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.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

"Smile, it can't be that bad"

Call me crazy, but I have always loathed that catchphrase, especially when I'm out shopping and the sales clerk or cashier says it to me. Why would anybody say that to someone they don't know? I never understood this. First of all, they don't know me, and they don't know what's going on in my life, therefore the fact that I am not smiling should never be of their concern, nor should they ever assume that "it can't be that bad."


I've always been polite when someone communicates that, especially someone that is an employee of the establishment to where I am shopping. Mostly because at the time, nothing was wrong in my life—that I can remember—so I never said a word, just dealt with it politely with a fake smile and continued to walk away.


I know for the most part they're trying to brighten my day, but will a smile honestly do it? Maybe, but for the most part, I've always been one of those people who would walk around, unbeknownst to me, without a smile on my face. Maybe it's the New Yorker in me, I don't know, but I just never paid attention, nor should I have to. Or should I?


I just never really thought twice about it—until someone would say something to me. Say something that is really none of their business. Unless they're a friend of mine, I don't see the point.


But these past 6+ months in my life proved otherwise. Smiling was literally a struggle for me and I didn't know how to "fake" it. I think for the most part, that is why I never showed up to my daughter's soccer games this past spring season to avoid such questions and inquiries. I just wasn't ready to face the music, if you will. I wanted to crawl into a fetus position and cry, that's what was pleasureable to me, not smiling. That was the last thing I was thinking of doing during the worst time of my life. And after my dad died, I was a spectacle of sadness—although that's a legitimate action during the mourning of a loved one, I'm not sure if that's still how one is supposed to act while out in the public arena.


Thankfully, nobody had uttered that phrase to me during those tumultuous days, otherwise I don't know what I would have been capable of or how I would have responded to them. And with the recent passing of my father, I most likely wouldn't have cared either way. 


So yeah, it IS that bad.


Life is short, I realize this—especially now—but when your mind is at a stand still and depression is a common daily occurrence, how could I be happy or smile? I just couldn't. I wanted to so badly, but after my lovely visit to the psychiatric hospital and recent events surrounding the death of my father, my bipolar disorder and thoughts of suicide, is it that bad? I would have to say the answer is yes. A solid yes.


It's a disease we cannot control, as much as we would like to think otherwise, it is out of our hands without seeking proper medication and therapy. In my soul and my brain, I couldn't comprehend that this was happening to me. Bipolar disorder only happens to someone else, right? Not me. It took me a long time to accept this and now that I see the results and success of my medication, I now know that bipolar disorder is what I have and how it was legitimately diagnosed several years ago.


I won't give up, regardless of what anybody says to me. I can't, I have to realize that life is so very precious, and how my family mean the world to me. I don't want to give up. After seeing my father lying in his hospital bed fighting for his life, he finally came to the realization that his life was over. He had no choice but to stop fighting. I knew the time had come while I was there with him, every step of the way, and nothing saddened me more. I wanted him in my life and I didn't want him to go. But it was out of my hands and into God's instead. I'm not a religious person, never have been and most likely never will be, but I knew right then and there that we had to give in to his cancer and end the fight.


As I currently wallow in my surroundings of pure bliss and recent creative inspiration, I must proceed with all things secure and happy. Maybe now, given my state of mind these past few months, if and when someone says to me, "smile, it can't be that bad," I will respond with "you're right, it's not," and proudly display my buoyant smile.


I must give in.


Bipolar Gal on Twitter 

Burial of Emotions

Today is the day. The day of my father's burial service. I know it'll be tough to say goodbye. Perhaps this will give me the closure that I need, even though we were by his side when he passed. The entire time we were there, I never let go of his hand. I just sat there as I gazed in his eyes, even after his death, to ensure he was gone. I still can't believe it, even as it approaches a week after his death. I am in shock and I am in denial.

I look around my mother's house and I am filled with reminders and memories of him. His smell, his clothes, his glasses, his golf clubs, pictures scattered throughout. All of it. 

Sunday I will head home and mourn by myself. It's time. I need the time away from these reminders so I can be alone and handle this the way I need to. The only way I know how to. I know I will cry, and I know I will be forever saddened by this loss, but it's time I handle it on my own.

