For most people, perhaps it does. But for me, I'm not so sure. As I gaze at my life, I recognize that happiness should exist for me, but most of the time, it doesn't. Am I selfish? Am I expecting too much? Perhaps.
I expect to be happy, and I expect to surround myself in a world of content, only to be disappointed instead. I'm lucky to have a loving, supporting husband, and a healthy daughter who have both accepted my bipolar disorder without judgment and resentment, because they love me regardless. I know my outbursts have only saddened them, instead of angered them as most people would deal with such torment. For most families, I imagine this would only be the case. Not for me, however, so why can't I be appreciative instead of questioning the result of my happiness?
I know for one to ask if happiness exists is the million dollar question we all ask ourselves, if not an expectation we all want to grasp. With the fear of losing it all, I only want to be thankful for the support I have received instead of questioning it on a daily basis.
I've always believed—albeit wrongly—that happiness cannot and does not exist for me. Perhaps I'm being pessimistic, but in my heart, it can't. Can it? I look at people and their lives, their families, and their careers, and they all seem happy and satisfied. With me, I'm not so sure. I've had many jobs over the years and I honestly cannot think of one that I've been completely in love with. On the contrary, I've only felt dissatisfaction instead. With all of them.
How can that be? Is it so difficult to feel happiness and fulfillment? For most people, they would look down upon their lives and be thankful for everything they have been blessed with, whereas for me, I'm the opposite. It seems that my job situation won't escape me. I've had to go backwards instead of forward with my career. My current job isn't in my field, but only a job I've held for years as I battled my way through college. What is the point of my degree? Why did I bother? I've always been an advocate of the regurgitating effects of an education—that it's never a waste. But this time, I'm not so sure.
I'm lucky to have such a supportive family, that much I'm grateful for. But our finances and my job situation have hindered this feeling of satisfaction which continuously override the lack of happiness in my life. As I continue to daydream and wonder what life would be like without the worry of funds, I often wonder if we'll ever be financially secure in our lives, or are we destined to live the life of struggle as we wrestle our way through a web of destruction? I know I should be grateful for our lives and what we have with each other would be the easier way to go, instead of dreading on what we don't have, but instead, what we do have.
Most people say that money should not define us, but only to make us indebted to what we've been blessed with to make our lives that much easier. However, I always seem to battle with the continuous negative thoughts of unhappiness. We know that's not right, and we all know that money does not make us happy, but the jealousy of such a dream override my unhappy thoughts.
I know that one day, money will hopefully never be an issue—I pray for this on a daily basis, so how can it not? I won't give up on an incessant job search in hopes of a better way of life; to ensure my happiness with everything full circle in my life. In our lives. I will be adamant, therefore something will have to give way to my relentless forage of happiness if only to secure our finances. It must, or I will drive myself crazy with the possibility of an unsuccessful exploration of triumph; an effort and drive of love for that one perfect job. I know there's one out there, therefore I won't give up.
I must be positive.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
The Sadness of Loneliness
Have you ever felt lonely as a result of your bipolar disorder? To be honest, I would find that hard to believe if the answer was "no." I know for most people who suffer from this illness, that feeling of loneliness and sadness is just a common part of what we struggle through on a daily basis. At least it does for me.
I always wonder, speaking from someone like myself who is very outgoing and typically very social, how can a person overcome this? Medication? For me, that is definitely the correct answer. Ever since my daughter's soccer season this past spring, I have realized how being social and friendly was not something I wanted to do, nor did I do. As a result, I stayed away and slithered into my lonely space at home where it was a safe environment for me, where I didn't have to put on that facade that I have grown accustomed to for the past year. It was tough for me and I wanted to constantly crawl in bed and sleep, but since I've never been the type of person to sleep all day, I quickly pulled myself out of this slump and tried my hardest to continue forward, even though it was a continuous effort.
Since being like this was the antithesis of my normal behavior, I truly didn't know how to react or even respond to these actions. As you could imagine, It was a tough transition. What came next for me? How could I get out of this slump? It seemed to be the same question I was asking myself on a daily basis. But when your mind is in a dark hole everyday, you can't think logically, but as a self-loathing emotionless human being instead, but you know it's only at that time as you're suffering.
When I first came back from visiting my parents last summer, and seeing my father struggle after receiving chemotherapy, it felt like my world was shattering right before my eyes. I know it wasn't, that much was apparent to me, but in my mind I felt as though everything was crumbling down like a house of cards. I felt as though I had no control, and for the most part, considering these particular situations, I didn't have control, but I was also aware that in most normal situations, I would have handled it much better than I did. With the exception of my father's illness, of course.
Once I saw my father, I felt as though he'd be OK, yes he was walking slower and he was definitely a lot weaker than he normally was, but still the same strong man I had known since childhood. His strong deep voice that always made me shake when he yelled at me as a child—even as an adult had still made me shutter. For the first time in my life, I liked it and never thought I would desire it, but once I heard his voice and his strength, I believed he was OK. And at that time, he was.
