magic” pill would do before I took it. Mostly, I would be afraid that it would so fundamentally change my brain chemistry that I would no longer be who I consider myself to be, and would end all of the traits that make up who I am aside from the Bipolar disorder. Your basic nature is a combination of genetics and your environment. I do not know I feel about messing with the brain at the genetic level. That freaks me out a little bit. 

In the immortal words of Forrest Gump, “…And that’s all I have to say about that..”.

Blog For Mental Health 2014

I will start with the words of the founder of this project: “I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.” 

About 13 years ago, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder Type I with Psychotic Tendencies, PTSD, ADD, Panic Disorder with and without Agoraphobia, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I already knew about the PTSD. I could have diagnosed myself. I had been suffering from symptoms since I was a few months past my 16th birthday when I was sexually assaulted by my “boyfriend”. I was officially diagnosed when I was 20. I have never received counseling for this event, nor have I talked about it with anyone. Perhaps, that is why the symptoms of PTSD linger. I have become used to the now occasional nightmare, the hyper-alertness, the jumping when someone or a noise startles me; it is just how I live. I have also lived with the anxiety disorders for most of my life. I can remember feeling anxious as far back as age 6. I used to make myself sick because I would become so anxious about something as “simple” as going to school.

The depression that I have suffered since about the same age is what I guess became Bipolar disorder. My paternal grandmother was manic-depressive and brilliant, but abusive as she was more often than not in a manic phase. From what research I have done, I understand that one can be predisposed to the illness. I feel bad for her as she was manic-depressive when there was no such thing, and no treatment for it. Lithium did not become approved for the treatment of manic-depression until 1972, and by then she was displaying the early stages of Alzheimer’s. She was a brilliant woman as so many mentally interesting people are. She was an accomplished oil-painter who did one woman shows at museums around New Mexico. She had a Master’s in Mathematics from SCU. She was one of the most interesting people I have ever known. I sleep underneath a beautiful painting of lilacs every night, and I see it right before I turn out the light and marvel at her ability. I have tried to paint. It is not my milieu. Writing is the one thing I have consistently done well throughout my lifetime. I received my first journal at the age of 12, and have been writing my life, thoughts, opinions, and what not down for over thirty years. 

When I was first diagnosed with manic-depression or Bipolar disorder, I was diagnosed as a type II as my therapist did not feel that I had experienced a full-blown manic episode. She felt that my mania was confined to hypo-mania, but the more I talked, the harder she listened, and she came to believe that what she had initially thought were hypo-manic episodes were, in fact, mild manic episodes. I experienced a lot of bouncing thoughts, I was hyper-sexual, I self-medicated and had done so for many years, I took many risks with my health and relationships, I had no control over money; basically my life was constantly on the brink of complete and utter ruin due to manic behavior. I was also depressed a good deal of the time. Where the psychosis occurred, I have no idea. But, then that is the nature of psychosis; you do not know that you are psychotic. 

I have been hospitalized numerous times both voluntarily because I did not feel safe around myself, and “involuntarily” because others felt I was a danger to myself. I saw many different manifestations of Bipolar disorder, I saw people with Schizophrenia, people who were just psychotic for whatever reason, and I saw people who were simply depressed, had attempted suicide or were afraid that they would. When you are in the hospital, everyone is “crazy” which is a term I really do not like. I do not consider myself or others “crazy”, “nuts” or any other moniker the public chooses to attach to us. What I see are people fighting very hard to maintain some semblance of normalcy in their lives. We know we are different than “normal” people. But, that begs the question, how are “normal” people different from us? There are some pretty odd “normal” people out there. The only difference seems to be they can hide it better than most of us not so normal people can.

So, yes, I have been a frequent flyer at the mental hospital here. I was verging on alcoholism, and when I was drunk, it always seemed a good idea to take all my medication. I had a very difficult time adjusting to the diagnosis. I lost my job, I couldn’t work because the medications they gave me had horrible side effects for me, I couldn’t go to school for the same reasons. As far as I was concerned, my life was over. The only that had to be done was the physical taking of my life. And, every single time I tried, something pulled me back and I would call 911. I have done this somewhere between 11 or 12 times since I was 16, with most of the attempts coming after the diagnosis of Bipolar type 1. Like I said earlier in the paragraph, as far as I was concerned life was over, and the only thing left to do was get rid of the body and the mind.