It's time for my mother to do the same. We both are mourning in our own way. Neither way is right or wrong, it's just how we need to do it. My mother has had to live with this for several months, whereas I just embarked on it. Watching him wither away into a weak and scared human being was not the father I have known my whole life. So for her, it was time that he be removed from his pain and peacefully die. 

It's what he wanted.

My father served in the Navy from the age of 18 to 22 during the Korean War. It was important for him to serve the full four years because for him, it was a matter of pride. Having a traditional veteran salute and folding of the flag and burial in the veteran's cemetery was what he wanted; what he longed for.

How can someone prepare for this? How can a daughter prepare for this? It will be just my mother and myself mourning the loss of my father. Aside from friends, we will be the only family members there. Since my brother ostracized himself from our family 2 years ago, he will most likely not attend. 

I find that sad; truly sad. Nothing breaks my heart more. He is now walking around unaware that his father has passed. I have tried to contact him with what little contact information I have. Because he continues to move around regularly, I have no idea what his phone # or his email address is. I wanted to try, at least give him the option and the opportunity for him to say goodbye. It saddens me that he won't be there, but I know my father had accepted their demise as father and son years ago. He had accepted their fate.

He was out of our lives completely.

I won't even bother applying makeup today because I know as I read the eulogy and the poem I wrote for him, it will be too emotional to keep the makeup from dripping down my face. It's easier this way. I want to cry without holding back because I want that forever ache to fulfill me.

I will not be there to look good, or even look fashionable, I am there only to mourn my father's passing. But one thing is certain, I will ensure that my nail polish is clean and unchipped. It's something my father taught me from a very young age—something that was important to him. He always said it looked "trashy" in addition to another Italian expletive that I will not share here, as I do not want to offend anyone.

As a result and as a tribute, my nail polish is applied perfectly, just for my daddy.

The house is quiet. There is nothing to be said. We're walking around as if nothing has changed, aside from the quiet pin-dropping sound permeating throughout the house. My mother and I are both very sad and neither of us don't know how to act. Again, we will both mourn in our own way.

As I sit here drinking my cappuccino, I honestly don't know what to do. I am at a loss. What is protocol, if any? Do I go about my daily chores and habits, or do I walk around the house and gaze at his pictures and personal artifacts and embrace them as I attempt to say goodbye? 

I honestly don't know. I am new at this. It's all so surreal for me.

As I sit here in the empty chair of my father's disembodied spirit, it's tough for me. I am still unable to accept his absence; his death. He's not gone. He will walk through the door at any moment now. I just know it. I have faith.

The emotions that will fill the warmth of my heart will only confirm that he will always remain in my soul and my thoughts. I will never let go of his memory. 

My burial of emotions

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

It's time to say goodbye...forever!

Yesterday morning after I walked in the door from my morning run, took a shower and made my morning cappuccino, I received a phone call from my mother. The phone call I've been dreading after all these months; many months since my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer.

Since I just came home from taking my dog out, I saw her message blinking on my cell phone. Scared, I immediately listened to it with anticipation; as I always do when she calls. But they typically had only been just to say hi and give me an update about my father.

Until now.

Listening to her message and listening to the tone of her voice, I knew that something was wrong, or worse, something had happened. She succinctly said, "please call me, it's important."

My heart dropped. It dropped to the floor. I heard it in her voice. Calling her back was the scariest thing I had ever encountered in my life. I didn't know what to expect, but clearly it was the worst scenario I had thought about after all these months since his diagnosis.

Once she picked up the phone, it confirmed my worst fear. My father was deterioating, his organs were failing, and at this point, he had only days to live. She simply said "I think it's time you come out and prepare to say goodbye."

Hearing those words I can't describe because I never ever thought I'd be confronted with those words, those harsh saddening words. How can I prepare for something like that? How can I prepare to say goodbye? Saying goodbye to the one man I had always looked up to and always respected. He was a good father; an excellent father. He had his moments, like we all do in life, but overall, he always made sure we had food on the table and a roof over our heads. We were always provided for.