But loneliness is different, after seeing my father, I was broken. I knew my husband wouldn't understand nor would he accept my crawling into a quiet space and demand to be alone, so I hid it the entire time, which was the most difficult emotion I had ever had to overcome, but it didn't last. That was just my husband's way. As I look back now, I'm so very grateful of how he 'forced' me to try and adjust to these new emotions as a way to move forward and try to get better, but at that time, we had no idea it was my bipolar disorder crawling back into my life once again.
Until the following November where it all changed.
Several visits to the emergency room changed all of that. I didn't want to be there, nor did I want to be alone, but knew I had to be. My husband and daughter were there for me every step of the way, but mostly, I didn't want them there, I only wanted to sink into my dark abyss that I have grown so accustomed to instead. I wanted to be alone.
Several months later as I look back, I know that wasn't me and I do know that my bipolar disorder had wriggled its way back into my psyche—once again—and changed all of that. I look back and realized with great anticipation that regular visits to my therapist and my medication was a necessity, not an option and will most likely be a regular occurrence for the rest of my life. Maybe a decrease of visits to my therapist, but daily, the medication will always be there for me.
I'm better, a lot better, and I'm a lot more social once again, and I love it. I love being with my friends and I love socializing with them as I frequently laugh and smile—just like the old days.
Thank you Latuda and Tripletal, you've made a huge difference in my life.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Days of Mania
I have them, almost everyday. Many ups and downs that permeate my very existence. I'm continuously at a loss to why. Most of the time, I don't know how to handle it as I proceed to find out what is wrong with me; why do I cry as if my life is crumbling right before my eyes? A daily reminder of what my bipolar disorder is causing me—a regular heartache that hurts so much, I never know why, or how and what has created it.
I always ask myself if this is something I can control or even handle. Without an answer to this question, I know that the hurt won't go away, but will only accentuate even more.
My mind races and my mind wanders. I can't think straight and I can't focus on anything. My surroundings are black and white—nothing as simple as one color opposite from the other, but an over-the-top display of emotions. I want to scream, and most of the time I do. I let it out, so loud and so intense that I'm surprised my neighbors haven't complained. It hurts, you see, and I can't stop it. At that moment in time, I can't. Without the aid of my anti-anxiety pills, it will continue to mutilate my soul and affect me as if nobody can hear me or comprehend my plight.
I want to dive into the black hole in my mind and never crawl back. I want to stay there and I never want to come out. Just hide. It bewilders me, but I continue to scream—my mind is persistent and it won't stop. My thoughts fill me with intense emotion and sadness, that I want to end it all. All of it. Everything.
How does this misery end? Aside from swallowing one of my anti-anxiety pills, will I ever be 'normal' again? What is 'normal' anyway? For me, 'normal' is happiness and tranquility, a feeling of composure and belief that only guides me into another dimension of pure merriment. Even now, as I sit here and drink my morning cappuccino, I wonder how and why? I love drinking my cappuccino, I love the taste and I love how it makes me feel albeit shaky and anxious.
Every morning I feel this way as though I want to get up from my chair and paint the world bright colors to fill my soul—paint everything I see in sight without a care in the world to what I'm depicting from the heart. I love to paint. It's something I have done since college. Even though I studied fine art, I never completely understood the effects of oils but acrylics instead. I'm an amateur at best.
I love creating my own "graffiti" on street signs I purchased at the local eco thrift. It's my way of recycling within my home, and painting unusual objects that marvels my satisfaction.
I don't care. I do it because it pleases me. It's for me, nobody else but me. The downsides of being a graphic designer is it's for the client. Although working for the client has always given me the advantage of showing my professionalism and talent, the frustration of their layperson eye only frustrates me. I know what's best and I know what they need to settle on. Even if they don't see it at that point in time. Learning is key.
The shakiness that penetrates my body with a throbbing headache most likely from my morning medication, only extinguishes typical normality . My annoyance from this medication aggravates me but I know it's something I must do everyday, or my bipolar disorder will only come back full force, only making it worse.
I am filled with dizziness, but what is more important? I know what I must do, and I know how to control it, if not for my sanity and my family's as well. I must struggle on with the manic voices climbing through my soul as if they're not there. To only make me 'normal' again.
It's time. Time to paint.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
How does this misery end? Aside from swallowing one of my anti-anxiety pills, will I ever be 'normal' again? What is 'normal' anyway? For me, 'normal' is happiness and tranquility, a feeling of composure and belief that only guides me into another dimension of pure merriment. Even now, as I sit here and drink my morning cappuccino, I wonder how and why? I love drinking my cappuccino, I love the taste and I love how it makes me feel albeit shaky and anxious.
Every morning I feel this way as though I want to get up from my chair and paint the world bright colors to fill my soul—paint everything I see in sight without a care in the world to what I'm depicting from the heart. I love to paint. It's something I have done since college. Even though I studied fine art, I never completely understood the effects of oils but acrylics instead. I'm an amateur at best.
