Eat. Travel. Cry.

When the movie, Eat Pray Love, came out, I couldn't wait to see it. I knew none of my friends would see it with me, so I went by myself. Since I love going to the movies by myself, I quickly embraced it. My movie, my time, my terms. It's time to myself.

This movie was different. Anybody that truly knows me knows that I hate love stories and the like. I hate the kind of movies that involve romance and unrealistic expections about what love is supposed to be about. Hollywood's version. But something about this movie intrigued me. I hadn't read the book, so the previews alone are what drew me in. I had heard a great deal about the book and how inspiring it was, especially since it was based off a true story, so I couldn't wait to see it.

For the most part, I knew the basic background of the book and the movie, but still didn't have an idea overall what it was about. 

Once it came out, I immediately went online and purchased my ticket. I was ready to go! Apart of me was scared because I knew once I'd see it, there was the possibility that I may identify with the main character, Elizabeth Gilbert.

I didn't care. Something about this movie piqued my interest.

As I sat alone in the movie theater, after the first 30 minutes or so, I had a revelation—up there on the screen, was me! It seemed everything about that character was me. At that time in my marriage, I was unsure, I was confused. I love my husband dearly, but during that down time in my life, I was completely lost—both in my mind and my heart. After watching the pain that Elizabeth Gilbert had endured must have been beyond agonizing and disconcerting. She knew right then and there, that in order to go forward and be happy with her life, she had to make a rash decision.

To end her marriage and ask for a divorce.

I don't think I necessarily wanted a divorce, but I knew one thing, I needed to be alone. Even though my husband was my rock throughout my ordeal, I still wanted to experience the solitude that she was experiencing.

Per my post, The Escape Artist, I always dreamed about traveling and my envious feeling as I continued to watch the movie only increased my desire to travel, see the magical places that she was able to pursue while she had the advantage of gallivanting throughout these countries.

Except for one problem, I had zero money—unlike the fortunate position she was in, I am nowhere near the magnitude of her writing skills, so that idea was out.

About three years ago, my mother gave me her 3 carat pear shaped diamond ring. It was something she always wanted to pass down to me, and one day I will pass down to my daughter. Once I received it, I knew I needed to have it insured immediately. Since her appraisal was outdated from 1976, I went to my local jeweler whom I have used for years and trusted a great deal for an update. It was appraised at $11,000. Not as much as I thought, but a substancial amount nevertheless.

While I was experiencing these feelings of escape, I thought about selling my mother's ring—the "rock" as I've always called it. But quickly realized this would have impacted me for many years ahead and would have been a colossal mistake.

As I reminisce about that time, I am so glad I didn't give in and sell it. I know now I was at least able to think rationally about that huge step I would have made, and ended up satisfied with my decision not to sell it. I look at my mother's ring everyday and I'm so thankful I didn't succumb to this urge. This ring will someday be passed down to my daughter, and her daughter and so forth. An heirloom that will hopefully remain in my family for decades, if not centuries, ahead.

By the end of the movie, I wanted what she had so badly. Not the love part, but the initial escape, the travel, and of course, the eating. I craved it. It's a reminder of how I was feeling and what I was desiring in my life at that time. It was a tough point, a low in my life and knew something needed to change.

Unfortunately, I was never able to make those changes. Maybe all is well. I don't know. I do know this, as I move forward with my medications, I realize that I am better. I am getting better. Like a diabetic, I know that I will always have to continue with my medication. I never want to experience that horrible time in my life. I can only move forward and learn from it.

Regardless, even today as my crying has diminished completely, I look back and someday dream that we will have the opportunity to travel—even if it's somewhere as simple as Mexico. I'll be happy.

I have to have faith that I will have that lucky chance to do so. The means which will allow to escape, even if I am with my family.

I'm not a religious person, nor have I ever been, but I will pray, pray that I will be in the position to travel and see the world!

Pop Art of Buddha – Artist, me – 2009

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Crappy Holidays

This past holiday season was the worst holiday. Don't get me wrong, I love the holidays. Like most of the population during that time of the year, I eagerly look forward to them. I am the first one—even before my daughter—to be anxious to get a tree and embark on decoration detail. I am the first one in my family to embrace early shopping for everyone's holiday gifts, and I am the first one to decorate the fireplace with glowing colorful twinkly lights. I love that time of year. It always makes me happy!

Except for this past holiday season. 

It was awful. It was the height of my depression and frequent trips to the emergency room. The last thing on my mind was getting a tree, buying gifts, hanging ornaments and decorating with twinkly lights. In addition to the Christmas tradition, I am also Jewish, so every year my daughter and I bring down the Menorah in preparation for lighting the candles prior to the first night of Hanukkah. It's a tradition for both of us; a tradition that has meant the world to me since she was born. Since she was 4 years old, I always helped her with the shamash candle as her eyes brightened with such uneasy impatience as we lit the candles for each night. Watching her glow as we do this together has become more than a gift to me. It's our own tradition as mother and daughter.

