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.
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