I love creating my own "graffiti" on street signs I purchased at the local eco thrift. It's my way of recycling within my home, and painting unusual objects that marvels my satisfaction.
Handicap sign
Speed Limit sign
Vintage Gas Station Number
I don't care. I do it because it pleases me. It's for me, nobody else but me. The downsides of being a graphic designer is it's for the client. Although working for the client has always given me the advantage of showing my professionalism and talent, the frustration of their layperson eye only frustrates me. I know what's best and I know what they need to settle on. Even if they don't see it at that point in time. Learning is key.
The shakiness that penetrates my body with a throbbing headache most likely from my morning medication, only extinguishes typical normality . My annoyance from this medication aggravates me but I know it's something I must do everyday, or my bipolar disorder will only come back full force, only making it worse.
I am filled with dizziness, but what is more important? I know what I must do, and I know how to control it, if not for my sanity and my family's as well. I must struggle on with the manic voices climbing through my soul as if they're not there. To only make me 'normal' again.
It's time. Time to paint.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Long Days or Old Age?
After much contemplation on my job search, my husband suggested that instead of a relentless search into a career in graphic design, I should try to find a job in retail instead—something he claimed I had always been satisfied with. With the upcoming holiday season, I knew it would be easier than usual since most stores were hiring for the busy holiday season.
As I continually perused craigslist, I was apprehensive of applying for anything outside of my career, if not an office job. Something outside of my comfort zone. A job that has proven to be stifling and lonely. At least with my last job this has confirmed to be true. Do I dare? Or just sit there doubting my husband's recommendation?
I'll give it a try. Why not? I have nothing to lose.
With the holidays rapidly approaching, I knew undertaking this challenge could possibly benefit me, albeit temporarily. The advantages of working in retail during the holidays, is that it gives me the opportunity of eventually not going back. During a temporary position as 'holiday help,' I wanted to ensure that money wouldn't be an issue since working in retail can become problematic, not only with the unusual hours, but the hourly wage as well. I wasn't interested in a commission based salary, but knew that most retail jobs would require a certain amount of sales in order to remain motivated and fulfilled, as well as a requirement with the company.
Even though I've always preferred a more simplified retail position, I often wonder if selling was something I'd be good at. A successful attempt at working with the public in hopes of ringing up that next purchase to promote happiness with each individual customer. Shopping is always a happy endeavor, so as a salesperson, it's my job to establish their exuberant visit. Therefore, walking out of the boutique with a smile on their face.
Immediately after my search, I received a phone call for an instantaneous interview. A part of me was elated, but the other part of me was disappointed at the same time. I had hoped that upon my continuous search that finding a job in retail would not come to fruition, but only an excuse from telling my husband that it didn't work out; that nobody was interested. But I knew that it was an undertaking that I must take; a risk in my mind that needed to materialize. While in college and as a young teenager, I've worked many years in retail, with only the last 10+ years of graphic design permeating throughout my resumé, therefore possibly causing an apprehensive conflict from my being hired. As a result of my recent experience, I wasn't sure if I would receive this quick of a phone call. I didn't know what to expect.
The woman on the other end was giving me a chance regardless. She wanted to hear my experience and know that I was fully qualified to grace the marble floors of their upscale boutique as a potential salesperson.
Even I wasn't certain, because I wanted to know and also hear what she had to say. I also gave her the chance to sell the position that could be offered to me.
After a successful interview, I was offered the job the very next day. I was happy, but at the same time, I was disappointed. Upon hearing the hourly wage (plus commission), I was disillusioned—albeit expectedly—of the low wage. I had worked retail long enough to know that standing on my feet would be a challenge if not a painful one—even if I am a regular runner.
After starting my first day, my back was bothering me to the point where I'd have to regularly sit down, only to be told that I am allotted a 10 minute break for a 4 hour shift. I knew this would be problematic, but how could a 10 minute break benefit me? By the time I sit down, my break is basically over. A snack? Perhaps. Lunch or dinner? Not enough time.
Although at the moment, I am only working 4 hour shifts in hopes of being triumphant on my way home from a beneficial outcome of—what feels like—a long day. However, what I did feel was excruciating pain instead. My back bothered me, to the point that I could barely sit down. How can this be? How can a regular runner like myself be in such pain from standing on my feet for a mere 4 hours? I sometimes wonder if it's my age causing this, but I don't know for sure. Many years ago while I was pregnant, my back hurt so bad that I had to take an early leave of absence and as a result, receive short term disability. Prior to becoming pregnant, I ran 5–7 miles a day, 5 days/week. After having my daughter, my back never went back to normal pre-pregnancy.
Until 2 years ago prior to my running 3 days/week. It felt good to never feel that lower back pain again. Although I was concerned as I started running again, I felt elated and continued to remain painless. Even if I felt a constant nervousness.