Not this year. This past year was the first year I kept the Menorah in its usual year round spot. Sitting high above our shelves above the kitchen cabinets. As always, I purchased the Hanukkah candles early, only to have them sit unopened in the bottom drawer. Even now when I look at the unopened package, it brings sadness to my eyes, and my heart.

I couldn't even comprehend the spirit that has always uplifted me during that time of year. It was difficult enough to put on—what I call—a facade while I was out in public, but to be in my own home masquerading as though nothing was happening to me, was just too painful. I didn't want the reminder of the holidays surrounding me within my own private, safe space. It was too much to bear.

At first, my husband and daughter were very understanding of this. Per my insistence, they were planning on buying and decorating a tree without me. For the most part, I was comfortable with this; almost relieved as I was not expected to take part, but as the days inched closer and closer, I knew I couldn't handle these holiday traditions without participating. So I tried, I tried my hardest to get involved, only to break down in the midst of it. Most people will realize it, and snap themselves out of that 'funk' and continue on with hopes of not ruining it for their loved ones. 

Me? I wasn't in the right state of mind to do that. I didn't think logically, nor did I think rationally. I just did. I only reacted. 

As I look back, I wish I was able to prevent my actions for making those 'crappy' holidays worse, I only wanted it to be enjoyable for my family, but what I ended up doing instead was making it worse for them, not better. As the holidays progressed, they continued to walk on eggshells, instead of enjoying that jovial time of year—but it  was completely justified. 

It has taken me this long to look back and regret it all. Regret what I put them through, regret how they couldn't enjoy their holiday season like most of the world, but to make them scared and concerned for my well-being and my health, when they should have been celebrating and enjoying the festive holiday season instead. 

I look back and wonder how my poor daughter must have felt every single day during that time. Not celebrating like her friends, but worrying about mommy. Waking up everyday wondering if mommy was gonna have to go to the hospital again, or if mommy was gonna go into a crying fit, or if mommy was gonna hit herself again—repeatedly. I hate what I put my family through, and I hate how I ruined their holiday, but I can't change that now, I can only move forward and hope that this upcoming holiday will be different; will be the complete opposite.

As I sit here on the last day of May, writing this, it only makes me look forward to the holiday season that much more. I will eagerly mark the days off the calendar with anticipation for the months to quickly pass so I can start anew. Start a new tradition, an idea I have in lieu of a Christmas tree. Something fun, something funky, something new. A rebirth, if you will, as we will continue forward and move on with our lives happily and normally once again.

Start a new tradition.

Only 6 more months to go.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

 

What's it like, you know...to be Bipolar?

I sometimes wonder if the year is 1912 or 2012. I always feel like, even in this day and age, that people still don't get Bipolar Disorder. They don't 'get' what it's about. After all these years, all the breakthroughs of modern medicine, they still think you're a "psycho." It's still unacceptable to be bipolar, and people still use the phrase "why are you so bipolar today?" Like it's an adjective. 

Is it OK to insinuate that someone is suffering from Bipolar Disorder because they're a little off? Or maybe because they're up and down with their mood? Or my personal favorite, because the weather is cloudy and dreary so they're going to have a "bipolar day?" 

Ahhh such ignorance in our society. Even today, in 2012 it still exists.

That frightens me. Scares me to think that even as my daughter matures and grows into a woman, that she herself could face life in this ignorant world. We always seem to think we have evolved as a society, when in reality, we have only gone backwards.

I'm embarrassed to admit, especially from someone who has been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder since 2004, that I just recently learned that Bipolar Disorder is not a psychological/psychiatric "problem," but a medical illness; a disease. It took many decades, if not centuries, for the medical communities to realize that Diabetes wasn't psychiatric/psychological, but a medical illness/diasease as well. Look at the breakthroughs with Diabetes? I only hope the same breakthroughs will emerse as the studies and treatments for Bipolar Disorder progress, where the judgment and discriminatory attitude will fade and acceptance will be great. But even after all this time, after everything that has been studied and learned about Bipolar Disorder, people still criticize you for something you cannot control. 

Imagine sitting in a job interview and openly saying, "oh, have I mentioned that I have Bipolar Disorder and I will need to take my medication regularly"—what they would say, or worse, if you would even be offered the job? However, someone with Diabetes turning around and saying the exact same thing, would almost be sympathized with instead.

Why are people suffering from Bipolar Disorder looked down upon? What makes us so different from anybody else with a medical illness/disease? We can't control it because aren't we born this way?