After I came to grips with my diagnosis, and was on an effective medication plan, I realized how much grief I had put my family through. I do not believe that even at my lowest point that I could rival in feeling how my mother and my father must have felt. They were sure that some day I would succeed and they would lose their first child to a mental disorder. Children are not supposed to die before their parents. Especially when they are in their 30’s. I was an adult, not a child, not a teenager. I should have been able to control it better. Interesting thought I just had. At the time, I felt that my life had fallen apart and I was justified in dying by my own hand. Now, years later, I feel that I should have been able to control myself. I still have Bipolar disorder. I am still medicated, and have been seeing psychiatrists and the same psychologist for over 10 years, yet my statement feeds directly into the stigma that I try so hard to fight. That’s weird. I still have suicidal thoughts, I still wonder if everyone would be better off if I was dead; these thoughts are still with me, yet I feel I should be able to control them. Bipolar is not controlled, it is managed. There is a difference. 

At any rate, this is getting too long. I have not really experienced any real stigma from the outside world; even from people I have told that I do not know well. But, I am very well versed in hiding it when I am in public. The real stigma has come from a corner I would never have seen, and that is my family. My father does not talk to me or see me anymore. It has been 4 years since I have seen him, and the same since I have talked to him. Surprisingly, he called and left a message on my birthday. I did not call him back. He emailed and texted on Christmas. Out of consideration for his efforts I responded albeit rather impersonally. My uncle and his wife have not invited me to any family gathering in a number of years. My cousins don’t know where I live or have a working phone number for me. I am the oldest granddaughter. My last grandmother died last year. She was the glue that held the family together. She never made me feel different. She was very Christian, and believed that God made us exactly the way we were supposed to be. Everyone else, on the other hand, has made me to feel ostracized except my mom and her husband’s family. So, what I would have expected  from society came from a totally blind corner: my family. But, I guess they are part of society, too, and have their own thoughts about mental illness.

Bipolar Disorder Seems To Eat Friends

I just found out through my student loan provider of all sources that my “best” friend no longer wishes to be used as a reference for me. I think that this individual could have at least done me the courtesy of letting me know themselves, but it would appear that mental “interestingness” eats friends without you knowing it. I haven’t even really talked to this person in years so I know that it isn’t the “neediness” factor. It’s not like I am calling this person at midnight when in manic mode, or bawling uncontrollably while in depressive mode. I do not bother anyone with my problems any more. Not since my mom cut me off for a year and a half about 6 or 7 years ago. I was not allowed to call her, go to her house, do laundry at her house, nothing, nada, zip. I learned my lesson, and now I do not bother people because even if they care, they do not want to hear it. Hell, I do not want to hear it, and I have to live with it. 

I guess I have more lessons to learn. So much for having a support network. This stupid illness is very alienating. I had a friend, and now I do not have a friend. Well, I guess Christmas time is as good a time as any to learn through a third party that your friend has been eaten. There are many reasons why people do not like this time of year. I suppose I just added a new one. Hmmmmpppphhhh. We had been friends since high school, but I can only assume that the lost friend just doesn’t want to be friends anymore. At least that is the way it appears. Of course, I may be entirely off the mark. I often am, and tend to filter everything through the most negative lens available to me. That’s something to be worked on. I don’t know. Maybe the friendship has outgrown it’s commonalities. My life is nothing like theirs and likewise. So, my illness has consumed another. 

 

So I Am All Tranced Out On House Music And Thinking…..

This is a “thought bubble”. It is an illustration depicting thought. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

I am thinking about the impossible to know with a reasonable level of certainty. What do two people have to do or not do to make a marriage work or die a flaming death much like mine? AC/DC’s song “Shot Down in Flames” comes to mind. While I admit that the world is probably a safer place for all involved if I live alone, I wonder what it was that I obviously did or did not do. I know what my problem with the whole grown-ups behaving badly thing is/was. No need to cover old ground, or extremely tainted water under a falling bridge.

 

I realize that having a diagnosis such as Bipolar tends to knock you a little sideways, and your perceptions of yourself in relation to the world changes a bit (maybe more than a bit). However, once you have recovered your senses, and you happen to be a highly functional mentally interesting person, shouldn’t things get easier not more tedious? Yes, I flew off the handle one too many times, but once again, I wasn’t the one who could not leave my computer sometimes for days on end. I tried to communicate, but how do you communicate with someone who does not know how to communicate with you? It’s like clapping with one hand (thanks to Anthrax for that analogy).

 

What are you supposed to do with someone who has no desire to really get to know who you are apart from your interestingness, and does not seem to have any desire to learn anything substantial about Bipolar? I, upon receiving said diagnosis, went out and read everything that seemed legitimate. How can you battle that which you do not understand fully? Answer: you cannot effectively deal with any illness unless you know what you are dealing with. 