Until now. Until I started this job. I don't love this job, but I don't hate it either. For now, it's just a job I am doing. It feels good to get out of the house and in a social, public environment. Something I have needed for a very long time. I now know that only working minimal hours per week that the possibility of getting burned out, could only overcome me, but feeling good instead. Aside from my back pain—which I hope is just a discomfort I must get used to—the probability of going to work a few days a week will heighten my entertainment surroundings with the struggle of incessant back pain.
Have I gotten too old for such an environment? Or am I just not used to it?
Long days, or old age?
Only time will tell.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
As I continually perused craigslist, I was apprehensive of applying for anything outside of my career, if not an office job. Something outside of my comfort zone. A job that has proven to be stifling and lonely. At least with my last job this has confirmed to be true. Do I dare? Or just sit there doubting my husband's recommendation?
I'll give it a try. Why not? I have nothing to lose.
With the holidays rapidly approaching, I knew undertaking this challenge could possibly benefit me, albeit temporarily. The advantages of working in retail during the holidays, is that it gives me the opportunity of eventually not going back. During a temporary position as 'holiday help,' I wanted to ensure that money wouldn't be an issue since working in retail can become problematic, not only with the unusual hours, but the hourly wage as well. I wasn't interested in a commission based salary, but knew that most retail jobs would require a certain amount of sales in order to remain motivated and fulfilled, as well as a requirement with the company.
Even though I've always preferred a more simplified retail position, I often wonder if selling was something I'd be good at. A successful attempt at working with the public in hopes of ringing up that next purchase to promote happiness with each individual customer. Shopping is always a happy endeavor, so as a salesperson, it's my job to establish their exuberant visit. Therefore, walking out of the boutique with a smile on their face.
Immediately after my search, I received a phone call for an instantaneous interview. A part of me was elated, but the other part of me was disappointed at the same time. I had hoped that upon my continuous search that finding a job in retail would not come to fruition, but only an excuse from telling my husband that it didn't work out; that nobody was interested. But I knew that it was an undertaking that I must take; a risk in my mind that needed to materialize. While in college and as a young teenager, I've worked many years in retail, with only the last 10+ years of graphic design permeating throughout my resumé, therefore possibly causing an apprehensive conflict from my being hired. As a result of my recent experience, I wasn't sure if I would receive this quick of a phone call. I didn't know what to expect.
The woman on the other end was giving me a chance regardless. She wanted to hear my experience and know that I was fully qualified to grace the marble floors of their upscale boutique as a potential salesperson.
Even I wasn't certain, because I wanted to know and also hear what she had to say. I also gave her the chance to sell the position that could be offered to me.
After a successful interview, I was offered the job the very next day. I was happy, but at the same time, I was disappointed. Upon hearing the hourly wage (plus commission), I was disillusioned—albeit expectedly—of the low wage. I had worked retail long enough to know that standing on my feet would be a challenge if not a painful one—even if I am a regular runner.
After starting my first day, my back was bothering me to the point where I'd have to regularly sit down, only to be told that I am allotted a 10 minute break for a 4 hour shift. I knew this would be problematic, but how could a 10 minute break benefit me? By the time I sit down, my break is basically over. A snack? Perhaps. Lunch or dinner? Not enough time.
Although at the moment, I am only working 4 hour shifts in hopes of being triumphant on my way home from a beneficial outcome of—what feels like—a long day. However, what I did feel was excruciating pain instead. My back bothered me, to the point that I could barely sit down. How can this be? How can a regular runner like myself be in such pain from standing on my feet for a mere 4 hours? I sometimes wonder if it's my age causing this, but I don't know for sure. Many years ago while I was pregnant, my back hurt so bad that I had to take an early leave of absence and as a result, receive short term disability. Prior to becoming pregnant, I ran 5–7 miles a day, 5 days/week. After having my daughter, my back never went back to normal pre-pregnancy.
Until 2 years ago prior to my running 3 days/week. It felt good to never feel that lower back pain again. Although I was concerned as I started running again, I felt elated and continued to remain painless. Even if I felt a constant nervousness.
Until now. Until I started this job. I don't love this job, but I don't hate it either. For now, it's just a job I am doing. It feels good to get out of the house and in a social, public environment. Something I have needed for a very long time. I now know that only working minimal hours per week that the possibility of getting burned out, could only overcome me, but feeling good instead. Aside from my back pain—which I hope is just a discomfort I must get used to—the probability of going to work a few days a week will heighten my entertainment surroundings with the struggle of incessant back pain.
Have I gotten too old for such an environment? Or am I just not used to it?
Long days, or old age?
Only time will tell.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Friday, November 16, 2012
A Unique Friendship
I am writing this post that is meant for a dear friend of mine, someone whom I have never met, but someone that means a great deal to me, regardless. He just happened to come upon this blog, so for that, I am dedicating this post solely to him. When he found it, it upset me because I was concerned that he would read the intimate details that for many months, I have projected here, and in turn, he would judge me. But I know he won't, and I know even if he did read it—even though he has promised not to—he will accept that it's who I am and continue to be my friend regardless.