If you haven't yet seen the movie, A Beautiful Mind with Russell Crowe, I beg of you to rent it or download it NOW. It shows a man, a mathematical genius who suffers from schizophrenia, Dr. John Nash, in the 1950s. Back when the common 'medication' was shock treatments. It's a heartwarming story, but a story of sadness and despair at the same time. This was before what doctors even knew what schizophrenia was like, or what it involved. Like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder is not curable, but treatable. 

As I started my medication in the past few months I admit, that sometimes I feel like a pharmacist as I look down into my hand at all of those pills and how I have to pop them in my mouth every single day. It's tough because I went from a woman never having to take any pills, to taking a handful everyday and every night. It has turned into an eye opening experience. 

But I continue to take them because I feel and see the results. I now know that they are working; working to make me better and enrich my life even more. I feel happier than I've felt in a very long time. Listening to my husband repeatedly tell me how he's happy to have "me back" and feeling back to 'normal' again is tough to hear, I know this, but after the past year or so, how things have escalated and have gotten worse in our lives, only makes me aware of what he and my daughter have had to endure and live through for so long. Writing this blog is making me recognize it and see it all over again. As I sit and write it all down and relive it all over again, has become very emotional for me, not just in my mind, but in my heart. I know it's beneficial so I will continue on and know that it will only help in my recovery.

It's real. It has been an emotional rollercoaster.

I have to overcome my fear of what "people will think" about me. Otherwise I will drive myself crazy. I have spent an entire lifetime worrying about what other people think, but I can no longer worry about them, but worry about myself, my family and my support group. I have to move forward for myself—I need to think and do for myself first before I can do for others. I have spent too many years putting myself last, and others first. Others that don't even matter in my life.

Can I do this? Can I really do this? Only time will tell.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

It's my Bipolar Disorder & I'll cry if I want to....

In the last year alone, I never thought that I would cry enough tears to last a lifetime. It never even crossed my mind. Yes, I have Bipolar Disorder, this much has been clear to me since 2004, but to cry over and over as hard as anyone could cry—in a way, for nothing—you'd think I'd literally dry up by now. 

Ha, I wish.

I admit, since my medication has been working, I definitely feel a bit more stoic about life and other personal situations in my life. Especially the situations that have made me extremely emotional and sad. I want this to work, I want this to continue. It needs to, as I have been sad for too long. I never thought it would get this bad, I always knew eventually it would come back—without being on meds—but I never ever thought it would come back even worse than it was when I was initially diagnosed. I literally descended into an abyss of depression.

Life is funny that way. Or the human brain, I should say.

As my crying continued to get worse, all I felt was pain, not physical pain, but emotional pain. There is really no other way to describe it. It's what I felt at the time. Obtuse little things were making me cry, but for the most part, situations that were dear to me made me cry so hard it scared my daughter a great deal. I know as you read this, you will think I'm a horrible mother and a horrible person to allow a 12 year old to witness such a shock. But I assure you, at the time that it was happening, I didn't think logically. I only felt pain, emotional and heart wrenching pain. I only wish I could have thought rationally to stop it from getting worse, and to prevent my daughter from experiencing it along with me as I struggled emotionally.

It didn't happen, and unfortunately she was a spectator to a more serious version of my crying—on a much larger scale.

As the months progressed it only got worse, until recently when my medicaiton started kicking in. I feel like that crying is something that takes some effort, because of the energy that it takes to express such emotion and torment. Like my husband said, cry about your father, that's legitimate, but don't cry about stupid stuff like your brother who has chosen his path of sheer delusion and craziness (again, my apologies for using this insensitive word).

He was right, 100% right.

Now as I speak to my mother, I know that at this time, even though my father is very weak, I have faith that he will pull himself through this horrible debilitating disease. Otherwise, I will drive myself crazy. It is what it is, at this point I cannot control his recovery, but I can control how I feel and react. If it gets serious, I know it will break me down—as it should—but for the time being until I hear otherwise, I will handle it with dignity and grace.

Or try to.

For now, as my medication continues to work and be successful, I will grow from this and learn from this. I need to. I am hoping that one day I will look back and understand and accept my sadness and depression. Not blame myself for my illness; for my Bipolar Disorder.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

The Hospital.

As I sit here listening to the calmness of classical music, I feel I'm ready to discuss my recent 'visit' to the hospital—the psychiatric hospital. I only hope that opening up about this will help others, maybe help them when they're desperate and cry for outside help from family. Family can only do so much when you're that low, when you've hit rock bottom. But sometimes we need more than that, on a professional level.

It was early December and by that point I wasn't on my medication yet, I hadn't been seeing a therapist so considering I was 'raw' during that time in my life, was a challenge. Even though I had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2004, I never thought it would come back. I know that sounds naive and ignorant of me, but in my mind and my heart, I had hoped it would "go away." 