Please forgive me if you find this post insensitive, but it's something I need to express, my feeling and my soul here. Although for the most part, my blog has become therapeutic for me, I honestly don't know how to react to this, something like this. Something I had never expected to happen in a million years in my life. Since I had discussed my father's illness in prior posts, I wanted to share this with you as well. So please accept my apologies in advance if it insults you.

As I immediately started researching flights, I was able to get on the next flight 2 hours later. Once I arrived, I was scared to see my mother's reaction, but she gave me a tight loving hug instead. No tears, just strength. She was so strong throughout this whole ordeal that I can only learn from this trait of hers, as opposed to being insulted by it. As I look back, I honestly cannot remember seeing her cry. Throughout my entire life, she had always been stoic towards many situations, even the death of her mother and father. Regardless, she was a loving and giving mother. Always there for me and always made sure I had anything and everything I needed in life. Even while I was away at school.

As we were driving to the hospital she warned me that I must brace myself as he is not the same man that I had always known and had always grown accustomed to. He was very weak and very thin. I could feel my heart pounding inside of my chest wanting to pump its way out, but I wanted to remain strong. She then told me that she didn't tell him I was coming so it could be a surprise for him. Even though I loved this idea, I was concerned that seeing me unannounced would only scare him, instead of pleasing him.

But we lied. We told him that we had been planning this trip for over a week now. Planning it making sure that my meds were now working.

Thankfully he never showed any indication that he caught onto our scheme, only surprise and happiness as I turned the corner of his hospital room in the ICU. At first, I didn't know how to react. Seeing him lying there in the hospital bed was not the man I knew; not the man I grew up with and not the man who provided for us. I had even hoped we accidentally walked into the wrong room. He was someone else entirely. It was difficult, I admit, but after talking with him for a while, I felt confident. Not necessarily confident of his recovery, just confident of his alertness and lack of pain. He looked comfortable and at peace. Just relaxed and completely alert. At least I could take comfort in knowing that he wasn't in pain or appeared to not be frightened; a pillar of strength like I had always known him. Especially considering the current situation, this made me feel good. Albeit only temporary.

As we were sitting there gazing at the television screen, in comes his Gastroenterologist with grave news. "I think it's time you need to plan for end of life."

Hearing those words were beyond devastating, but shocking nevertheless. Even though my whole trip consisted of this possibility, how can one still be prepared for such shocking words?

Nobody can.

I couldn't control myself, I couldn't handle it. I ran out of the room and into the hallway of the ICU and just started crying. Holding my face with my palms and started crying. I couldn't stop. And I didn't want to. I wanted to cry and feel this ache that was starting to overcome me. He was my daddy, of course.

It's gonna be so difficult for me to let go and say goodbye. I don't know how to. I don't know how to make peace with something like this. I've never been in this situation before with the excepton of my grandparents' death when I was 11 years old, and then the death of my in-laws. But this is different. Don't get me wrong, I loved my in-laws and grandparents very much, but it's not the same when it's your father. Your blood relative. Nothing can compare.

On the eve of Father's Day, it'll be the most difficult reality I'll have to face. I love my father very much and looking at him lying there in the hospital bed all wired up and tubes coming out of everywhere, is a harsh reality for me. I know I will breakdown and cry. Hopefully not in front of him but I'll breakdown either way. I am already mourning the loss of him.

Even today, as my mother and I spent visiting him, it's as though he's finally giving up; finally accepting his fate. Maybe it was seeing me is what he needed to say goodbye himself, I don't know. But he seemed calm, but not his usual jovial self. Thank God he's not in any pain, but either way it still doesn't make this any easier. It only makes you realize that it's real. All of this is real. Not a nightmare like I had hoped.

We're expecting to say goodbye to him within the next few days. Am I ready? No, I'm not. I don't want to say goodbye, but aside from a short miracle, it'll have to happen, most likely on his own; a natural exit. Something like this is never easy, and looking into his eyes (the same eyes I inherited) only makes it worse. He's alert and he knows. Knows it's time to say goodbye forever.

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