So this is for you, M/M. I hope you like it.
Because we have never met, and because we "met" simply by playing a popular video game, we just happen to hit it off from the very beginning. It started out slow, like any friendship would, but then it grew into something very special. A friendship that we both call(ed) 'weird'—for reasons that I will not divulge here, because the two of us will always keep that secret between us, and between us only—a special friendship nevertheless.
As the year grew, and as we embark on our two year 'anniversary' of our friendship, it has grown to become strong for both of us. As we communicate every single day, whether it's via text, phone or mumble (a popular gaming audio program), we still find a way to say hello and move it forward with the details of our lives at that current time. Because I love speaking with him and hearing about his life and how he's doing, I don't ever want it to end. I always want to make sure he's OK with the elements of his life.
I have to know he's there. It's just how I am. And with never having the luxury of seeing him face-to-face, I enjoy that comfort of our deep friendship in my life. Sometimes I question if he feels the same way, but I know our communication also means a great deal to him as he initiates the contact as much as I do with him. It's just what we do.
I've told him my life, and shared deep secrets with what I have endured this past year, details that I have never trusted with anyone else before—aside from my husband, my 'real life' friends will never learn of these recent horrors in my life; the sentence I have endured for the past year and a half. After everything I have confided in him, he has never judged me—even though I always thought he would. Maybe our lack of meeting in-person makes that easier for both of us, a computer or cell phone blocking our contact, I'm not sure, but he has proven to me by listening to my plight and the dark abyss where I have fallen many times, that he will continue to place his friendship onto me that nobody ever would in a real life scenario. Sometimes I forget that we have never met, and someone whom I've never had the luxury to cry on his shoulder or hug him while I mourned the recent death of my father.
I made the mistake of judging him once, a mistake that was devastating to his wife, and surprisingly, to me. Although this mistake never affected me personally, in my heart, it did. I will always regret the selfish behavior that I have created because for 3 weeks, I thought I lost his friendship forever. After reaching out to him, he forgave me, for reasons I'll never understand till this day, because he exonerated me of the vile words I spoke upon him as a selfish friend, because instead of supporting him—regardless of how I disapproved—I judged him instead. I should have been there for him as a friend, like he is always for me, but I wasn't. That is a distant memory now, and after more than a year later, we have grown even closer than that day over a year ago, and we both know that will always remain so. If only on my end.
There have been numerous times where I have taken my bipolar disorder out on him, and like the friend that he is, has never walked away from our friendship, or even judged me for it like most people would. He knows when I'm having—as he calls it—a "bipolar day," and still, after how I've treated him, over and over again, he never once judged me or walked away. He's special to me, and for that, I'll never let his friendship go and I'll never walk away from him again, like I did before.
Although I sometimes state otherwise, I won't. I hope he knows that I never will in spite of everything we've endured with our friendship.
In turn, as he is going through a rough time in his life, I try to be there for him, like he has for me, as a friend. I know that if someday, if he reunites with his family, or even if he falls in love with someone else, I will have to accept that our friendship could possibly diminish, if not completely end of our daily communication. I know that this could be a possibility that will only sadden me a great deal, but I'll understand, even if I may not agree with the likelihood of the inevitable lack of contact. I'll know and I'll understand why. It's real life, and I am not a part of that real life, but only a virtual one instead.
As our friendship continues to flourish, I daydream about the inevitable possibility that we will one day meet in person. Something that I know will come to fruition, but the question is not if we will meet, but when and how. Money is tight for both of us at this current time, therefore it's just not possible for either of us, which is fine. As I continue to accept that we cannot sit down and have a beer together, or cry on each other's shoulder, or even laugh like we do on the phone, I'll have to accept that as a friendship, it's still there. Whether or not I am unable to look into his eyes and see deep down into his soul, but to hear his voice and the laughter that frequently comes with it instead. For now, that'll make me happy, as long as we will remain friends and he will continue to be my confidante, I'll be elated.
You're very special to me, and I want you to know that you are forever in my heart as an unusual, but remarkable friend, and I hope we will continue our unique friendship for the future to come.
I love you, M/M
xoxo...
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
So this is for you, M/M. I hope you like it.
Because we have never met, and because we "met" simply by playing a popular video game, we just happen to hit it off from the very beginning. It started out slow, like any friendship would, but then it grew into something very special. A friendship that we both call(ed) 'weird'—for reasons that I will not divulge here, because the two of us will always keep that secret between us, and between us only—a special friendship nevertheless.
As the year grew, and as we embark on our two year 'anniversary' of our friendship, it has grown to become strong for both of us. As we communicate every single day, whether it's via text, phone or mumble (a popular gaming audio program), we still find a way to say hello and move it forward with the details of our lives at that current time. Because I love speaking with him and hearing about his life and how he's doing, I don't ever want it to end. I always want to make sure he's OK with the elements of his life.