It didn't. It came back full force.

I wasn't back on the medication (from 2004) because in 2006, I felt great. Always in a good mood and my normal self and smiling, always laughing and smiling. It was a huge transition for me and at that time, my husband was in the middle of changing jobs, so for 3 long months, we had to go without health insurance. It was tough, but we managed. Regardless, trying to pay for my medication out of pocket would have cost us over $300+ per month. Well, I don't know about you, but I can't imagine that many people could afford that during tough economic times—even back then. Maybe some could, but for us, at that time—especially while my husband was in the middle of changing jobs/employer—it wasn't possible, and since I was feeling 'good,' we felt it wasn't necessary.

Until the past year when my world started to come tumbling down. We thought it might be situational—with my dad's cancer, our finances turning to shit, my brother completely ostracizing himself from our family and of course my close friends.

As it progressively got worse, we realized it wasn't situational—my dad was getting better (at that time), my brother and I had a good relationship, and although our finances weren't improving much, overall they still weren't THAT bad. Then after 3 weeks of my friend and I having our "timeout" (as he calls it), we became friends again. I loved it, talking with him again, sharing our most intimate secrets felt good—at least at that time.

(At this point, I have now switched to Madonna's Ray of Light album as I needed some music a little more upbeat)

As the months passed, it had gotten so bad that I couldn't stop crying. Crying so loud and so hard that it brought me into the brink of a crying depressed stupor. It scared my daughter to the point that out of desperation, she would call my husband at work and insist that he come home immediately, as she herself was crying so hard, that my husband would race home to make sure I was alright. They were both scared for my safety. Unfortunately, this had become a common sequence in our household. Seeing me so upset and so depressed had become a common nightly 'ritual.'

By December, we all knew I had reached rock bottom. They could no longer help me. It had to be taken to a new level; a professional level. One night as my husband was racing home to assist me—again—he looked at me and asked me point blank, if I wanted to be taken to the emergency room. It was then that I knew it was serious and I was ready to admit that I had a problem; even I couldn't take it any longer. I simply replied "yes."

It was time.

Once I was there—for over 2+ hours—they did nothing. Sent me on my way with a packet of what they thought was proper literature to help during my depression. Only to be repeated a few weeks later. 

Again, on my way home after 2+ hours of sitting and patiently waiting in the waiting room—all while I was sitting there still depressed and crying—taken back to a room with what they thought was a calming environment with tacky puke-like light green paint on the walls, with an armed guard sitting only a few feet away from me. I guess they thought I'd turn to violence—and perhaps that's a common reaction of the majority of patients who are admitted as 'psychiatric patients.' It's a humiliating experience, I assure you. Nevertheless, we felt it was necessary.

And again, my desperation and cry for help only turned to disappointment as I was released and on my way home with a packet filled with literature and brochures. On either occasion, I never took them out of the envelope, even though it was recommended by the emergency room physician. I don't want to sit there reading bullshit brochures and literature, I just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. Because at that time, that moment, I had contemplated suicide, but thankfully never did anything about it, nor did my thoughts go further than that moment in time. A moment in which I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I just wanted the pain to end. 

Towards the end of December, we went back for a third visit to the emergency room. Not only was my husband insistent that something be done immediately, I agreed and was just as persistent as he was. As my poor scared daughter sat alone in the waiting area, we knew that something needed to happen beyond the ER—a drastic solution. I hated every minute of it, but as we both looked at each other, with the doctor standing there watching us, watching our response, we decided the best treatment for me at that time was to voluntarily admit myself to the in-patient psychiatric hospital.

One of the most difficult decisions to make in anybody's lifetime. Sometimes you just have to sit back and peruse what the best option is for you, and for us and me at that time, was willingly admit myself to this facility.

We waited for another hour before I was escorted and driven by a security guard in a locked, 'secure' vehicle. I felt like a prisoner, a prisoner in my own clothing wanting to get well. It had to be done. So I went along with a vengeance because I was hoping and praying that I would get the help I desperately needed.

Upon arrival to the hospital at 11 p.m. at night, I was starving. I hadn't eaten a thing all day, so to have a hot meal delivered to me that evening as I arrived, was nothing short of heaven. I immediately thought to myself what a hospitable facility this was. It couldn't be so bad—could it?

Boy, was I wrong.

As I went through a series of body searches, removal of my jewelry and physical exams, I kept thinking to myself, I'm not crazy, why must I endure this? I'm here on my own accord. Shouldn't I be welcome with open arms and treated like a queen? Ha. No.