 

This was supposed to be forever, but I guess that’s a big fairy tale society tells little girls: your knight in shining armor will come and all will be sparkly and shiny and smiley and happily ever after. They lied. I think I met my knight in shining armor, and ditched him to get married to a man who turned out to be a far cry from the “face” he put on during the courtship. I am sure he feels the same about me, but I really do not know how to be anything but myself. He knew my moods weren’t completely handled, but he said, no problem, he could handle it. Apparently not. 

 

So, now I am in my early 40’s looking at starting all over again. Dating in my 30’s was not a problem because of said knight in shining armor. I never had to worry about someone to go drink beer and listen to blues bands with. He was always there for me, in all ways. What the hell was I thinking? Now, I am left to pick up the wreckage that used to be a perfectly satisfying life. I did not have self-worth problems, I did not have problems with how I looked, I did not have a problem with how feminine I was or was not. I didn’t have a problem with a lot of things. As I imagine he didn’t either. But, I wasn’t shattering his masculinity every single day. 

 

i think that I took him very much by surprise when I actually did file for divorce. I had mentioned it several times over the past couple of years, but he never thought I would actually take any action. He said everything I said was just talk and more talk, no action. Well, I guess you shouldn’t threaten me physically. I don’t cotton to that very well. I just wish I could pinpoint where it all went wrong. When I became unhappy with him and he with me. I play it over in my mind, and nothing seems to just pop out at me. I think I became upset with myself when I stopped getting mad about his Internet activities. There was no point. i was just wasting breath. I do not know, but I do not think I will try it again anytime soon. Talk about a learning experience. Never again will I allow myself to be treated like that. I am surprised I didn’t see it until the very end. After all, I grew up in an emotionally abusive family. I should have seen it for what it was and left much sooner. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so scarred. Again.

 

So Close, Yet So Far

Legal research (Photo credit: gwilmore

My mother and I filed the final Divorce packet about two days ago. He never officially answered the summons alerting him to the Petition for Divorce action being taken against him. It was due at the Civil Relations or Domestic Relations clerk’s office 30 days after the summons and a copy of the “Lawsuit” (I guess is what it really is) were served to him. He said about 10 days after the 30 were up that he needed to get to court to file his response. I told him his 30 days was up about 2 weeks before. I do not understand this guy. He gets a traffic ticket in Los Lunas, and makes damn good and well he knows where the courthouse for that region is, and what time he needs to be there. And, he goes at the appointed time and date. What is so different about answering a Summons alerting you that your wife is leaving?

It is almost like he is a child, and if he puts his hands over his ears and eyes, it will all go away. I really do not think that he realized that I was deadly serious this time. He had said that I was all talk and no action when it came to leaving the relationship. Hmmm, I guess not. I spent about 2 weeks packing and moving, and I moved to an apartment about 10 days ago. My mom then discovered there is different paperwork to be filed in a Default Judgment scenario which is what we now have. So, with my mom helping (as a private attorney, she filed lots of Divorce cases before she moved to the City), I filed the Default Judgment packet asking the Judge to please dissolve the marriage, and return to me to my rightful name. I never did feel comfortable having taken his last name. Foreshadowing, perhaps? At any rate, those are the two things that I want: the marriage from hell dissolved, and my name returned to me. 

I do not think he knows what he did with all his passive-aggressive and narcissistic behaviour. I have taken steps backwards due to his verbal and emotional abuse and neglect. I no longer feel a sense of self-worth (if I was worthy, then he would have not been on the Internet looking at and watching porn), I no longer feel I am attractive or even the slightest bit sexy (see comment above), I have lost self-esteem (whatever that is, i know that I have lost it), I treat myself badly, I feel very unlovable and not wanted in any way, shape or form,etc. And, all he had to do to keep his marriage was get out of Pornography “fun-land”, read a damn book about my main illness, Bipolar disorder type I, and show me that I was wanted and appreciated. That is all he had to do. Instead, he did the opposite. He would claim that only three things were important to me: my mental health, my self, and my cat. He left something out. He was important to me; I loved him (or thought I did), and all I really wanted was for him to be happy, but I am now guessing he is not capable of true and lasting happiness or contentment. 

Hopefully in about 2 weeks, i will be rid of this foul and toxic relationship, I will have my name back, and I can go ahead with the work of healing and putting back together everything he undid. All those years of therapy, and this asshole wipes out about 2 years of progression towards my stable madness.