I have to know he's there. It's just how I am. And with never having the luxury of seeing him face-to-face, I enjoy that comfort of our deep friendship in my life. Sometimes I question if he feels the same way, but I know our communication also means a great deal to him as he initiates the contact as much as I do with him. It's just what we do.
I've told him my life, and shared deep secrets with what I have endured this past year, details that I have never trusted with anyone else before—aside from my husband, my 'real life' friends will never learn of these recent horrors in my life; the sentence I have endured for the past year and a half. After everything I have confided in him, he has never judged me—even though I always thought he would. Maybe our lack of meeting in-person makes that easier for both of us, a computer or cell phone blocking our contact, I'm not sure, but he has proven to me by listening to my plight and the dark abyss where I have fallen many times, that he will continue to place his friendship onto me that nobody ever would in a real life scenario. Sometimes I forget that we have never met, and someone whom I've never had the luxury to cry on his shoulder or hug him while I mourned the recent death of my father.
I made the mistake of judging him once, a mistake that was devastating to his wife, and surprisingly, to me. Although this mistake never affected me personally, in my heart, it did. I will always regret the selfish behavior that I have created because for 3 weeks, I thought I lost his friendship forever. After reaching out to him, he forgave me, for reasons I'll never understand till this day, because he exonerated me of the vile words I spoke upon him as a selfish friend, because instead of supporting him—regardless of how I disapproved—I judged him instead. I should have been there for him as a friend, like he is always for me, but I wasn't. That is a distant memory now, and after more than a year later, we have grown even closer than that day over a year ago, and we both know that will always remain so. If only on my end.
There have been numerous times where I have taken my bipolar disorder out on him, and like the friend that he is, has never walked away from our friendship, or even judged me for it like most people would. He knows when I'm having—as he calls it—a "bipolar day," and still, after how I've treated him, over and over again, he never once judged me or walked away. He's special to me, and for that, I'll never let his friendship go and I'll never walk away from him again, like I did before.
Although I sometimes state otherwise, I won't. I hope he knows that I never will in spite of everything we've endured with our friendship.
In turn, as he is going through a rough time in his life, I try to be there for him, like he has for me, as a friend. I know that if someday, if he reunites with his family, or even if he falls in love with someone else, I will have to accept that our friendship could possibly diminish, if not completely end of our daily communication. I know that this could be a possibility that will only sadden me a great deal, but I'll understand, even if I may not agree with the likelihood of the inevitable lack of contact. I'll know and I'll understand why. It's real life, and I am not a part of that real life, but only a virtual one instead.
As our friendship continues to flourish, I daydream about the inevitable possibility that we will one day meet in person. Something that I know will come to fruition, but the question is not if we will meet, but when and how. Money is tight for both of us at this current time, therefore it's just not possible for either of us, which is fine. As I continue to accept that we cannot sit down and have a beer together, or cry on each other's shoulder, or even laugh like we do on the phone, I'll have to accept that as a friendship, it's still there. Whether or not I am unable to look into his eyes and see deep down into his soul, but to hear his voice and the laughter that frequently comes with it instead. For now, that'll make me happy, as long as we will remain friends and he will continue to be my confidante, I'll be elated.
You're very special to me, and I want you to know that you are forever in my heart as an unusual, but remarkable friend, and I hope we will continue our unique friendship for the future to come.
I love you, M/M
xoxo...
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
A Good Read
I finally realized, that after struggling with bipolar disorder for several years, that it's time to read about this common illness that has made our world more aware of its commonality. After receiving a book recommendation from a friend of mine, who is also struggling with bipolar disorder, I immediately perused my local library's website in hopes to read about something so common and so aware, in hopes of a change of my way of thinking. A woman's perspective of what she has endured for most of her adult life. Only to be disappointed with the final ending. It was scattered—perhaps as a mere quintessential reflection of someone suffering with bipolar disorder—it seemed to jump from one subject to another, not leaving the reader with a final outcome. I found the book to be dismaying therefore I learned nothing new of my illness, only that, again, I wasn't the only person dealing with it everyday. Just another person's account of what they're going through.
But somehow this book was one of the lucky ones to hit the shelves and bookstores and libraries throughout the world—a paper thin documentation of reminiscent memories from the author herself.
So, I'll try again. This time I went to the library myself so I can view the shelves in person to make my own decision on which book to choose. Which book would suit me the best. Even though I was filled with confusion of the many choices, this particular book jumped out at me, discussing the many side effects and personal scenarios of bipolar disorder II, as well as from the doctor's point of view of over 25 years experience of studying this disease. Even before it was known what it was and what label was to be given.
As I started reading, I wasn't sure what to expect, but figured I'd continue on either way—I needed to know what made this book so special because again, having the advantage of gracing the shelves of thousands of books side-by-side, began a competition that will be forever thought of as nothing but a collective unsureness filling a void lingering the many doubts of potential readers. Myself included.