They didn't see it that way, because this was protocol for them. They didn't care that I came from an upper middle-class background, or that I had a college educaton. I was there as an equal, just like the other patients.

It was a humiliating and humbling experience, let me assure you. But I kept trying to convince myself that it was for the best. I would get better. Miraculously healed.

Bullshit.

The next day I sat through what felt like endless group sessions. Eating lunch in surgical scrubs by myself with plastic utensils, was a lonely experience—even though I wasn't hungry, they made it quite clear that I had to eat at a certain time or I would lose the privilege until dinner time. 

Ugh.

As I continued to eat their hideous over-starched quintessential hospital food, I headed towards another grueling group therapy session. Did they help? Not for me. But sitting there listening to everyone's story, everyone's plight and how they got there was nothing short of heart wrenching. All I kept saying to myself while listening to their story was, "I don't belong here. I am literally wasting money being here."

I fooled the psychiatrist. I made them think it was all a mistake, that I shouldn't be there.

Guess what? It worked. He released me that day. I couldn't take another minute of the usual escort to take a shower and to go to the bathroom. I felt like a child.

Was it wrong of me to "fool" the psychiatrist? Of course it was, but I felt I wasn't getting the help or the medication that I needed. To them, I was simply a nameless patient. Now don't get me wrong, I'm sure I am over exaggerating here, but at that time, it was real to me. It was what I felt and thought.

The only person that helped me throughout my short stay was my counselor—whom I didn't speak with until my discharge. He actually showed me he cared. Actually tried to help me with my discharge and my treatment. He gave me a list of several therapists and psychologists that I could call. We both realized what I needed was a therapist, not medication alone—which I must mention that no additional medication was prescribed by the hospital psychiatrist. My initial medications were prescribed by my internist, not a psychiatrist or psychiatric nurse. Clearly, and admittedly, he was out of his realm of expertise, but wanted to help me nonetheless.

After receiving my list of therapists, I immediately made that call the following week—OK, not immediately but soon enough. I admit, I was sitting on it for a few days. I just didn't have the energy to call, even though I knew in the back of my mind that it needed to be done. Thankfully my husband was there to continually push me.

As I made the appointment with a therapist, I was lucky enough to find the perfect fit from the first therapist I chose. Therapists are like a marriage—it has to be the right fit in order for it to work and succeed.

I have been seeing her since March and so far, I'm very happy with the results. I may get into that for another time, but for now, just know that our sessions have been helpful to me. 

In the meantime, she hooked me up with a psychiatric nurse to monitor and prescribe new medications. It was a trial and error sort of thing, but we now know what works for me and so far—knock on wood—have been a godsend.

In summary, after my stay at the psychiatric facility—even though during my stay I felt it was a waste of time—I realized afterwards that drastic measures needed to be taken in order to 'save' my sanity—no pun intended. 

If you're not seeing a therapist, make the appointment immediately! Medication can only be helpful if you're regularly seeing a therapist side-by-side with your meds. Trust me! We're human, we need to talk it out and to talk to a professional with unbaised opinions, and it works!!!

Good luck!

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Euphoria

That word, what does it mean to you? According to the dictionary, it is defined as this:

eu•pho•ri•a

noun

a feeling or state of intense excitement and happiness:
the euphoria of success will fuel your desire to continue training

ORIGIN late 17th century (denoting well-being produced in a sick person by the use of drugs): modern Latin, from Greek, from euphoros 'borne well, healthy,' from eu 'well' + pherein 'to bear.'

Yup, that's it in a nutshell.

This past week, I felt exactly that way. I was on top of the world! Nothing could go wrong. It was the best feeling I've had in several months. 

But then it changed. All of a sudden, it felt like my world came tumbling down—not literally of course, but my mood just plummeted. What was going on with me? How could I go from being way up on the charts, to way down on the charts? For those of you who are suffering from Bipolar Disorder will know that this is consistent with the disease. But at the time that it's happening, you really don't look at it that way. You continually ask yourself this common question—why? Why is this happening to me—again!

This is how I felt:

acrylic on canvas 2008 • untitled • artist – me

Even though this is an abstract painting that I painted several years ago, it's still how I felt that day and that night. Which unfortunately, continued into yesterday. An abstract of someone—a display of 'funkiness' running through my mind. Today? I feel a lot better, but again, as the day progresses, only time will tell.

Now we all know that there's a chemical in your brain that produces how we feel, how we think, and how we react. Please don't ask me what this is called, but at this point, does it really matter? We know it's there, and we now know why, so in my eyes, if it's happening, it's real.

A few nights ago, after spending the entire day feeling euphoric, all of a sudden I was in a depressed mood. So depressed, that I started crying—crying for no apparent reason whatsoever. I couldn't understand it. How could I feel so invigorated throughout the day, only to cry for no reason? As I was crying, I immediately went into our bedroom and woke my husband up from a deep sleep. I asked him to assist me during my time of need. Thankfully, he was there as usual, helping me cope. 

