Jury Duty?

You guessed it, today I have jury duty. What were they thinking? All I can say is, they're in for a surprise when they put me up on that stand under oath to see if I'll be one of 12 jurors (I think) that they will possibly choose. Please, don't. Do you want someone who has racing thoughts and who most likely won't be able to pay attention to what the lawyers are saying? 

Somehow, I doubt it.

This morning, I will, however walk in with my head held high in hopes of some sort of sympathy. But I screwed up, because had I actually read the summons in advance, instead of tucking it away for a month, I would have noticed that I could have been excused if I presented a doctor's note explaning my condition. But I didn't. Now I'll have to go in there, spend the time this morning and describe my condition—most likely in detail—as the lawyers on the case will have to decide whether or not I will be chosen as one of the jurors to hear and decide the case.

God, help me (and them).

As I walked into the courthouse, my palms felt sweaty and my mind was racing with thoughts of nervousness. I didn't know what to expect because I had never been chosen for jury duty before, so regardless of this being an entirely new experience for me, I knew it was something I wasn't ready to undertake. Could I, even if I wanted to? That's a question I may never know the answer to.

After the interviews of potential jurors started, I was relieved I was a part of the first group of 28 for questioning and inquiry. As soon as the judge asked us if there was anyone who believed they were unable to undertake jury duty for whatever reason—medical or mental illness—please raise your hand. After I raised my hand, I immediately became nervous as well as embarrassed. I wasn't about to announce to the lawyers on the case and the judge who was hearing it what my "issue" was. As I approached the bench, I asked the judge politely if I could speak with him privately in his chambers. There were at least 100 potential jurors sitting in the courtroom waiting to be heard, just like me. This was the last thing I needed any of them to hear.

He understood and immediately obliged to my request. As I followed the judge and the lawyers to his chambers, I sat down with my head held high and hoped they would all understand. It's not that I was trying to get out of being a juror for this case, because I knew for a murder, sexual assault and domestic violence case, I would have needed to pay close attention. Due to my regular manic episodes, I couldn't guarantee that I'd be able to do that, so I reluctantly sat down and told my story. Explained that I had Bipolar Disorder and frequent manic episodes, as well as a regular dose of racing thoughts. It was a common, daily occurrence. I knew for this type of case, it'd be a challenge for me to be a juror. One of twelve that held this man's life in my hands. 

Or so I thought.

I was questioned. I was prodded. The lawyers on the case needed to know if I could handle such a responsibility and would I feel comfortable letting them know if I needed a break as I could possibly "doze" off at any time during the trial.

I assured them that I could, and most importantly, that I would.

As I spoke to them intimately about the details of my illness, I immediately wanted to run out of there in shame; embarrassed that I had to succumb to such details about my life. An intimate part of my life that only a few have been blessed with knowing. As the questioning continued, so did my mind. At that point, I had no problem answering their questions, because I knew what they were doing was in the best interest of their case, as well as the defendant. I knew this and I understood it, so I tried my best to be as cordial and eloquent as I possibly could to aid them in their inquiry.

After several minutes of back and forth interest in me and my illness, I knew it was winding down to the end, and as I was asked to go into the courtroom and take my seat, I patiently waited for their decision. I felt in my heart that I would be excused; released of my jury duty obligation. But a part of me wanted to be a juror on this case because a case like this doesn't come along everyday, and it's something that has always fascinated me, but as they all came out of the judge's chambers and into the courtroom, the judge sat down and succinctly excused me.

As I was confused by my disappointment, I knew it was for the best. I felt it in my heart and understood their reasoning. It wasn't personal, it was professional. Ultimately, in the best interest of their client. 

The next day I woke up as if jury duty never happened. As if I wasn't questioned until I lost interest and gained satisfaction for knowing that I could possibly be released, because I went about my day as if none of that existed. That experience has given me a great deal of perspective on life, and as a result I now realize that even though I wasn't' chosen to be a juror, I was chosen to appear for jury duty, therefore it was an honor to give what minimal time I experienced in that courtroom for the possibility of becoming a juror on an important life-changing case.

