Changing directions

I tried and failed (again) to work a full-time job. My bipolar disorder is too out of control. I'm just not stable. Haven't been in years, really. I didn't want to go on disability. But I'm treatment resistant, and while I hope my persistence in trying new medication combinations will eventually pay off with higher functioning (or a return to my "normal" at least), for now I'm facing the fact that I need the financial stability that comes with disability benefits. I'm awaiting a hearing. I'm crossing my fingers. My age and my education are very much going to work against me. So there's no guarantee the judge will see it my way. Well, not just "my" way but my multiple doctors' and therapists' ways too ... Just have to wait and see. So I'm circling the wagons, waiting.

If I DO manage to be awarded disability, it will mean adjusting to a new identity in some ways. I've always defined myself and my success by my career(s). Finding intrinsic worth is a tall order when you've grown up in a capitalist society where expecting people to will-power their way through adversity is a moral issue.

Hospital journal excerpt, in blue

(written in blue crayon) I am lying in my bed facing the wall, a portion of which is covered with a partition. Thicker than wallpaper, not just paint. It’s is the perfect smokey marriage of navy and  plum, with the faint texture of an old woman’s skin gone to crepe paper. I press my palm to it, half hoping my fingers will seep through into another world, where my skin will be transformed into this color, a new creature with delicate blue skin that is wrinkled with fine lines of the lessons of an older, more enlightened version of myself. In my new world my skin would be revered as it speaks a story of endless harrowing battles won. I am a Queen. A Conquerer. I trace my fingertips, slow as with a lover, but it is just an ordinary wall. So I turn away, sit up, now cross-legged in my bed scribbling with a blue crayon because I don’t know what else to do.

How Not to Die

For an art therapy exercise I made this collage. I was rummaging through magazine clips and the "How Not to Die" jumped out at me, as that seemed exactly what the main goal of my hospitalization was. Other phrases are Out and About, Discover More, Be Happy, Live Well, Caught in the Moment, and Harmony. Pics are of a waterfall, good meals, a BFF necklace, a woman jogging, parasailing (as in, having a parachute if you're going to take a big leap), a dog, colored pencils, paint, tambourine, hands clapping, scrapbook paper in purple gingham, and I made a silver glitter heart. I put the red feather with the Miss Scarlet phrase to remind myself of the scene where she has to go into the lion's den, so to speak, and hold her head high despite the horrible things everyone was believing and saying about her.

If I'd had a long time to ponder over this, it would've looked very different. But to paste it together in 30 minutes, I don't think it's too bad a message. Fitness, creative expression, savoring life, support system, channel Scarlet, glitter, and love ... these things will keep me alive.

I'm happy and it's terrifying me

I am happy. In this moment. I am myself. And in this moment, I am also terrified.

I have been in a deep depression for over three months, with some ultra rapid cycling in the month preceding that. For a week now, I have felt more like myself. This is good news. But I am scared.

My thoughts are hopeful again. I see possibilities concerning music projects and potential research for my Ph.D., should I get accepted to the program. My thoughts are not manic. But they are fluid. They are positive. They are rational. All good things. But I am scared.

When you’ve flipped from depression to mania as many times as I have, you learn to fear that normalcy. Because maybe it’s just something you’re breezing by on the way to the hard edge of a manic high.

I used to chase that high. Back when I was diagnosed with Bipolar Type II. Back when I only dealt with hypomania, a mania “lite,” if you will. That’s addictive, a sweet spot where I exist in my purest, most awesome form. Sure, there are some consequences, but nothing major.

But now, since my illness has morphed into Bipolar Type I Rapid Cycling, I get full-blown manias, where I do things I am ashamed of. Never mind that I literally can’t control myself and therefore shouldn’t blame myself. That’s another discussion for another day.

The point is, mania is awful now. And I am worried, every time I get better after a depression, that I will skyrocket up into that place where I lose myself all over again in an altogether different way.

I’d almost rather be mildly depressed, because that’s not dangerous. It’s a shitty place to be, I’ll give you that. But it’s not scary.

It’s hard, just letting myself be happy. But I’m trying. Because I deserve some happiness. I’m hoping I coast here for a while, that I can savor some time just being me. So. I’m happy. And breathing through the fear.

Volunteering

Oh, one good thing. I am now volunteering for the Mental Health Association, their Community Awareness Council specifically. It's goal is to connect people with mental health challenges to resources in the community. Monthly meetings. And I'm in charge of arranging a speaker each month. It feels good to have something to do, something that gets me out of my head a little bit. I am working on lining up someone for the meeting later in October, and I have someone who can do November. There are other projects I want to volunteer for at the MHA, but baby steps. I don't want to commit and not be able to follow through. So yeah, slow and steady.

A long struggle

I have been really suffering since early June. That's four months and I'm not getting much better. I haven't been unstable for this long in years. Like maybe 7 years, back when I was going through my divorce. Back when I was sometimes noncompliant with taking my meds regularly.


I have battle fatigue, I think. I'm not getting worse, but it FEELS worse because it's been dragging on for so long. Plus, I don't have much hope because, 1) being depressed means being hopeless, and 2) I have zero confidence in the agency that's managing my medications.


Meanwhile, I am doing everything I can to take care of myself, even though I want to give up. I am trying to interact with other human beings. It's painful at times. I get so overwhelmed and overstimulated. Hiding is easier. I am so exhausted all the time, and trying to engage with people takes more energy than I have.


I worry that all my negative posts on Facebook will turn people off. Maybe I shouldn't post at all. But I need support, and I get comments and messages that honestly help. So I guess I'll keep posting when I feel like I need some feedback.

Change your hair, change your life (or current mood, at least)

I decided to get a haircut yesterday. It had been several months and I have been hating my hair for a long time. It's not that it looked BAD necessarily. But it looked nothing like I meant for it too last time I picked a style. And it just wasn't any fun.


So I went to the Cutting Room in Niceville. A woman named Rebecca cut it for me, styled it too. I got rid of some of the length, and did a little bit of an undercut, where you buzz cut some of the bottom of your head. The rest of my hair falls over it if I wear it down, so I can still look appropriately conservative when the situation calls for it. But I can also wear it up and show off the buzzed part. A friend on Facebook commented that it was very rock n roll. That made me smile.


It feels lighter (because it is), which I love. It looks fun both ways. I think it suits me physically and personality-wise. I ain't jumpin' no fences, but I do feel better. Sometimes it's the little things.