Thank goodness he was there to help me because in my head, I kept thinking what is wrong with me and why am I feeling this way. Even to him, with what I have been going through these past several months, was kind of difficult for him to comprehend. Do I blame him? Of course not. But as we were talking it out, he understood and realized he needed to be there and talk me down. I've come to the point where 'talking me down' is something that he must do. 

And thankfully, it always works. Even during my most agitated state, it works.

As I continue with my medication, I am persisting through this disease on a daily basis. 

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Blocked?.....No Pun Intended

Here we go again, frustration with my so-called new art project is so far failing me. You know the project I wanted to work on with Legos? Ya, not as easy as I thought or had hoped. What is wrong with me? Here I was diving in after over 2 years of having zero desire to work on my art or graphic design, to having inspiration and complete excitement only to end up being "blocked." I say no pun intended because of course, I was hoping to use Legos for my new project—hence, blocks. Mainly to create a relief, except my tub of Legos have been sitting side-by-side with my canvas on my dining room table for a little over 2 weeks now. 

Ugh.

I have these racing thoughts going through my head as I wonder what is it I want to achieve here. I know in my head what I want, but I just can't seem to execute it. It's frustrating as I am so eager to get this project going—or any project for that matter—and I am blocked, literally blocked. For the most part, I always know what I do when I'm creatively blocked with a graphic design project—and believe it or not, it always seems to work, but a fine art project such as this? I have no idea where to go, or what to do. Where do I take it? How far am I willing to go to execute this project?

It was recommended yesterday by my therapist that I should take 1–2 hour walks to my local downtown area and just sit and people watch; maybe even sketch. Keep in mind, I was never your typical artist who liked to sketch beforehand, I always just did it. Whether it's on the computer, or on a canvas, I just did it. So this is all new to me. I will sketch about nothing, possibly giving me the inspiration I so desire as I sit and watch the recent spring/summer colors on the trees, the laughing of children playing in the water fountain, and the smiles on everyone's face because the weather has turned warm—maybe those little pieces of happiness will immediately inspire me. 

Hey, it's worth a shot, right?

So today, today will be my first day attempting this task—besides, this is my homework assignment given to me by my therapist. I have a week to accomplish this "assignment." I can't let her down. Isn't this what I pay her for (or my insurance, for that matter)?

I have nothing to lose.

It'll get me out of my house, away from my video game and away from my virtual world, and into the fresh air and among people, many many people.

Wish me luck!

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Shhh....it's Cancer

No, not me—my father.

My father was diagnosed with Protate Cancer about 2 years ago. At first, we had hope, hope that with radiation treatments, he'd do just fine. For the most part, for about a year that was the case. His PSA score skyrocketed which made the doctors take a second look—why was his PSA score so high? Until they gave him tests. Test after test which explained the reason why. 

He was in stage 2 Prostate Cancer. At this point, nothing had spread beyond his Prostate so naturally, we were all optimisitc.

Until last summer. That optimism turned to fright. We were all scared that it was getting worse as the radiation was no longer working. His oncologist recommended that he move forward with chemotherapy. Well, we know what undergoing chemo can cause—with it came weakness, nausea, loss of hair, et al. It seemed to all come at once. At this point of his chemotherapy, he only needed treatments once every 3 weeks. As a result, his infrequency gave us another form of hope. It couldn't have been THAT serious, right?

Wrong.

By July of 2011, everything had changed; our world had started to come crumbling down. Even though his oncologist was still optimistic at that time, his chemotherapy had become more frequent and required to undergo the treatments one time a week. Regardless, we were still scared to death. My husband and I decided that this was the perfect opportunity to visit and spend quality time with them; make a vacation out of it—if you wanna call it that.

However, about 2 weeks prior to our "vacation," my stomach was literally in knots. To the point that I could barely eat or do anything. I was a blubbering mess. By the time we headed home, I had lost approximately 15 lbs. in one week. But in a way, I needed to go there, needed to see that for the most part, he was OK. I knew the reality would set in and I knew that once I saw him, he'd still look different. While growing up my father had been my pillar of strength so as you could imagine, it was extremely difficult to see him so weak compared to how he was while I was growing up. A strong willed, stubborn Italian with thick black hair. Obviously I was mature enough to see that he'd gone gray in recent years, but seeing most of it gone was an eye opening experience for me. I thought I'd be prepared, but once I saw him, it gave me the opposite reaction. But what was worse? Seeing his weakness, seeing how he could barely walk without the help of a walking cane. It was like a ton of bricks had hit me—right there in the face. 