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The Facade of Being Broke

Struggling financially has no face. It has no limitations to what you look like. Being broke affects anyone and can affect everyone, not just people living in a mobile home or underneath a box. It affects people who don't have the means to make a good living; a living that is acceptable in today's society. A living where putting food on the table is a struggle.

For us, the vision is limitless.

It's a facade we carry everyday and will continue to grace our existence with this facade as if it isn't happening to us; but it is. Unfortunately, it is. 

Today I realized that we were down to one roll of toilet paper—one roll for 3 bathrooms; one roll that we all had to share. Why? Because we couldn't afford to buy more. As I look around our home, I realize we don't live in a bad place, quite the contrary, it's a nice place. Not a home prototypical of people who are "broke" but a nice comfortable home instead. Nothing fancy and nothing ostentatious, just nice—opulent. As I gaze at our furnishings, I sometimes think what a lie we're living; what a simulation this is, as if it's no longer real. I'm living in a dream—or is it a nightmare instead?

It's a lie because when people come and visit our home, they would never realize our circumstances, it would appear as though we're doing OK. But are we? They wouldn't know how we've had to scrape up leftovers and odd food here and there to create an unusual dinner, just so we can eat for the night. For example, by gathering odds and ends from our cupboards, last night I made nachos with eggs, mozzarella cheese, rice while incorporating the hot sauce packets from Taco Bell. It was surprisingly delicious, but it gets tough trying to create different meals every night so we can eat dinner. Tonight, I made breakfast burritos. We had plenty of tortillas and eggs, so it ended up being a hearty meal. It has become an imaginative challenge.

We were lucky. This time. How long can scraping up leftovers last until we can afford to go to the grocery store and buy food?

What will we do tomorrow night? Or the next night? And what about the toilet paper problem? What to do then. It seems that we're always having to 'cross that bridge when we get to it', otherwise I think we'd go insane trying to worry and figure out how things are going to turn out. We've just seemed to go with the flow of things hoping for the best, but were we expecting the worst? I know I was, but my husband? He's different from me. He's always had an optimistic view on things, and of course, I'm the opposite. I know for the most part, we complement each other, but now? When will it finally work out for us; when will our lives be filled with zero worry and plentiful groceries permeating throughout our refrigerator and cupboard? Whether or not I dream and fantasize about traveling and seeing the world, the reality of it is, I just want food. I just want to visit the grocery store without that butterfly ache wondering if our debit card will be approved.

I ask this question every single day. We're not asking for much. Just food and toilet paper.

I frequently gaze up into the sky as I stare up into the clouds hoping and wishing for a better life. There are days where I feel guilty of this wish, that perhaps I should be grateful for the family and life that I already have, and how some people don't have half of that. I am lucky for that, I do know this, but it's tough regardless. It doesn't make our circumstances easier. Two people with college degrees are living a life of poverty. Living the life of being unable to buy a substantial amount of toilet paper so we don't run out. Or being able to purchase more when we do run out.

Living the life of a facade.

I am continuing to look for a job to hopefully enhance our future; build up something that is so dear to me—my family. For now, it'll be tough and I know it'll be a challenge, but it's all we have at the moment so this choice is not ours.

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Mirror, Mirror...

....on the wall? No, not this time. This reflects all mirrors, windows, et al—anything around me that mirrors my reflection. I will immediately and purposely turn away to not catch a glimpse of myself. Why? Because when I see that manifestation, it only saddens me and makes me feel inadequate, as well as hideous. Harsh, I know, but it's how I feel during that moment in time. I can't stand looking at myself in the mirror. I know there are times where we must look at ourselves in the mirror, but for me, I no longer do that in a vanity sort of way. I only do it when necessary, and even then it's limited. For example, while I'm getting my hair cut, I can't look at myself in the mirror staring out in front of me—I have to sit with my head hanging down as I try and not catch a glimpse.

What I see when I look into that mirror is someone who is aging and someone who is no longer what I was once considered, beautiful. At least in my eyes. My husband tells me repeatedly how beautiful I am, but for now, it means nothing. I don't believe him, I only brush it off as what a husband should say to his wife. To his sad, aging wife. He's biased, you see. He loves me, so of course he's going to tell me this, right?

Not sure.

Even as I sit here writing this blog post, I can see my reflection from the screen of my computer and I hate what I'm seeing. My hair is wet, my hair is curly and I have no makeup on at all—just me, in the raw (with clothes on, of course). I was never one of those women who had to always put makeup on when I left the house. I never understood those kinds of women. I'd play tennis against them and they would wear full makeup, bejeweled with their everyday jewelry and their hair elegantly styled. Me? I'm different; I was different. I was one of those women who had my hair up in a ponytail, not a drop of makeup (except for lip balm), no jewelry or anything while running around on the court in an attempt of triumph. I just wanted to play tennis. I didn't care how I looked, it was a matter of a sport, not fashion or vanity. I was the same with skiing. I remember going to Vermont on a holiday ski trip with my cousin while in college, and even then, I didn't have a spot of makeup on, but my cousin? That was a different story, she had full makeup adorned and her hair was beautifully done. She looked stunning, but for the mountain? I just never understood women like that.

Hey, to each their own right?

It's just not me. Never has been, and even today, never will be. Don't get me wrong, I like wearing makeup now, I just know when it's a good time to wear it, and the tennis court and ski mountain is not one of them. At least for me it's not. Nothing against women who choose to display themselves like this during a workout or sport, of course. I know everyone is different. Therefore, I do not judge.

But after all these years of walking around with only lipstick touching my face, I've grown a lot more insecure than I ever have been in my life. I've quickly realized in the past few years that wearing makeup is used to try and conceal my aging, not enhance my so-called beauty. I've always been an insecure person, but now as I've gotten older, it's gotten significantly worse. I can tell. I hate it, I really do. I thought I'd be one of those women who'd "grow old gracefully" like my beautiful mother, but apparently I can't seem to adhere to this old saying that we've come so accustomed to hearing and repeating.

After many years of smiling happily and proudly as the subject of many photographs, I will no longer allow anyone to take my picture, even though I once loved it. I have hundreds of photos looking back at me as I posed in front of the camera as if it was just me by myself. Nowadays, I'm the one taking the pictures, therefore no longer the subject of one.

My husband thinks I'm just going through a 'mid-life crisis,' but I don't see it that way. Maybe for the most part, he's right. I know deep down in my heart there's more to it than just a mid-life crisis. However, I do know that it contributes to my feelings of inadequacy, but  does not affect me completely. At least I don't think so. My husband might express something different entirely.

My life has turned into a hidden demonstration of everything surrounding me. Including my physical appearance. 

Yesterday my husband told me how beautiful I looked and how good I looked in a certain outfit I was wearing. Is he trying to give me uplifting words of encouragement, or just truly believes what he's saying? I know for the most part, he believes what he's saying. Why else would he have married me if not attracted to me, right? Of course he would never tell me otherwise.

Overall, I know I need to get over these feelings of defensiveless repulsion, but the underlying question is, will I ever? Will I ever accept that I'm getting older and just embrace it? Or will I continue to fall deep into a dark slump until it's too late? Not to repeat myself, but for this situation, only time will tell. I believe at this time, that changing my medication for the OCD will be better for me and will be extremly beneficial, but should I risk the replacement of the depression medicine as well? Like my 'drug dealer,' I believe it'll enable me to move forward and diminish these feelings of physical inadequacy. I know for the most part these feelings are egocentric at best, but I know I will need to quite simply, get over it.

Again, I must try.

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Obsession

I have an obsession problem. As my 'drug dealer' (psychiatric nurse) calls it—I am OCD. I never associated OCD with the sort of obsession that I clearly possess, but more of a person who is fastidious and "anal" about keeping things tidy in a certain way within their home. Someone like me, of course, but worse. I've always been the type of person who has obsessed about certain facets in my life, but lately with most situations. And now, even intertwining the two into a toxic combination of regular outbursts. 

Everyday I often ask myself, why can't I just be normal and go about my normal routine and daily life? Why? Although I ask this question regularly, I simply cannot answer it without justification to why. It's not just one or two specific parts of my life that I obsess about, but many, if not all. It just depends on what's going on in my life that I seem to obsess over and over all day long, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

As anyone could fathom, it affects me all day and all night, to the point where my mind has crawled into a dark empty place filled with racing, negative thoughts. For once, just for once, I'd love to be positive and have an outlook filled with happiness and some sort of encouraging words to keep me going and moving forward with my life.

But I can't, I just can't. Although I am regularly told from loved ones that I need to adhere to this, I am unable to.

I'm ready to tell my 'drug dealer' that it's time I switch to an OCD medication to keep me from these obsessive thoughts everyday. I can't take it anymore. I must move away from these feelings of despair and convince myself that life is worth living instead of getting rid of regular thoughts of suicide; of leaving this earth in hopes of a painless mind.

Obviously, I haven't taken these thoughts serious enough to attempt this horrible final act, but the fact that I think about it daily scares me. It scares my husband and it scares me. Of course, my daughter is unaware of these feelings as it would only devastate her. She has witnessed enough from me at such a young age than to hear her mother discuss feelings of suicide.

There are days, however, where my mood is even—I am stabilized to a normal dimension that I wish would last everyday. But for now, I am grateful that my mood and lack of depressive state are even keel—for now.

My job status with my recent at-home 'gig' has diminished greatly. I now know (as well as suspected) that it has come to an end. Although I haven't been told of this directly, I just know; I know deep down in my heart that it's done; it's over. Therefore, it's time for me to move on with my life and continue with my endless search for another job—a normal job.

As a result of this, my mind wanders aimlessly into another obsessive state therefore causing me to cry uncontrollably every single day. I hate this feeling and I hate the disorderly way of communicating with my husband and my daughter. Even my friends.

But I know I must move forward in order to succeed with my search because as I receive interviews for jobs, I know that a prospective employer will suspect otherwise unless I am able to control it.

Here we go...

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The Escape Artist

I couldn't think of a more appropriate title because I am an artist, and for the longest time—even as I sit here and write this—I wanted to escape; literally escape from everything and from everyone. There were many days where I just wanted to get in my car and drive, drive for hours and end up who knows where. I needed to go and get away from everything. My thoughts were constantly racing and my brain was on overload. I felt trapped inside of my body and felt trapped in my own home. Every time I felt the need to run and escape, the lack of funds prevented me from doing so. I couldn't go anywhere because I knew I'd end up getting stuck and without any means of coming back or going any farther. 

Chrysler Building Pop Art – Artist, me – 2010

As I look back, a part of me looks at it as a blessing in disguise. I always believed that things happen for a reason, and perhaps not having the money on such days was a godsend. I always imagined, sometimes fantasized, where I would have gone if I did have the money to escape. I simply wanted to get in my car and drive, continue to drive for hours and hours. I explained this urge to my therapist and the one thing she recommended was for me to at least have a plan. Don't just drive, but have a plan. A course of action, if you will.

I knew where I wanted to go, and I knew when I wanted to leave. Since it was still winter time, I was concerned about the possible inclement weather I may encounter, but a part of me also didn't care. I just wanted to go away! To escape.

Empire State Building Pop Art – Artist, me – 2010

In my heart, I wanted to head to NYC, or even Chicago. I know that would have been a tough drive, a long tough drive, but I was on a mission and I needed to just go! My state of mind at the time was a concern for both my husband and my therapist—it was at an all time low. They encouraged me to wait, but I didn't want to. I wanted to leave that instant, that moment in time. I couldn't, and I hated it. I felt trapped because I couldn't just leave. I didn't want to be responsible nor did I want to be considerate to my family, I wanted to escape and I wanted to do it immediately. But like everything else in my life, money prevented me from doing so.

Statue of Liberty Pop Art – Artist, me – 2010

I still had no idea where I wanted to go. My mind was telling me to just drive and I'd figure it out along the way. Realistically, I now know that wouldn't have been the smartest course of action for me, but when your mind isn't thinking rationally, you don't really care about that. You just want to go, regardless of where it is. 

I had even contemplated the hope of heading to Italy. I learned several years ago that I had distant relatives that still live in northern Italy. Relatives that my father hasn't seen or spoken to since he was a child, so a huge part of me wanted to inquire about visiting them—if they were even still alive or living there—possibly staying with them as I traveled to this distant land and meet this part of my family whom I have never met before; and most likely never will meet.

Again, money got in the way. I couldn't just pick up and buy a ticket to Italy, so my inquiry quickly ended there. It never went farther than my mind. Just a dream; nothing but a fantasy in my head. 