Although I've only made it halfway through, continuing on will be a challenge, that much I admit—especially given these days of enormous difficulties of paying attention to anything surrounding me—I know this will be a book that will heighten my knowledge of BDII, but with a much needed distraction, additionally I checked out a novel to coincide my fiction read of this educational recount of what I now know to be something I also suffer from.
On a regular daily basis, I have a hindrance to sitting down quietly and reading a book—something I have spent countless hours adhering to. I enjoyed reading regularly. On average I would read 2–3 books per month. From novels to non-fiction, it was something I took pride in. These days however, I know I hold a tremendous strain trying to do so. But why? Is it that much of a challenge to sit down quietly and read a book? Does my mind continuously wander in many directions preventing me from completing this once simple task?
This past week, I have prevented myself from playing my video game, something that for the past two years, has held a great addiction in my soul and my mind. It was a protest to my emotional psyche. If only a personal one, at best. But these past few days, I have had no desire to play, thus causing an even greater bout of boredom.
Now what do I do? Do I try to spend that quality time to read a book while enjoying my solitude? Or shall I wrestle with my thoughts of continuous confusion?
I'll figure it out. I always do.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
But somehow this book was one of the lucky ones to hit the shelves and bookstores and libraries throughout the world—a paper thin documentation of reminiscent memories from the author herself.
So, I'll try again. This time I went to the library myself so I can view the shelves in person to make my own decision on which book to choose. Which book would suit me the best. Even though I was filled with confusion of the many choices, this particular book jumped out at me, discussing the many side effects and personal scenarios of bipolar disorder II, as well as from the doctor's point of view of over 25 years experience of studying this disease. Even before it was known what it was and what label was to be given.
As I started reading, I wasn't sure what to expect, but figured I'd continue on either way—I needed to know what made this book so special because again, having the advantage of gracing the shelves of thousands of books side-by-side, began a competition that will be forever thought of as nothing but a collective unsureness filling a void lingering the many doubts of potential readers. Myself included.
Although I've only made it halfway through, continuing on will be a challenge, that much I admit—especially given these days of enormous difficulties of paying attention to anything surrounding me—I know this will be a book that will heighten my knowledge of BDII, but with a much needed distraction, additionally I checked out a novel to coincide my fiction read of this educational recount of what I now know to be something I also suffer from.
On a regular daily basis, I have a hindrance to sitting down quietly and reading a book—something I have spent countless hours adhering to. I enjoyed reading regularly. On average I would read 2–3 books per month. From novels to non-fiction, it was something I took pride in. These days however, I know I hold a tremendous strain trying to do so. But why? Is it that much of a challenge to sit down quietly and read a book? Does my mind continuously wander in many directions preventing me from completing this once simple task?
This past week, I have prevented myself from playing my video game, something that for the past two years, has held a great addiction in my soul and my mind. It was a protest to my emotional psyche. If only a personal one, at best. But these past few days, I have had no desire to play, thus causing an even greater bout of boredom.
Now what do I do? Do I try to spend that quality time to read a book while enjoying my solitude? Or shall I wrestle with my thoughts of continuous confusion?
I'll figure it out. I always do.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Monday, November 5, 2012
Go Away
I feel awful, I really do. Almost to the point of guilt. How could I feel this way? Why am I such a loner when it comes to guests? I've never been a gracious hostess; in fact, I've always been frustrated because I never know how to act as a mannerly hostess, or how to entertain them or what to do. This time, it was the worst it's ever been. Our loft is small, only 1200 square feet, therefore, having any overnight guests—especially beyond one night—is tight. And challenging as well.
My mom had just arrived and because of monetary restrictions, was unable to stay at a hotel during her visit. At first, I loved the idea, but soon realized not long thereafter that it would become disheartening. I hate that she's a few states away and alone since my father's death, so having her visit was an ideal recommendation. Since I've been bugging her to come visit or even sell her house and move here, it was only a matter of time that she would take me up on my offer to come stay with us for a few days. She loves where she lives, and knows that moving away right now would force her to leave her comfort zone of her 'home.'
Since she came in last week, I was excited to see her and spend quality time with her since I was there when my father died. But after a day of her being here, I was becoming impatient and I was dissatisfied with her visit. I didn't know what to do and didn't know where to take her. I live in a small college town, therefore the activities are limited. At least I think so. Since we only live in a 2 bedroom loft, she had to sleep in my daughter's room while my daughter was upstairs sleeping on the couch. She didn't mind because she understood that my mother is on a limited budget so staying at a hotel was not an option.
At first, I welcomed her with open arms, but upon her arrival—not even an hour of her being here—I already wanted her to go back home to leave me alone. It wasn't even 20 minutes after picking her up from the airport that she was driving me crazy. No pun intended. So what to do? I had 4 long days ahead of me and knew after such a short period of time, that I would be frustrated with her presence. The very presence in which I invited her.