I wanted to cry. But I knew seeing me cry would have been the worst, the worst thing he could see. My mom needed reassurance that I would be and could be strong. I promised her that I would be, but I must admit, it was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do. In private, in the hotel room, I did the opposite—I had to let it out.

As we spent an entire week with my parents, it became enjoyable, almost stress-free—trust me, it was rare that our trips to visit them were ever stress-free, so this was a really nice change. Unfortunately, it had to be under these circumstances.

As I look back during that time last summer, and as we were on our way home, we were optimistic, extremely positive with the outcome of his recovery. At that time, it hadn't spread beyond his prostate.

Until now.

I spoke with my mom about 2 months ago only to learn his cancer had not only gotten worse, but had spread to half his body. When she called, he was already in the hospital. My heart dropped and my world came tumbling down. I know he's 76 years old and in my eyes, he had at least 15+ more years ahead of him. Perhaps that's unrealistic, but again, he was and still is my pillar of strength. Even after all these years, his loud and intimidating voice still permeated throughout the house. He still scares me as though I'm 16 years old all over again.

At this time that I am writing this blog, he's still going strong, and according to my mom, doing very well. He is currently in a rehabilitation center because he has to learn to walk again, but next week, he is due home after spending a little over a month in the hospital and now the rehab center.

Once my medications start kicking in, my goal is to go visit them—which should be any day now (fingers crossed). I want to help my mom. I want to make sure she's OK in case the worst happens. But regardless, I want to help both of them. Not just to prove to them that they can count on me (especially since they haven't seen or spoken to my brother in over 2 years) but rely on me being there for them during their time of need; because throughout my whole life, they have always been there for me—financially and emotionally. It's time to return that favor.

I love you, dad, and I pray that you will be OK.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Thou Shall Not Hit Thyself

OK, I will warn you, the following contents of this post may be difficult to comprehend, but in my heart, I truly hope you can empathize with my plight—especially if you yourself are also struggling with Bipolar Disorder. Please understand that this particular post will be very emotional for me, therefore it may take me a while to finish.

Here we go.

It started about 4 months ago. I started hitting myself in the frontal lobe of my head/brain. At first, it was purely out of agitation, but then it got worse. It turned into sadness and agitation at the same time. Clearly not a good mix of emotions. Sometimes, we do it not for attention—because most of the time, nobody was home while I was doing it—we do it because like my therapist told me, it's as though I am attempting to knock the thoughts out of my head. Really, is there any other explanation. For now, that was good enough for me since I continually blamed myself for being a "psycho" (excuse me for using this insensitive misused term).

Before I knew what was happening and the explanation of it all, I blamed myself. I kept thinking to myself Bipolar Disorder was a load of crap. Kind of like the whole "that won't happen to me" way of thinking, I never thought it would happen to me and it'd be completely within my control.

That's complete and total bullshit.

The last several months of my recent actions have proved otherwise. 

As it started, I knew in my mind that something wasn't right, but I continued to do it over and over. As the days, weeks, and even months progressed, it was getting signicantly worse. To the point, I unfortunately worked myself up in this state of mania in front of both my husband and my 12 year old daughter. 

Not good.

Of course, it freaked both of them out—to the point of being scared shitless. Can I blame them? Of course not. Had I seen either of them doing the same thing, I honestly don't know what I would do. My husband is my rock!

It's amazing the strength that came with hitting myself. My husband would attempt to restrain me so I would stop the hitting, only to push him away with such force, that he was taken back (no pun intended). Please understand, my husband is a very strong, in shape man. He bench presses 300 lbs, so for me to have the strength and ability to push him off me, came as a shock to him.

As it continued, it gradually got worse. I turned to using objects to hit myself, instead of the palm of my hands—always in the head in the same spot—to somehow make the impact harder, more of a statement. At least that's how I interpret it now that I look back (since the last time was only last week). I honestly don't know why I hit myself. My therapist asks me this regularly, but I can't seem to give her an answer. I only wish I knew the true answer, but I can't. 

The worst was a little over a month ago. I gave myself two black eyes with a soda can while it was crushed, which left my forehead with many scratches—unexplainable scratches to my daughter, as well as the black eyes—try coming up with a lie for that one. With that same soda can I was able to give myself the two black eyes. Afterwards, I kept looking at myself in the mirror like I was a horror. A freak in a horror show.

That was the worst it got. Now don't get me wrong, my regular hitting sprees were more of bumps on my forehead and bruises on my wrists and on the side of my head. But this definitely was the clincher for me. The worst I had ever done. And please, don't misunderstand me as any form of hitting yourself is bad, it's not healthy and the fact that I was doing this to myself, definitely required immediate medical attention.