Leaning Tower of Pisa Pop Art – Artist, me – 2009

I had never been to Italy, and this could have been a dream that I could have easily—or so I thought—obtained and fulfilled. When you are struggling with Bipolar Disorder, unobtainable dreams or desires seem within an easy grasp, but they're not. In reality, they're so far away from actuality that it's difficult to accept, so to be told "No" is something that someone like me, cannot easily undertake. Or worse, want to accept.

Maybe one day I will have the opportunity to travel as far as Italy, maybe meet my Italian relatives and appreciate what my European kinsfolk has to offer. Or something just as easy as getting in the car and driving for 2 days. But one thing I do know is, even now, after all this time and after all my medication, I still get the desire to run—run as far away as I can. My mind quickly shifts me to reality now, so who knows if I'll ever want to take the leap, I don't know. Only time will tell. I love to travel and hope I could see the world! Maybe one day that dream will come true, to give me the opportunity to travel to not just get away, but to appreciate and embrace the world and surroundings on a different mental level. But most importantly, when I'm feeling well and I've kicked this disease in the ass!

For now, all I have is my imagination and my brain that will allow me to do this since I have no other means at this moment in my life. I will however, continue to dream and dream big! My dreams are all I have at the moment that are keeping me from moving forward in my life, and not backwards. 

It's all I can do right now.

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Guilt

Guilt. I feel it everyday, but why? Every single day, I look in the mirror and a wave of guilt passes through me as if my life has gone by with every single regret. I wish I knew why, but for the most part, I know how it has affected me to this point of hate and regret. But I still can't explain it.

I feel guilty about how I've acted in front of both my husband and my daughter. Especially my daughter. She is only 12 years old (almost 13) and has seen her mother through a great deal. She is too young to witness such horror from her mother. She is at the age where spending time with her mother is precious, and most importantly, filled with happiness and cherish. Instead, she has witnessed the opposite—screaming and sadness, hitting myself and depression. My obsession beyond anyone could even fathom. Why must I experience this on a regular—sometimes daily— basis. It's not fair to her, nor is it fair to my husband—who has been my rock throughout all of this; every step of the way.

I often sometimes wonder if one day, she will hold this against me, or perhaps understand. She has talked me down during these periods, but for the most part, it saddens her and scares her that her mother will hurt herself; or worse, kill herself. How can this not affect me emotionally? How can it it not make me try my very hardest to not allow her to see this from her mother? Someone who is supposed to be her guidance, not her weakness.

I've tried so many times to snap myself out of this emotion and out of this act of such horror, but I can't. Once I'm in this state, there is nothing I can do; other than taking my anti-anxiety pill, I still need that push that'll snap me out of this act. But unfortunately, when I'm suffering through such obsession and depression, I can't think rationally therefore, I do not immediately take my pill without force from my husband. Not myself.

It's why I feel such guilt. 

For those of you reading this, and those of you who are also suffering from bipolar disorder, I hope you can empathize my plight, or perhaps force judgment on me as if it has never happened to you before. For those of you without children, you're lucky enough to not feel that guilt of screaming such emotion in front of a minor, and witnessing a wave of panic . I never thought in a million years that this would happen to me, that I would continue to be in a state of depression and sadness. Constant feelings of suicide and harm.

I don't know what to do, because it's clear my medication has stopped working. Why? I wish I knew. My recent appointment last week with my 'drug dealer' has gone nowhere. He's thinking of taking me off my mood stabilizer and starting me on a new medication that will control my obsession. Will it control my screams and outbreaks as well? I worry that by switching the two that I will dive into my depression full force like it was before.

Is this a dangerous risk? He claims no, but only time will tell. I am now in the process of documenting my moods and my elevations of mania in hopes of determing the outcome of these changes.

I'm nervous and I'm scared. Although the seriousness of my OCD have escalated in recent months, my depression and the hitting still haven't been at the magnitude that it was prior. But also haven't diminished either.

However, I'm desperate. I will try anything at this point. I know that I need a change; a change from this guilt and a change from my outbursts.

As I sit here drinking my daily cappuccino, something must change. If not for my sake, but for my daughter's.

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