Since she arrived in the morning and upon dropping her suitcase off at our loft, we immediately went shopping as moms and daughters typically do. She knew I've been looking for a job, whether it was full time or part time, so as we were visiting one of the clothing stores, she learned that this particular store was hiring. I am a 47 year old woman, and she is 75, so as I continued to try on a few pair of jeans, she instantly announced, not quietly, I may add, that I was interested in a job there. Needless to say, I was mortified and embarrassed. I wanted to run out of there as fast as I could in hopes that the salesgirl wouldn't notice my instantaneous red blushing face.
How could she? How could she embarrass me like that as if I was a young teenager too shy to inquire within? As a manic bipolar woman, I literally wanted to scream. I wanted to smack her across the face as if she was a woman who approached me and started a fight. But I knew the consequences thereafter, so instead, I just chose to acknowledge my interest in a job, and because thankfully they only accept applications through their online website so I could hide behind the computer screen.
After that, I knew I would never apply at this store, simply because of my humiliation in fear of being recognized from this horrific day. How could she? Doesn't she know that I'm a manic bipolar woman, dealing with daily fits of mania? Once we left the store, I made it clear and well known of her embarrassment, hoping she'd understand that what she did was not only wrong, but awkward at the same time. She was remorseful and immediately apologized.
It didn't make it right, but it made it better knowing that she would never react that way again. Regardless of how good the job may appear to be.
As I continued to be a gracious host, I put my selfish tendencies aside and realized, my mother is now alone, and I am the only family she has—aside from my aunt and uncle whom she regularly keeps in touch with that live in New York. She needs the comfort and security of knowing that I am here for her, which I always will be. I think it's normal that a daughter gets impatient with a parent, because I know there are times where my daughter does the same to us, and will most likely get worse as she grows older.
It's the cycle of life. But how we choose to act is another story.
I love my mom and I will always be here for her.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
My mom had just arrived and because of monetary restrictions, was unable to stay at a hotel during her visit. At first, I loved the idea, but soon realized not long thereafter that it would become disheartening. I hate that she's a few states away and alone since my father's death, so having her visit was an ideal recommendation. Since I've been bugging her to come visit or even sell her house and move here, it was only a matter of time that she would take me up on my offer to come stay with us for a few days. She loves where she lives, and knows that moving away right now would force her to leave her comfort zone of her 'home.'
Since she came in last week, I was excited to see her and spend quality time with her since I was there when my father died. But after a day of her being here, I was becoming impatient and I was dissatisfied with her visit. I didn't know what to do and didn't know where to take her. I live in a small college town, therefore the activities are limited. At least I think so. Since we only live in a 2 bedroom loft, she had to sleep in my daughter's room while my daughter was upstairs sleeping on the couch. She didn't mind because she understood that my mother is on a limited budget so staying at a hotel was not an option.
At first, I welcomed her with open arms, but upon her arrival—not even an hour of her being here—I already wanted her to go back home to leave me alone. It wasn't even 20 minutes after picking her up from the airport that she was driving me crazy. No pun intended. So what to do? I had 4 long days ahead of me and knew after such a short period of time, that I would be frustrated with her presence. The very presence in which I invited her.
Since she arrived in the morning and upon dropping her suitcase off at our loft, we immediately went shopping as moms and daughters typically do. She knew I've been looking for a job, whether it was full time or part time, so as we were visiting one of the clothing stores, she learned that this particular store was hiring. I am a 47 year old woman, and she is 75, so as I continued to try on a few pair of jeans, she instantly announced, not quietly, I may add, that I was interested in a job there. Needless to say, I was mortified and embarrassed. I wanted to run out of there as fast as I could in hopes that the salesgirl wouldn't notice my instantaneous red blushing face.
How could she? How could she embarrass me like that as if I was a young teenager too shy to inquire within? As a manic bipolar woman, I literally wanted to scream. I wanted to smack her across the face as if she was a woman who approached me and started a fight. But I knew the consequences thereafter, so instead, I just chose to acknowledge my interest in a job, and because thankfully they only accept applications through their online website so I could hide behind the computer screen.
After that, I knew I would never apply at this store, simply because of my humiliation in fear of being recognized from this horrific day. How could she? Doesn't she know that I'm a manic bipolar woman, dealing with daily fits of mania? Once we left the store, I made it clear and well known of her embarrassment, hoping she'd understand that what she did was not only wrong, but awkward at the same time. She was remorseful and immediately apologized.
It didn't make it right, but it made it better knowing that she would never react that way again. Regardless of how good the job may appear to be.
As I continued to be a gracious host, I put my selfish tendencies aside and realized, my mother is now alone, and I am the only family she has—aside from my aunt and uncle whom she regularly keeps in touch with that live in New York. She needs the comfort and security of knowing that I am here for her, which I always will be. I think it's normal that a daughter gets impatient with a parent, because I know there are times where my daughter does the same to us, and will most likely get worse as she grows older.
It's the cycle of life. But how we choose to act is another story.
I love my mom and I will always be here for her.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
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