It's hard to reminisce about this as I sit down in front of my computer and type these words on screen. Reading them over and over as if I'm writing about someone else. Not me. 

I even had to step away while I was writing this morning before I was ready to sit down and continue again. Writing this was a reminder, a reminder of what I have done to myself.

I never could understand why cutters cut themselves. I always thought it was their way of getting attention. Maybe for the most part, it was/is, but now that I have repeatedly hit/hurt myself in the head, I now know that for a lot of those cutters, that is most likely not the case.

I am done now. Finished talking about this—at least at this time. Maybe as I continue to write this blog, time will have passed, my medication will be working, and I can look back with pride; pride that I have overcome this illness. But for now, I am not there yet. I felt it was important to get it out there—even if I'm the only one reading it at this time.

A side note—If you do this to yourself—whether it's hitting, cutting, or anything similar, please see someone. It's your brain, the chemicals in your brain that is causing this. You're not a "psycho," as you're probably suffering from an illness like BD and the medication can and will help you. Obviously I am not a psychiatrist, psychologist or therapist, but obviously this behavior is not normal either—please see someone regardless!

Hang in there!

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Therapy Through Art

It must be done, or I will drive myself insane. Understand, after losing my last job from the toy company over 2 years ago, my drive and creativity were completely gone. I was creatively blocked. At that point, I was ready to give up my art and design background—for who knows what. I even contemplated working at a local coffee shop just for the social interaction; hoping it would help my illness. I honestly thought I'd never look back.

Until now.

I am trying my hardest to get back into the groove of things, but I admit, a lot of what has been happening to me with recent events have prevented me from doing so. It's tough, it's literally an uphill battle for me. Even as I document these events into this blog, it has turned into an emotional turmoil for me.

Yesterday I attempted to start my "Lego" project only to be completely lost. I kept telling myself what am I doing here? Why am I starting this? Where should I go with it?

To give you an idea of what I am trying to conquer, a Lego painting or sculpture is something that has been on my mind for several months now. Something I have been wanting to create and aspire to reignite my imagination. But what shall I do? What should I create? That's the million dollar question.

Now these are not exactly what I was wanting to create, of course, as they only gave me inspiration to use Legos as part of my medium. As you will see with the images below, you can get an idea of what I'm talking about.

 

unknown artist

boys & girls conference table

unknown artist & kitchen countertop/bar

close-up side view of the boys & girls conference table

Now I have no desire to emulate something as difficult as a table, or even a kitchen bar, but something along the lines where it showcases the array of colors with the juxtaposition of Legos with whatever sculpture or painting I choose to create. Either way, I believe it'll convey my true emotions of how I feel with my bipolar disorder these days—scattered and colorful.

Ideas are good. Inspiration is good. Even if it's keeping a journal, or in my case now, pouring most of my thoughts and feelings into a blog. Who knows if anybody is even reading it, but at this point, I'm not doing it for someone else, I'm doing it for me. And that's the most important role I can take in my life at this time.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

 

The Start.

Today I start this blog. A blog that will have great meaning to me. Why? Because I am about to reveal the last year of my life, and most likely from this day forward—that has been haunting me the entire time—something that has affected me and my family for a year. A long, tumultuous, emotional year. So emotional that I have decided to share it with you via this blog—put all my thoughts and past experiences as a way to move forward; put everything down on paper (or the internet). By doing this, I feel it's important to release my inner emotions to maybe, just maybe pursue peace within myself.

So please understand and accept my poor writing as a result of sharing my thoughts.

To be honest, I really don't know where to start.

I'm an artist, a designer, and a painter—although inexperienced and self-taught as a painter, I find it therapeutic nonetheless. It's an avenue I have always had interest in, something that I have been told I am good at. However, due to my insecurity since childhood, it's difficult for me to accept these acknowledgements—from friends or even strangers who have viewed my work. It's why I chose to title my blog, Bipolar By Design. The ramblings of a bipolar mind through art, not just writings.

As this blog progresses, I will submit samples of my work, samples of the designs I have implemented throughout my home—a loft. Yes, we have chosen to live in a loft. I find that living in a loft not only conserves the resources within our planet, but it allows me and my family the opportunity to walk to our local downtown area, enjoy the local parks—in lieu of a backyard—and close, easy walking distance to locally owned businesses, as well as stumbling home late at night from the local bars without the risk of driving.

Without getting ahead of myself, and without overwhelming you with all of my bipolar ramblings over the past year (because going back any further would be REALLY overwhelming—and I most likely forgot most of it, if not all of it), I will end it right here. But please, check back as I will post my work, post my design techniques not just within my home, but my paintings as well. If not babbling through this brand new blog.

Thanks for reading!

If you'd prefer to read more succinct ramblings, check out my twitter page as well.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter